The Weeper’s Fall

The day of my 13th kill, a special number for obvious reasons. Years ago, I couldn’t have fathomed that I would be amongst the likes of the famed Zodiac killer for my cryptic messages. Walking the streets like BTK, unknown and not cared about. The old bookstore was my dominion. I didn’t even know the owner and he saw me as just another patron, but after each kill I came here and placed a new journal entry, sheathed in a leather carrier until I took it out, on a shelf in a new section. The journal, documenting my most recent kill with unclear details that the police had a field day with, would usually be found by a patron within 24 hours, and the hunt would begin again. Would they get me on camera this time? Did anyone see what I looked like? No, not at all. Because I switched outfits - and not just that, but hair, beard, style … after each kill.

Magical! The store was mostly empty, but the owner was chatting with someone checking out at the counter and they nodded at me. I nodded back and smiled. What section would I place my journal in today? Crime? Already did that … Fantasy? Saving that for a special one … New Age? Too expected. I placed it in the finance section and turned to leave, ensuring nobody was around. I had always been careful about those things.

I browsed for a bit. The store was awfully dead tonight. When I made my way to leave, I found the front door locked - from the outside. Strange … I had never thought about if stores could do that or not. The clerk wasn’t at the counter, but a sturdy man in uniform met my stare.

“Sir? Sir, you’re under arrest.”

My heart at my feet, I began to weep. And that’s what the media would remember me as - not as the Dark Journaler, but the Weeper. That’s my biggest regret.

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