The Dark Night Rider

Sounds of dark, sinister notes filled the studio room. A song her fingertips have played one too many times. A glass of red wine almost finished, resting on top of the piano. With a perfectly round rim of residue sitting beneath. Her eyes frown as she plays. As if she had been told some concerning news, or was playing in front of her parents; who were narcissistic and always dismissed her. Suddenly, the music stops. Like a foreigner walking into a bar in a new town. Her face glances up as she takes a deep breath and swigs the remaining wine left in her glass.

She sets off into the night, she calls herself “The Dark Night Rider”. As her work can only be finished when the city sleeps. She steps into her BMW i8 funded generously by her wealthy grandparents. Although her profession requires her to be discreet; she cannot help the undeniable love for flashy cars or anything luxury of that matter. Another reason is she craves attention and attention is what she gets, it makes her job easier. Especially with the gentlemen. Finally at her destination, she reaches for the katana samurai sword sitting in her trunk. A delicately crafted legacy, carried down by her ancestors for many years. A legacy, she slits the throats of her victims with.

Unlike most assassins, she likes to keep a tally of the number of kills. She treats it like a trophy for all to see. An accomplishment she is smugly proud of. She’s always been a city girl, a college dropout who moved away from her hometown as soon as she could. It was always a struggle to maintain relationships, her constant habit of pushing people away always made it impossible.

Number 72.

A week beforehand she likes to observe her next victim. Like a predator gazing upon its prey. It gives her insight into their routine; what time they eat, have a shower or go to sleep. She finesses the perfect time which is always around midnight. That’s when she strikes.

There are a few pipes hanging on the side of the building which lead up to a bathroom window. As she sneakily climbs through, there’s a mumbling voice. He’s on the phone. Half an hour goes by and she finally manages to sneak out of the bathroom door. He’s sitting at a desk, fumbling around with a few papers. She steps closer behind making sure every move is silent; at this point it comes natural. It’s a fairly modern studio flat with an island kitchen. A perfectly round bowl filled with fresh fruit sat in the centre. The living room had a wooden fireplace but lacked any family pictures resting above. Maybe he’s just not a family guy or had lost touch overtime. Possibly a family feud of some sorts. You can tell a lot about a person by the environment they live in. Everything looked so pristine like she had just walked into an Ikea; shopping for the perfect layout to build a family in. It was obvious he was an organised, clean freak. A man who has walked through life with a clean shoe, someone who tries a little too hard. He reminded her of her mother, who faked being happy most of her life. She was a professional at it and could fool anyone that everything was okay; Even in the pits of her despair. On his desk laid a book, “Man’s search for meaning” by Viktor Frankl. A well kept copy recently bought. Of course it was predictable because she knew his battle with loneliness and confusion. Hoping endless one night stands might give him that lightbulb moment he’s been longing for. Or an answer to his “what if’s”.

“I’ve been waiting for you” he whispers.

Confusion stops her dead in her tracks, this process is always a quick swift move without any more to it. She hesitates but remains firm; “And who in their right mind waits for their death?”. He smirks to himself whilst spinning his desk chair around to face her. A middle aged male with a fairly athletic build. Coarse hair with small curls that drop down by his piercing auburn eyes. A strong masculine jaw that matches his firm broad shoulders. A perfectly tucked in shirt with the top button undone to keep it casual yet sophisticated. His facial hair was well groomed and he carried a smugness about him. The word “flamboyant” was written all over him.

She draws her samurai sword as she exclaims “What are you finding so funny?”. Specks of moonlight reflect against the jewels embedded on the hilt of the sword, displaying all its glory.

“Any last words?”.

There’s a moment of silence that sets an uneasy atmosphere, as she looks into his eyes her frown slowly disappears.

“Sara it’s me, Katsumi”.