Nocturnal

Hands

Just look at them. Holding hands. Kissing. He could see their tongues flicking in and out of each other’s mouths. So unclean.

The rage built in Tard’s chest. So did the excitement. Everything seemed sharper, more intense, from the breeze blowing off the endless ocean to the sand grinding under his belly to the smell of a dead fish that couldn’t be far off.

They couldn’t see him. People couldn’t see at night, not like he could. And these people had a fire, blazing orange and hot, a spot of light surrounded by this long, dark stretch of beach. Their eyes would be adjusted to that light — they wouldn’t be able to see anything twenty feet outside of their little bonfire. Tard could cover twenty feet in just a couple of seconds. They wouldn’t have time to react. They probably wouldn’t even have time to scream.

There was no one to stop him anymore. He’d killed once, and no one had told him to stop.

Off in the distance, a few other bonfires lit up the evening fog of Ocean Beach. Probably bums. No one cared about the bums, but these two — they looked like they would be missed.

No one was supposed to touch a will-be.

Tard thought about slinking away, maybe looking at the other bonfires to see what was there … but these two, lying there, holding hands, kissing.

The boy crawled on top of the girl and started to move.

It made Tard feel funny to watch, and that funny feeling made him even angrier.

He slowly lifted off his belly and onto his feet, a sand-colored shape that rushed forward, out of the darkness and into the bonfire’s light.