He felt nothing but a deep pit in his stomach. It was something akin to hunger but it couldn't be sated with food and drink. He could feel an urge, an odd one. He wanted to end a life.

It was like an itch he couldn't scratch. Always there and only getting worse. He got restless after a while, pacing and biting his nails until he drew blood.

He could feel it crawling through his veins and he could no longer help it, he couldn't just ignore it. He never could for too long, not that he even wanted to.

It was somewhere past midnight when he came outside, fidgety and excited with a knife held firmly in his hand. He didn't care who it was at all. He just wanted to make the itch go away.

After some aimless walking he saw a person, the person. He didn't even try to be subtle when he lunged at them, didn't give them time to process, didn't allow for a single sound to escape them. But it wasn't quick. He wanted to enjoy it, sate that hunger wich made him like this in the first place.

And when their fear filled eyes turned glassy and he no longer felt them squirm, he let go, hiding the bloodied knife back into the pocket of his hoodie.

He left no evidence, not a single trace of his involvement as he walked away like he's done nothing wrong.

It was sated, the itch, the hunger, whatever it was. He thought he'd finally be at peace - at least for a little while until it set in again. But to his horror, there was something else now.

A voice. He could hear it loud and clear in his head but it wasn't his own. There was someone in his head and the illusion of whatever messed up peace he had was broken.

He stopped in his tracks, looking around himself but seeing no one. Did I imagine it? He was insane, sure, but he wasn't schizophrenic - or at least he thought so.

He started laughing, doubling over as he did. "Damn," he started through the chuckles, "I got scared for a moment there."

And he was. That itch was back. But it felt different. Like his skin was too tight. Like he was sharing it with another person.