Hold the Light by Ryan Sherwood Page A

them, ramming heads into the wooden supports with a callous push. One woman's head collided with the wooden support so hard that splinters burst all about, flashing Mural's memory back to Benjamin's missed blast on the porch so long ago. A lifetime ago. His anger built into an eternal rage that served him far past death.

    The lady's head split open and she slid down leaving a red streak on the white post. Her eyes rolled up into her skull. Mural barely felt the convulsion that sent him to retrieve her soul and it was over within moments and his wrath was unbroken.

    Once past the gazebo he broke into a sprint for the group huddled under the canopy in front of the theater. Running through the silver streaks of rain, his heart panted with the desires of thirst again. His butcher knife once again sang to him and gleamed. Several couples backed out from the canopy into the rain and ran from his assault, but five people stood still, dumbfounded under the awning, gazing at impending doom.

    "And you'll do," he uttered in thirsty anticipation.

    It took only moments to reacquaint himself with murdering with his own two hands again. Mural had put his knife aside for too long, but it sang with its old voice, beating in unison with his accelerated pulse. He hacked at the young adults, cutting into their dresses and suits. Their screams echoed about the town square and added to the harmony he heard. His wrist bent and swiveled nimbly. As the necks of the bystanders split open, the blue light inside him chimed in with sounds beautiful to his ears. Blood leapt freely into the open air and it was thick and blue to his eyes. In the blurred and methodical fury, Mural sliced their bodies apart. The knife conducted a murderous orchestra that filled his ears with joyous melodies. The blade sung along, pushing their talents, demanding perfection, until all but one of the bodies lay flat on the concrete. He left a young woman barely alive and kneeling before him. His shoulders settled and the frenzy was over - oh how time flies when you're having fun. Time and his glee settled though, as he peered into the girls eyes. They half pleaded and half accepted; she knew her death was upon her. Mural nodded to her and took one last spin, the black cloth of his coat flowing as his blade performed an encore, with one last ostentatious jab.

    This was truly the finale to his symphony. His blade ripped into the girl's jugular and sprayed blood across his face and over the pristine white siding of the theatre walls. Mural smiled at his marking, thinking it to be his signature, before he was completely lost in his fantasy. Lost in the gift. Standing before a full ensemble of imaginary violins and horns, he lowered his bloody baton, maroon flesh slipping down the knife's edge, and bowed before the crowd. He felt spotlights of heat the back of his neck burning from dozens of eyes. All stood around him with mouths agape, some silent, some screaming.
    "They're stunned! This must be how Beethoven felt!"

    Mural's music played on in his mind as he relived the symphony through the gift, taking their souls and releasing them into the darkness.

    "So nice I did it twice," he chuckled.

    The police found Mural with his last victim's bloody head in his lap, her long blonde hair draped in matted clumps across his legs. Timidly, the authorities approached Mural as he ate from a discarded yet perfectly good bag of popcorn. His fingers were stained red and the popcorn between his fingers was pink. Covering the lapels and seeping in through a tear in the shoulder of his long black coat, blood stained draped him as much as the applause he heard in his head.

    Wavering guns were drawn in shaky hands. Even light had to muster courage to come near Mural as he sat in shadows at the theater's entrance, lost in his creation, barely noticing the police close in.

    "I can swallow better already," he exclaimed, munching on popcorn with a puerile glee to an officer ready to pistol whip