Sal? Perhaps that was his name. He'd let himself know when he could remember. He was a he though. That much he was certain of. For lack of better term, he was human as well, but he would be damned if he wouldn't take that as a rather bitter insult in public. Perhaps his name wasn't Sal, as that didn't seam to stir any debris in his waning sanity. He would do without a name for the time being. . . He got from the desk next to his bed a knife. Ornate. He bought it at that years con. It was, however, a foot long, and despite being ornate and unsharpened on the edges except to a mild degree, the point on it was lethal, or so he hoped. He wasn't sure how he did it but he was downtown now. Atlanta. Borne and raised upon the metropilises outskirts. He loved his city. Or did he. . . yes. He did love the city. . . the denezins were that which he hated. . . but not Atlantas. He prefereed the denizens of Atlanta to anywhere else. . . not that he had been in many other cities. Lower middle class income tended to void travel quite effectively. He had decided on a name on the way downtown via the bus and train. He was Springheel now, via one ofhis quiet adored idols from england. He wanted to exist in the elder times. Pre-mass electricity would be divine he mused to himself. Divinity was something he reverred but loathed at the same time, similarly to life. Springheel waited, wandering and thinking little of anything until he saw it. A white girl, pretty, sub-goth class but a little too popular to be pure, wandering alone in downtown Atlanta. Stupid in itself he smirked inwardly. She noticed the look in his eyes as he made a more direct route towards her. She didn't spot him for what he was though. She had a curious look in her eyes as he approached her, hunger invisible for as long as he could hide it. "Hey you know where the. . ." and he stopped trying to think of a place to ask about in His city, took the knife out from behind himself and thrust the knife four of the twelve inches into her chest in the area he knew the heart somewhere around there was. She put her hands up to try to stop his, not screaming outwardly but only inwardly and through her eyes. He smiled, control of the joy he was experiencing ebbing almost instantly away from him as he let her struggle more, staring directly into her eyes as he pushed more, blood streaming around it. Nine inches into her now and she was being desperate, flinging, herself, flailing, scratching with her right hand as she continued in vaine to push his grip off with her left. He let her win slightly, stopping his grip at ten inches in to put his left hand around her waist, pulling her closer and embracing her as the lover he never had as he thrust with all his might the blade to its hilt into her, blood flowing like he had pierced a wine cask. As he stared into her eyes, her life leaving her through the tears flowing almost as quickly as the blood. In that moment he was in love with this anonymous girl he had never met but now knew so well in death. She never cryed out but with a shudder like a car engine turning off, she stopped moving. Springheel held her closer for a moment before dragging her onto the doorway of the fox theatre. That block was suprisingly badly lit when shows weren't happening which he knew would be good for him. He lay her down on her back on the steps, pulled his knife slowly from her flesh and licked it, slowly, like a popsicle. It tasted marvelous. She had sweet blood, though he had never tasted anyone elses until this moment. He lay down beside her and whispered softly in her ear, "Wait for me", and closed his arms around her, feeling warmth, though it was fading, that he had always wanted to feel against him. He knew always if he ever did kill somone he would probably do this, and had even fantasized about it quite regularly during his nightly almost ritualistic self-pleasuring, so it came as no suprise to find himself stripping the girl, clumsily, until her shirt was removed completely and her jeans and purpleish thong were at her knees. He was alive then like he had never been pryor, living out all his animalistic fantasies of biting and penetrating and grabbing as if she was alive. He wished she was alive, fully in love with her enough to die for her without much regret possible. Without further thought he penetrated her once more, embracing her fully and then put the blades tip to the back of his neck, to the right of the spinal column but angeled to go through the cneter of his throat and into hers. He hammered with all the might he could on the back of it and knew no more in life save how he'd love them to be found by some school children.