The Eye of the Moon by Anonymous Page A

in case any of her clients ever decided to overstep the, admittedly rather liberal, boundaries of decency she insisted upon during their visits. There had been occasions when some of her less regular clients had been overly violent during sex or had demanded their money back after an unsatisfying session (invariably their own fault). She had pulled the gun on a few occasions, but it had never been fired.
    JD walked into the bedroom to be engulfed by a foul stench, and sickened by the sight of the bloodied covers on the bed in the centre of the room. Visions of his mother in agony in this room at the hands of Kione flashed through his mind, and he quickly looked away from the bed and walked over to the small wooden bedside cabinet. Pulling open the top drawer he pushed aside a few undergarments to reveal the shiny silver revolver that his mother owned. Since she had never had to fire it, it still looked bright and new. After a deep breath he picked it up and looked over it, breaking out the cylinder to check the loads. There were six, all unfired. This is the gun I’m going to use to kill my mother.
    The thought was a vile one. It made him retch, but once again no vomit came up. His stomach was empty, his gutsshrinking. I can’t do this. Then for the first time he noticed what was standing on top of the cabinet.
    A bottle of bourbon.
    Snapping the cylinder back, he put the gun down on the bed beside a pool of drying blood and picked up the bottle. It was full, unopened. He stared hard at the smooth, translucent, golden-brown liquid inside. Would this stuff really take the edge off what he was about to do? It was just bourbon, after all. Just an alcoholic drink with a bit of a kick to it. Would it provide him with answers? Or strength? Only one way to find out.
    The cap was screwed on tight and he was shaking so much that he struggled to twist it off. Eventually, after he had summoned just enough strength from a body that seemed hollow, it came loose and fell to the floor.
    ‘God forgive me for all I am about to do,’ he whispered aloud, holding the bottle aloft as if talking to the Lord. Then he put the neck to his lips and took his first sip.
    It tasted foul.
    So he took another sip. His stomach was still in knots and it was hard to keep the stuff from coming back up again. There’s but one way to keep it down, he thought. Pour more down after it. So he drank more. Each sip tasted a little less foul than the one before, but no matter how many sips he took, he still wasn’t ready to pick up the pistol and head back downstairs.
    So he kept drinking.
    The feeling of sickness soon began to pass, and adrenalin started to take over his body. Gradually the alcohol calmed his nerves. He felt it filling the hollowness inside him. A new sensation in his stomach began to take over, a burning rage as the realization of what had happened began to sink in, and the reality of what had to be done became more apparent. The autopilot was no longer in control, but nor was JD. Something else was taking over. The thirst for blood. Not the same thirst that a vampire has, this was an urge to kill not for food, not for sport. This was an urge to kill in order to feel alive.
    Before he knew it there was suddenly just one last mouthful of bourbon left in the bottle. He took a long look at it, then sucked in one more deep breath and poured it down his throat. The thirst for blood took over completely. His shoulders arched back and his lips curled up into a sneer. His chest puffed out and he looked down at the gun he had placed on the bed. Staring down at it brought another momentary flash of the vileness that had gone before in this room, tempering his adrenalin rush a little. Suddenly the room was looking fuzzy and the gun was becoming blurred. Better get this over with before it’s too late, he thought.
    With all his might he threw the empty bourbon bottle against the wall, where it shattered noisily, shards of glass spraying everywhere. The