Requiem for a Mouse by Jamie Wang Page A

you raped her,” he whispered to Jericho, laughing through his words. “Because I loved her, and you broke her so completely. But you see, without a victim, there’s just no justice. Without her pain, this would all be so hollow.”
    He crawled into the tent, his knife raised. It was strange seeing Jericho so peaceful, Vlad had watched him for weeks and never once was Jericho this calm. Well, at least he wouldn’t die that way.
    Vlad thrust his blade into Jericho’s leg. The knife cut to the bone. Jericho jerked up, but Vlad held him down, his hand latched onto Jericho’s mouth. He shoved his blade deeper into Jericho’s leg, twisting and turning it to produce the squelching noise he so loved.
    Hawks aren’t the only ones who scar.
    Vlad maneuvered his knife, etching his art into Jericho’s femur. Just seeing Jericho’s quivering eyes would’ve been good enough, but now he felt Jericho’s spit between his fingers. He felt the vibrations against his palm of the screams that would never escape.
    If Jericho could scream— Oh wait… Vlad guffawed, sending spit raining down on his victim. “You can scream,” he laughed.
    Vlad wiggled the knife out from Jericho’s leg and stabbed it into his gut. This time, no bone stopped the knife. Only now, did the metallic smell of blood fill the air, its fragrance accentuated with a hint of sourness. It was intoxicating.
    His nails dug into Jericho’s cheeks. However Vlad tried, he couldn’t stop his laughter. It felt like he was under some spell, some wonderfully powerful spell.
    “Scream! Scream for me!” Vlad released Jericho’s mouth to unleash the screams he had been holding in.
    Vlad dug his knife further into Jericho before scooping it out, flinging blood onto the tent walls. With another lunge, Vlad returned the knife into Jericho’s gut, stabbing him over and over again. With each stab, he flung more blood as if drawing some horrific mural.
    “Can you hear his screams, God?” Vlad howled, feverishly painting the tent walls.
    Jericho convulsed with every stroke. His screams died into a gurgle and then nothing.
    “Can you hear it even when you’re so high up on your fucking throne?”
    Sweat dripped down Vlad’s face. His shoulders rose and fell with his panting breath. Only now did he realize that Jericho had died. Vlad shook his head in disappointment. Holding Jericho’s face steady with his nails, he slammed the knife into Jericho’s eye, the finishing touch on his masterpiece. It always astounded Vlad how fast a person could become an object.
    And then there was silence. The night remained completely unchanged. The river still flowed, the moon still shone; nothing at all had changed. Vlad looked down at his work. He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. His skin tingled. Jericho’s scent tickled his nose.
    I had been too loud.
    “Jericho?” The high-pitched voice came directly behind him.
    Vlad turned and peeked through the sliver of light streaming through the tent flap. It was a small girl, her figure hidden by shadows. There was a crowd behind her. They stood away from the tent as if it housed some sort of monster. Vlad plucked his blade out of Jericho’s eye.
    “Who’s in there?” The girl was on the verge of sobbing, her voice like the squeak of a mouse. “Please, brother, say something.”
    I need a mask. Vlad didn’t bother looking around, he already knew where his mask was. He plunged his face into Jericho’s gut, engulfing himself in the blood. He rubbed it all over him, filling his nose and ears with its warmth. Once again, as if commanded by spell, he started laughing. Bubbles of blood spluttered from his mouth.
    With a swift turn, Vlad was out the tent. Strings of blood oozed off his lips, dripping down his chin like slobber. The crowd huddled around each other. They were sheep eyeing a wolf.
    The girl gasped, her eyes darting between Vlad’s face and his knife. “Who are—”
    Vlad opened his mouth to respond, instead, a