As he wiped the warm blood from the blade of the knife he wondered, had he gotten any closer. For over a year now, he had hunted, searched and all without success. In search of a god, a diety a sign of something higher, an answer, he had driven himself to this extreme. Mere months ago he could have never contemplated the monstrous acts he had since performed. In his previous, pitiful existence of crawling from hollow places of meaningless words, rites and worship he had searched for answers, but had been denied them.
After having squandered another day of his life in his search, one that had now become all consuming, the burning desire, his soul purpose to exist, he had abandoned his hunt for spiritual evidence. Vividly the smells of inscence, the dim light that poured through the dusty panes, the sounds of the bells and a distant choir, the taste of bitter bile of hatred and the feeling of the perspiring priest’s throat under his grip. He watched his eyes widen in fear and felt the pulse race as he pressed the steel tip of the knife harder into the man’s neck. His god had not been there for him, he had been forsaken to the hand of man, and there had died, quietly bleeding to death. At first he was staggered at what he had done, but there here that could touch him, he had made sure that the crime had been immaculate, there was nothing to reveal him, and obviously there was no god there to inflict punishment.
His inhibitions that day died with the priest, everyone that he had sworn against, or wished he could take action against but had not for fear of punishment in the after life melted away from him as shadows in the dawn. Meticulous, calculating and cold he continued, though now no longer looking for answers, but revenge. One by one his languished memories of torment came to rest in peace with the dying bodies of those that had tortured him. He had tinkered with bombs, fabulous consturctions of mayhem, but there was little left after it exploded, regardless of how impressive the effect. Poison was one of his favorites given the nearly coundless combinations of pain and discomfort that could be given before death set in, although now he had learned that it was as identifiable as a fingerprint. Firearms worked well, although drew far too much attention, they were loud, larger ones difficult to conceal and left their marks upon the wielder. After experimentation he had rested upon strangulation and blades as his choices for death, they were personal, painful, and left the kind of message he wished.
For this body there was nothing special that was required, she had walked in at the wrong time, the wrong place, there was nothing against him for which she deserved to die for. Anyway this would be one the last, not in quite the fashion he wished to be remembered, but it would not matter. His name would fade from memory as a name eteched in stone.
Walking away from the draining body he began where he had left off, placing the square blocks of explosive into the pockets and harnesses of the suit he had made. After all were in place he wired them all together to the detonator and threw an intentioanlly baggy overcoat on. He had ruined this mortal life, there was nothing left for him, and after his work any god would have taken notice. He would have his answer.