Jeff Lindsay

For the first time I could remember, I felt weak, woozy and stupid— like a human-being. Like a very small and helpless human-being.

But what could I do? Be stupid for a while? I wasn't sure I knew how, even after so many years of careful observation.

I did not like this feeling of having feelings.

And what did you do last night, Dexter? Oh, I played with my dolls while a friend chopped up my sister.

The mind picks some very bad times to take a walk doesn't it?

Was insanity really easier to accept than unconsciousness?

Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.

Weren't we all crazy in our sleep? What was sleep, after all, but the process by which we dumped our insanity into a dark subconscious pit and came out on the other side ready to eat cereal instead of our neighbor's children?

It took me a moment. I blinked, and suddenly it swam into focus and I had to frown very hard to keep myself from giggling out loud like the schoolgirl Deb had accused me of being.

Because he had arranged the arms and legs in letters, and the letters spelled out a single small word: BOO.

The three torsos were carefully arranged below the BOO in a quarter-circle, making a cute little Halloween smile.

What a scamp.

I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.

Me, feeling. What a concept.

Killing makes me feel good.