it was dark and cold. my breath rushing in and out in short, raspy bursts. the adrenaline pushing my heart to it's failure point. i could feel my pulse in my head, behind my eyes, in my toes, everywhere! my skin hummed with the energy of it. light headed. dizzy so dizzy yet my hands were calm, deliberate tools that worked with surgeons percision. this was just like in Iraq, but there i was saving the life. this was much more rewarding. this was what i wanted to do. i looked down at my hands holding the medium through which i had channeled my talent. wood, intricatly laced with carvings of deer, as the handle. a beautifuly long blade, razor sharp, protruding from the end with a sheath of newly released blood. an extension of myself, my wanting. the body was positioned in the way i always wanted it. on her back head tilted to her right, arms bent at the elbows spread out beside, legs spread and bent at the knees. the blood from her neck had spread in a halo around her head likea victorian painting of a saint. she was no saint, she was an angel. an angel whom i had released from her earthly cage. her face said as much. serene, soft, unburdened by the problems of life. i was riding the wave that was the high this gave me. i loved her for this. my crotch ached. she had been a fighter, but i was a killer. she gave me just enough fight to make this one of the most pleasureable ones. oh, god, i cant stop this. i wont stop this. but my work here isnt complete. no one will understand, no one will care. i must dispose of my art. and just like a painter destroys his paintings, i must rip this canvas apart too. my time grows short. i wonder how long this high will last this time. how long till i kill again?