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it's always the small things. you never really notice them until they're gone. but by then of course it's too late. he waits, motionless, just outside a pool of orange juice coloured light cast by a solitary street lamp, sickly bright as though it were rich in e numbers. in the shadows his breath is barely visible in the chill march air. a low trilby hides his eyes in deeper shadow, takes the glint off his spectacle frames, and the upturned collar of his three quarter length coat obscures the rest of his face. not that it matters anyway, he would be just as invisible in any other attire. he is one of those rare individuals that has the ability to look so unremarkable as to just blend into the background in any environment. he may as well be part of the wall. the long coat and hat just make him feel more like he's playing the part. he enjoys what he does. he does it purely for pleasure, not for commercial gain, or out of moral standing or even for religious reasons. he does it because he can, and he enjoys it. everyone knows an angst ridden teenage tearaway that claims they only ever shoplifted for the buzz, they didn't need whatever they stole. well, it's like that. he doesn't need his ill gotten gains. but he does treasure them. every one lovingly stored in a small glass jar, labelled with the time and date in his tidy, unremarkable handwriting. but unlike the teenager he never stopped. he never left his 'wild days' behind him. why should he? he's never been caught. and he knows he never will. he's that good. somewhere in the shadows of his overcoat he smiles. an unnerving, smug smile of deep satisfaction. the kind of smile, which if seen on the face of a passer by would cause an immediate paranoia attack, because they look like they know something you don't. and they probably do. he's smiling because it's almost time. he's spotted his victim at the other end of the alleyway, a young man in a dark duffel coat, long sandy blonde hair. the endorphins kick in, sending a shiver down his spine. carefully... the young man is but yards away, ambling along ignorant of what is about to befall him, bobbing his head to the soft breakbeats crackling from his headphones. the young man starts, as suddenly a figure detaches itself from a sea of shadow against the wall, bumps against him, the rim of a trilby brushes against his cheek. a muttered apology from the young man - 'oh, sorry, didn't see you there man.' the figure in the hat is unremarkable, but not noticeably so, easily forgotten, but not in a memorable fashion. he could have been made up of a little bit of everyone he looks so ordinary. the victim walks on, instantly forgetting the encounter. the man in the hat carefully brushes something from the brim of his hat into the palm of his hand and runs snickering into the night. |
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Clare Maguire > 6dec2002 > The Face of The Future |
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