What was it about her death? Why did I feel so guilty killing some one who really seemed no different to my other victims? She'd been no prettier, probably no more moral or saintly, no more, or less, intelligent. I stared down at her body feeling devastated by my action. I dropped the knife to the floor, scrutinising the blood flowing along its edge. After a while, I dropped to my haunches and fixed my eyes on her slim, inert form, her dress riding up her thigh, her lifeless blue eyes, the jagged wound in her side.
The cries of her small child locked in the bedroom brought me to my senses. Again and again that plaintive voice sounded:
"Mummy, mummy."
I picked up the knife and put it back in my bag. I stood up and walked out.
"How've you been, hon?" Julie asked as I came in through the kitchen door.
"Fine." I replied.
"How did work go."
"Really good. No probs."
She kissed me on the cheek.
"Dinner's ready in five minutes. Waiting on the beef."
I nodded. It was good to come home nowadays. The house was warm, children tugged up in bed, dinner in the oven.
"Was she another squealer, or did she die quickly?"
"Made little noise." I replied. "Purred a bit that's all."
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