by Sarah Stennett

Created on: July 13, 2009

The One

She stands there,
In the dead of winter night,
The pure white snow billowing around
Her in the wind.

Holding the butcher knife,
The black handle sleek and shiny
Against the pale skin,
She stands still in the dark night,
Waiting for the one.

She spies a person coming,
Walking down the street,
An ant against the the black sky,
Getting bigger and bigger.
She crouches behind the trash big

Green trashcan, holding her breath
As the rancid stench reaches her nostrils.
Waiting, she bounces on her toes,
Hoping this is the one.

The stranger comes closer,
She can see his eyes, black as coal
And dead on the inside, no soul,
This is the one.

Se gets ready to attack,
To pounch,
To make her kill,
She poises her knife,
Ready to stab,
Ready to take a human life.

She waits, counting down,
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven....
Three.
Two.
One.
Finally, the one is close enough,
She can hear his heart beating,
calm and cool,
He's facing the street,
Away from her.

She jumps out, plunging the knife
Into her victim's chest,
Startled, he does nothing but
Stare in terror,
In and out,
She watches the dark blood rush out,
Splattering her clothes and face.
In and out the knife goes,
Stab after stab.

Until she stands above the lifeless body
To realize that this isn't the one,
This man-boy, too young, too innocent, too fragile
To be the one.

She drops the knife
On the bloody carcass
And walks away
In bitter defeat.

Learn more about this author, Sarah Stennett.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.