The Last Cigarette

My fingers glided almost lovingly over the back of the knife. The excitement at the thought of what I had just done with this knife released a powerful endorphin. I enjoyed the feeling of a thousand sparks tickling my spine and finally causing an explosion in my head, where the world turned, and I began to live again for a brief moment.

Finally, I can feel it again. It is a privilege that some people take for granted. But these people do not appreciate it. They do not deserve to feel at all, except perhaps the pain that I inflict on them with my tool, my lover, my anchor in life, the only guarantee to feel something, my knife.

Lost in thought, still hearing the music of the cries of pain of my last victim in my head, I wandered along the rainy street at night. It was certainly well after midnight, and the streets were pleasantly empty.

As I was walking down a dark alley, I was suddenly pulled out of my thoughts when a young man came out of it and spoke to me.

"Excuse me, do you have a cigarette for me?" he asked. I gave him a suspicious look. He was certainly no older than in his early twenties. He had a well-formed, pleasant-looking face, dark hair and, for a night, an astonishingly light blue eye colour. It was not the typical blue you see on trivial magazines’ covers, like the ones with the Hollywood starlets. They were almost light grey, and you could nearly say that his eyes had no iris; they were just big, wide pupils.

I could still feel the slight tingling from my last knife game and wondered if the sight of his eyes cut out with my tool would give me an extra kick, but I decided not to do it now. Not yet.

Actually, men are not my favourite victims. I prefer women. But I sometimes make an exception when I meet men with a unique charisma or something special about them. I appreciate strange and peculiar things. They also cause a tingling sensation in my back, although not as intensely as when I play with my victims and my beloved knife.

I felt a smile form on my face. Not yet, I thought. "Sure, hold on," I said and started searching the outside pockets of my jacket for the cigarette box.

"Ah, great! Thanks a lot. I’ve searched for a cigarette for hours, but the city seems deserted in this weather.” He looked satisfied, and small wrinkles formed in the corners of his eyes, which gave him a friendly and happy expression but strangely also made him look much older.

I held out the box of cigarettes to him. ‘Take it. I don’t need it anymore, and I think you'll need it more today,’ I said, while I felt my mouth corners form an uncontrollable smile again.

I thought it would have a disturbing effect on the young man and that he would at least be a little afraid of me. That is very important to me when I go hunting. But he beamed at me and gratefully accepted my gift.

He took the cigarette out of the box, almost tenderly turning it between his fingers, closed his eyes, and inhaled the tobacco’s deep smell. Momentarily, he remained breathless, holding the cigarette under his well-formed but masculine nose.

Then he put it in his mouth and lit it with a lighter.

The dark alley lit up blood red as he took a slow and long drag on the cigarette. His face was illuminated in the same red colour, and the glow of the cigarette danced in his eyes, giving him a dangerous expression for a moment.

I had not expected this effect on me and was seized by a deep hatred, which instinctively made me reach for the knife hidden in my sleeve. But at that exact moment, I was surprised that a feeling unknown had spread through me. I could not categorise it and decided not to cut out the light blue eyes yet. Not yet.

Unaware of how narrowly he had escaped a long and painful death, the young man breathed out the smoke in a long and pleasurable breath. He looked at me and smiled.

‘You are a lifesaver, thank you very much!’.

A lifesaver? That's a title I wouldn't claim for myself.

He took another drag of his cigarette and continued: ‘I'm sorry to say it, but you remind me of my father’.

‘I'm going to kill him,’ was my first thought at this impertinence. However, I remained still and tilted my head to the side questioningly.

‘Not because of the age; he's much older than you, not because of your appearance either. It wasn't meant as an insult.’ he added apologetically. I remained in my questioning position.

‘We have been fighting with each other for thousands of years,’ he added.

‘What exactly reminds you of your father?’ I asked quietly, feeling myself slowly becoming terribly annoyed and a dull anger pressing against my chest again.

‘He's just like you. He feels nothing. At least, usually.’

My heart suddenly stepped back, and I felt a cold shock in my hands and fingers, which gave me a feeling of numbness and immobility. I wanted to say something, but I was unable to form words.

‘Ah, excuse me again. I'm always so direct. Unfortunately, it's in my nature,’ he spread his arms wide, ’that's what I am. A son who has a father who bears great responsibility but who causes a lot of suffering through his insensitivity. Of course, not like you do. He doesn't have to cut anyone alive into pieces.’

I was made of stone. The man continued undeterred.

‘But he doesn't stop anyone else from doing it either. We have argued that injustice must never go unpunished for thousands of years. Just punishment is a logical consequence of this and not forgiveness, which he always wants to talk me and his other children into. He only says that so he doesn't have to deal with it. That's why he created me and, at the same time, declared me to be the scapegoat.’

Unable to move, I felt my tool, my lover, my knife, fall to the ground. All my attention was focused on the young man whom I had just wanted to disembowel alive.

The man walked unperturbed towards me, bent down, and picked up the knife at my feet. He stroked it with his finger, as I always do when I return from a successful hunt.

‘But you know...’ he paused, turned the knife over, and stroked his fingers over the razor-sharp blade. But there was no blood to be seen.

‘I don't want to be like my father’, he looked at me with blue-greyish eyes.

‘And lo, the man with eyes as pale as the morning star did speak, and the earth trembled at his words. He said unto the sinner, 'I am the shadow cast from the light you so shun, the hand that metes out the justice you believe yourself beyond. My name is Lucifer, the Accuser, the Keeper of the Scales, who watches as the world sins and turns from the grace of the Father. Where His hand offers mercy, mine delivers the price of your iniquities.

You, who delight in the suffering of others, have walked willingly into my grasp. The pain you dealt in secret shall now be your crown, the torment you sowed your eternal harvest. For I am the flame that sears the souls of the wicked, the endless night that consumes those who revel in darkness. Know this: no sin goes unpunished, and no evil shall escape my gaze.

And the sinner wept and gnashed his teeth, but it was too late, for the hour of reckoning had come, and the morning star had risen to claim his due.’

I heard a scream. A scream full of pain. A scream that always excited me and made me feel alive again. But this scream did not give me any pleasure because I realised that it was me who was screaming.

Something or someone invisible to me was cutting off pieces of my flesh, which immediately grew back and were then cut out again.

I didn't want it anymore! When will this pain stop?! I want it to stop at last!

‘Mercy!!!’ was the last word I spoke as the world ceased to exist for me and the eternal, unending torment began.

‘I don't want to feel anything anymore!’ was my last thought, which was pushed aside by the pain.