The papers called Sharon and Ashley “numbers five and six respectively”. The love of my life and the little girl who was the living embodiment of my heart would be eternally remembered as the fifth and sixth victims of a killer that has never been seen or caught on camera. The police don’t even have a suspect. The only reason I didn’t find myself on the wrong side of one of those interrogation tables had been the message the killer had written on the ceiling above them in blood: “5, 6, pick up sticks.”
That was six months ago, I caught the front page of the paper the last time I went out for booze and saw the body count was up to 10. No suspects, no witnesses, and no hope of knowing who I could possibly hate more than myself at this point because this faceless and nameless killer enjoys the luxury of anonymity while I spend the remainder of my miserable life at the bottom of a bottle hoping to drown in my own sorrow.
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