It is late, I am tired. I never would have thought that this sort of work was so physically and spiritually draining. Think of all the film monsters over the years, how hard they must have labored. Think of Freddy, of Michael Myers. Think of Norman Bates, Tom Ripley, Patrick Bateman, Christian Szell.
I have much to do in the next few days. And then I will be done.
I gather my belongings from the backseat, my plastic bag full of bloody clothes. I will burn them first thing in the morning. For now I will take a hot bath, make a cup of chamomile tea, then probably be asleep before my head hits the pillow.
"A hard day's work makes a soft bed," my grandfather used to say.
I get out of the car, lock it. I breathe deeply the midsummer night air. The city smells clean and fresh, charged with promise.
Weapon in hand, I begin to make my way to the house.