Nocturnal
283 Words
7/12/1997 3.09am Henrique's house
Henrique lies in his bed, wide awake. The blacksmith of the town doesn't dare to close his eyes, to sleep. All this news of a serial killer terrifies him, and he could very well be the next victim. He sweats uneasily in his covers. The night is still.
Enough, Henrique thinks. He gets up, exits the bedroom. Trying to sleep is pointless. He'll just nap during the day, he reasons. He collapses into his armchair in his living room with a glass of milk. Alone in the dark. The shadows hanging everywhere in his home seem to taunt him. The milk is cold and insipid to his throat. It's no good - he feels like he's being watched. He needs to do something and occupy himself. He needs to distract himself.
Standing, Henrique heads for his metalworker's table and lights a gas lamp. The dim yellow glimmer of the flame dances in the sooty glass chamber. It's not bright, but it'll do. He gets out his tools and several iron figurines. He might as well get to work on these. He had just finished a large brass scalpel sculpture for Matvei the other day, one of his biggest projects. An odd request, but the medical examiner paid promptly. He remembered Matvei’s praise, how satisfied he looked. He brimmed with pride.
A tinge of excitement coursed through his blood, and as he set to work, the fear, the dread, the insomnia was forgotten. His little steel sculptures shine even in what little light there is, and so engrossed is Henrique that he doesn't notice the figure completely shrouded in darkness behind him, his rusty blacksmith's hammer in hand.
- Writer
