The floor’s cold, the dim light reaching under the bed, the smell of worn clothes the unassuming victim drops on the ground before slipping under the sheets. The last moment of peace before the terror. Everything about that moment just before the deed is forevermore finely crystallized into the canvas of unadulterated raw emotions that is the kill.

I do not have a “type.” I don’t care who the person is. I just simply choose a house. One that seems to be easily accessible without attracting unwarranted attention. Then I go hide in a bedroom, preferably under the bed. And then I wait. When I’m not lucky, I’ll stay the whole night and leave the following day. Either there was more than one person in the room, or, in rare cases, when I felt like I could be outmatched. It’s rare, but it happens. Otherwise, that’s when the exhilarating affair begins.

I get out from my hideout, slowly, silently. My senses sharpened, keenly aware of my surroundings, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. I wait there for a reaction, a moment to strike. No weapon, no gimmicks to distract me from the kill. Just my hands and the will of a beast about to strike down its prey. This is the crucial part, knowing exactly when it is time. There is this moment of confusion in someone’s eyes when they realize they’re not alone in their room, not safe in the comfort of their home. This is the moment when I jump at their neck and strangle them with all my might.

There is this look in their eyes when they realize what is happening. A confusion but also sheer terror, something so desperately beautiful. You can see the soul, this iridescent glimpse of life, fighting to find meaning where there is none. The body struggling in vain to make it stop, only depleting its strength and propelling forward its own doom.

But what makes it all worthwhile, what gives me the tingling sensation in my guts, is the subtle variation in hue on the skin of a person about to suffocate to death. The wet, glistening epiderm that changes swiftly from pink to red to vermillion…before slowly fading to the cold blue of death. Just before the end, in those final few seconds, it reaches that perfect color, that tint between violet and purple, a color I fail to authentically describe other than with that singular item it makes me think of: a purple cauliflower.

The perfect moment, this irreplaceable feeling. It’s a simple want, a simple need. As simple as the mild-flavored cauliflower. Is that why this is the image I see when I reap? I don’t mind. It is death, and death’s color is cauliflower purple. And I revel in it.