It was much easier than expected.
Easier than Charlottesville, which was surprisingly easy.
Easier than that black woman in the park.
Easier than the stripper in her bathtub and even easier than that whacked-out junkie, tripping and helpless and moaning in her bed.
This one was waiting, waiting for her own death. She was smiling, welcoming, reaching out with open arms. How could it be any easier than that?
It couldn't.
Her skin ripped right open and she didn't make a sound. She was supposed to be so ferocious, so strong, but she tore as easily as a piece of cheap paper. Her throat and then her chest, open and exposed, sliced and severed. She crumpled and fell like a rag doll and lay still on the floor of her bedroom.
Easy, easy, easy.
The surprise was the man, when he came charging in. She had said they were alone, so it was confusing when the door opened and that angry roar filled the room. It was a surprise, all right, but it didn't change anything. The man was strong but flabby. Old and out of shape. He was easy, too. He died as quickly as all the others.
That was the thing about death, wasn't it?
For something that lasted forever, it happened so quickly.
Life was long and hard. So, so hard.
But death was quick. And so, so easy.