There was more blood on the floor than I was used to seeing. Obviously something had happened, and I needed to know what.
I dropped the blood stained knife onto the cobble stones. The dark crimson substance was splattered up the walls of the narrow alleyway and over my white suit shirt. The body of my recent victim lay struggling on the cold stones. I picked up the immoral knife and pulled my leather coat tighter around my body. It was a chilly night, and the sight of the crime sent chills down my spine.
“Please … please … ” the woman gasped as she eventually slipped into her final sleep. Her dark eyes rolled to the back of her head. I felt enormous guilt for what it had done – and it wasn’t the first time either.
“Hello?” a man called, stepping from the bar into the cold, outside world. His deep, thick London accent rang out in the alley.
I sneaked a glance at the approaching form, then at the dead female lying at my feet. I clutched the knife tighter in my stained gloves. I couldn’t stop the murders. It was like trying to stop an alcoholic from drinking. It was terrible that I’d even begun killing in the first place. I had never in my wildest imaginings thought I would become a criminal of any sort. I’d never so much as thought about taking one’s life or anything along those lines before it happened, and now it seems to have consumed my entire life.
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