The Werewolf


Serial killers


          He stared at each drop as it trickled down his knuckle. He eyed the blade in his hand and then stared at her. She was smiling, the same way as she always would when she was thinking about something nice. He made another cut, and watched a new line of blood make its own path. She combed fingers through her hair and moved them back as she looked out her window. He quickly hid, moving behind the curtains, and pointing his telescope up while he did so.


Pain is the most primal feeling we can experience as creatures. It is the ultimate proof that we are alive. It is something that we avoid at all costs, but inevitably experience in multiple ways throughout our life. Suffering that comes from the pain is optional, but the pain itself, is inevitable.




She put her hand on his as she spoke. He couldn’t hear anything she said, and he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. She was supposed to be a God; mortals don’t touch gods. He looked up at her eyes and watched them study his own. She was talking in some foreign tongue as far as he was concerned, not a word worth trying to understand. He nodded his head when she looked at him expectantly and paused. She didn’t notice the fine cut scars on his knuckles.


Without a doubt you could claim that there is nobody on this planet that has lived his or her life without experiencing any of those feelings. The truth is that we do not know pleasure’s true value without knowing pain. Food tastes best when the consumer of it is hungry, water is most soothing to a someone quenching a desperate thirst.


He passed to her his poem, which he had written with all his heart. She slowly unraveled the crumpled paper he had handed her, and began reading it. He knew it was cheesy, but the scars on his knuckles had healed. She glanced up at him with troubled eyes, then continued reading. He was blind to her expression, his mind denied that he could be denied. She shook her head and passed the poem back to him. He looked up at her in confusion. She was supposed to love him back.

He realised it was too soon, so he began to laugh and asked her, “You think the girl I like would like me if she read this?” She regained that heavenly smile and nodded.


The reality is that like love and hate; happiness and sadness; pleasure and pain are abstract. When a needle pricks you, it’s not your finger that tells you there is pain, it’s not the needle either. The brain is responsible for every feeling of pain that we experience, from the reflex action, to the scream, to the tears, the brain causes and controls everything. Considering that, it’s not strange to realise that pain and pleasure are caused by the same region in the brain. The power of pain is that it can overpower any other sense, desire, or even thought. There cannot be any sensation that makes you forget pain, other than more pain.


He looked out his window again, “Don’t worry, she’ll show up.” He told himself. She appeared all of a sudden, with a cigarette in hand and her makeup smudged. He picked up his phone to call her and ask her if everything is all right. She suddenly turned around, a man had come up to her and grabbed her shoulders while talking to her with a stern look. He started panicking, what if he will harm her, what if she is in danger. She fell into the man’s arms, and began to sob, as he slowly caressed her shoulders. 

He knew now that he would never be to her, what she was to him. She kissed the man. He looked away. She began to undress. He looked at her again. She looked up at the man. He promised this would be the last time he saw her. She didn’t know he was watching her; she was just gazing out the window. He picked up the phone and called her; he couldn’t let her do this, not in front of him. She picked her phone and saw the number. He stared at her as she pressed the silent button on her phone. He closed the curtains.

“Where is that fucking blade.”