Just

"Dexter Harisov smiled coercively as his victim gave in. He laughed quietly, watching the blood drip from their mouth. The blood dropped, spattering onto Dexter's shoes and pant legs. Oh well, it was just blood. He cleaned up, disposed of the body, and went back towards the street.

Dexter had committed many terrible homicides lately. In alleys, behind grocery stores, in quiet little neighborhoods at night, many had felt his knife cut through their bodies. He fancied himself a serial killer, taking pride in knowing he had killed these people, caused their death, was better than them like that.

Dexter ambled up a dark avenue in Los Angeles, swinging his coat and humming to himself about greater things. Passersby questioned him, but they always did, with a slight look or an inquisitive glance. They were just fools. They didn't know the power he had. To take life, to betray, to be sneaky, and to kill.

Turning a corner sharply, Dexter stumbled slightly over a jagged sidewalk in the waning daylight. A slight girl, huddled with her friend off in the distance, barked a laugh. Shock. As usual. Dexter's face went numb, his eyes locking onto hers with a keen menace. This is how it always was. Things just happened. He approached her abruptly, not even noticing the few stragglers in a wintertime Los Angeles neighborhood looking on.

'Whoa! What do you want? I just...' Her cries were cut off as Dexter grabbed her hair and yanked, pulling her off the sidewalk behind a white cottage. She screamed, trying to break free, but his grip was too strong. The wild look in his eyes scared her more than anything, and she went limp and started sobbing. The butcher knife in his back pocket was drawn, as he stabbed her in the stomach several times, hacking and gashing at her body brutally as she hit the ground.

A few onlookers had gathered. A brief gasp emanated from one of them. Shit. Not Dexter's day. Not usually this sloppy. Oh well, it didn't matter. They were just sheep.

Dexter struggled with the tight handcuffs. He had been picked up by the police and taken downtown for interrogation shortly after the incident. A detective loomed over him, bright light filling the room. Dexter blinked, unable to keep his usual cool in the harsh lights.

'Why, Dexter Harisov? Why did you do it so badly? What else do we need to know, Mr. Harisov?' The detective questioned him sternly. Dexter blinked again, trying to regain his calm and focus. 'It's not a big deal. I just stabbed her. She just pissed me off.'

The detective grimaced, unsure how to proceed. 'Mr. Harisov, do you get it? That's first-degree murder. You're in the system now. Have fun, asshole.' With that, Dexter was pulled to his feet and escorted out, a lone tear trickling down his scowling face.

The lights flashed on. It was just light. Stay cool, Dexter. The guard was saying something, loud and baritone, and Dexter was too shaken to hear. They're just noises. Stay cool, Dexter. The electricity speared through him, the system depriving him of life ever again. Shocking pain reverberated through his spine and in his brain.

Dexter was dying. There was nothing else to it. A horrible fear, a scary, horrible, lonely blackness, was sweeping over him. Oh well, it was just..."