Narrative number 1

He stood between two eroded buildings in the back alley right in the middle of a part of town he only knew as "the lost cause." He looked up into the sky and looked in search of a sign for a sign. What he got was the first drop of rain on the start of a stormy night. Maybe he was looking for the reason that would possibly bring him to this night or to this wretched life. Or maybe where things went all wrong. But that was years ago. So many goddamn years ago. No time for nostalgia, no concern for human life, no mercy. Not in downtown LC. He clashes against his own foolish remorse and gets himself together. He shuffles his feet together and decides to take refuge underneath an overhang to keep himself and his conscience dry from the rain above. He shuffles around his deep pockets and struggles to pull out a jagged stale cigarette. His hands begin to tremble as he flicks the match and burns one away. He smokes half and flicks the rest into a gutter. As it hits the water it makes a sizzle and extinguishes. He takes the sound in deeply. He savors it. It could be the last sound he hears. Regrettably, he knows he has arrived here way too early. He has nothing better to do tonight anyways. And if he does he has the rest of the night to do it because he isn’t going to be able to sleep after tonight. Besides its only 2 a.m., the smell of a fresh night in the streets of the LC. His hands begin to shake without control and the impulses begin to take hold. Conveniently, the alley he is in is close enough to the store which he has wasted so much of his commerce and time. He walks in this store and as every customer is treated, he is coldly stared down by the Hindu gentleman who is working the register. He has a familiar face, but the look as always from the clerk is one of betrayal and distrust. As almost with one look this man who sells cheap liquor is a god, passing judgment on all who walk in and presumably knows all your prior sins. So much for service with a smile. He shakes the man off, picks up an elegant eight dollar bottle of wine and shoves his money through the window. He hates that place. All the bright halogen lighting and that fucking window. Years ago the last clerk was held up at gunpoint by a junkie. The clerk did not speak English and for that he was shot to death. So the owner put a bulletproof glass window with a slot to slide your money through so the alcoholics can get wasted safely, and the poor immigrant can get home to his one room shack alive. These windows have become "trendy" in the LC. He walks back slowly to his spot from before and tears apart the bottle with anticipation, just waiting to get that one fill. Open it up, drink it down, and avoid a glass. He snorts and thinks of those poor doctors and lawyers who sit down with their families at dinner and bother pouring it in a glass. He then tightens his belt and reaches for his 44 caliber pistol. The metal felt cold against his stomach but the feeling of power felt oh so fucking warm. He has a sense of guilt every time he resorts to the pistol, but after breaking it in a few times its turns to clockwork. Sure he worries about being caught by the police but then he looks around and knows he is safe. See to him, the nighttime isn't when the sky just turns dark, but more a safety blanket. See when the sun sets, so do all the overachievers, the rich old ladies walking their dogs, the happy family on their way to the movie pictures, the 6 a.m. and noon coffee crowd, and the joggers. Nothing left in the nighttime but filth and dirt. Just his right kind of people. To him the night is when the world turns its head and stops looking. Just like the Wild West, complete lawlessness and disorder. Just the way he likes it. He lights one more cigarette but being careful to listen for the doorknob turning so he can make his deadly mark. Although he doesn’t believe in Jesus, he says a little prayer before he goes in for the kill.

Oh please dark night, provide me with safety and cover
For the night will wash away my sins
Always and forever.