INSOMNIAC
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There was a mindless ebony thread that had strung itself around him in the night. It tied him to the shadows along the street and allowed him comfort in the feeling of solitude. He was alone in the darkness, or so he believed.
He came out nightly to prowl and often times found that he was alone, so it was no surprise. He listened for the sound of footsteps but heard none; he would have to venture further than this block to find anything to prey upon. So he walked, not caring what direction, he knew all the streets and alleys in the city, and could easily find his way back in half an hour if necessary. He knew this for fact, he had tested himself. But that was only for emergency sake, he had never needed to escape a situation that quickly before.
He always took his time, sizing up this person or that one as they walked along unawares that he was a famed citizen of the night. Most never knew that they would be soon introduced to him, but some had discovered this ahead of time before and it had been necessary to give chase. He sighed to himself; it had been awhile since any had given him a true feeling of being skilled predator. In fact, he had not gone out with a purpose in some time, and he supposed that it was now time he do so before he lost his touch—or his pride.
He was in a fashionable neighborhood, one which he had visited before. Normally he scouted areas heavily before hunting in them. It had been simple to do so in this one, the streets were not crooked, and there were only a few sharp bends in the main drag. Adjacent to the main block of this neighborhood there was a small park with a coy pond, a few limply clad Japanese fir trees planted to and fro along the paved walks.
It was vital to know an area before he went out in it. It was also important not to use the same grounds more than twice every six months. Also, he never used grounds that were nearby to one another, if he used this some tonight, he would have to begin traveling to the far side of the city to make his selections.
He himself had been detained by some like him, and it was always interesting to see some younger ones try to threaten him, or bully him into giving them money, or even try and murder him. He always found it hilarious, even up to the moment where he drew out his favorite stiletto and put his hand over their mouths to muffle the painful screams as he disemboweled them. Many did not scream (though some did so in an extremely annoying fashion). Instead they just looked into his eyes with disbelief, and he always took pride in the fear that shone in their eyes before they died. It was a mental collection that he always enjoyed rummaging through; one of his favorites was that of a brunette with hazel eyes and a long face that had done a great impersonation of an animal in a slaughter-house. Almost the same dumb look of uncaring astonishment, and from that point he likened many of his quarry to cattle.
Now as he walked alongside the coy pond he tried to think of when he had first begun the thrilling game he now played so often, at what point had he become a champion? What had been the catalyst for this new adventure in which he ruled as a dark hero? He wasn’t sure that it mattered; what did matter was that he was like a father that had learned to have mercy on his ignorant children. He gave them a gift far better than any they could ever desire or want (in his opinion), that of a graceful death at the hands of their better.
He perked up, there was someone else entering the park. From the height he knew it was a woman, from the careless walk he knew she was young. She was too far on the other side of the park to have seen him, to careless, absorbed in her thoughts. He saw that she was heading to the space he now occupied by the water, and so he retreated a few yards from the pond to beside a clump of trees that offered the cover that the absence of light gave to him. He watched now, it was always wise to judge if they could outrun him, from the slender tone of her legs through her pants he knew she was fit. But he had learned to be quick when after his prize, so it was fine.
She knelt by the pond and put her hand in, brushing the water with her fingers. He looked up through the pitch and saw the moon veiled by clouds; it had to be at least one-thirty in the morning. So it was not too late to start after his first kill in over a month. But instead of closing in on her immediately he decided to take his time, play with her a bit (so that some satisfaction would be gained from tonight). He never killed after three in the morning, mostly because he had always accomplished his goal by two-thirty, but also due to timing.
He stalked from his hiding place to another closer to the pond, this one close enough so that he could make a quick dash and capture her in his arms if he tired of observation.
He was still unseen or heard by her and it pleased him; he was not without the skill it took to call himself post-human. She was no longer dangling her fingers in the water, attracting the coy to come up to her then leave when she presented no food. She was staring at her reflection in the water and adjusting her hair when he made his move, not the quick movement he had at first wanted to carry out, but a calm, measured step that decreased the distance between them little by little till he was behind her.
He reached out his hand to grab her hair and pull her to him but then retracted it on an impulse. He wanted to take his time with this. Something in him stirred, it was that of a emotion that had been for some time repressed, glee. He slowly crept backwards displacing not even a leaf on the path. From his vantage point he decided to play a different game tonight. He searched beside him for a decent sized stone, and finding one about the size of his fist, took it into his large hand and tossed it some feet away from him down the path where she had come. He smiled with glee as her head quickly snapped round to where the sound had come from. She only glanced to this spot, and he flung another in the same vicinity, this time she did not brush it off. 
She stood and cautiously walked backward away from the pond till she was only an arms-length from him. At his moment if he had chosen to do so he could have quickly overcome her and twisted her neck, but it would have been a joyless kill. She was close enough that he was clothed by her shadow. He plotted his next action—with his style of predation every move had to be the epitome of perfection. He crept back silently and moved away from her shadow, easing back along the line of trees to the direction in which he had thrown the stone. He eased his breathing as he had done many times and selected a new rock and tossed it over the pond to a spot not far from where she stood. This time she almost tripped as she ran back and hugged the side of a tree whose appearance was ghastly in the light of the hour.
He was disappointed, he had expected her to run, but no, she was an intelligent prey. Unlike the others in that most would have bolted and been caught before they had gone far from the park. It seemed that people that the sort of a people who ran were a caste of pawns, pieces living only to be discarded in the near future, disposable. Perhaps tonight he would finally be satisfied when she was dead, perhaps then he would be able to sleep for more than a few minutes every morning.
Perhaps she would even be in his dreams; he wished he could see her face at this moment. But it was out of sight due to a blanket of clouds that dimmed the light of the moon. He could still see her outline, it was not a firm visual, but he knew where she stood. He pondered how he could extract a new reaction from her. He let his hand drop to where the stiletto lay concealed in his coat, he had not noticed but the weather had changed and a cold wind had began to sway the trees and ripple the water over the surface of the pond.
Were there any doubts he had about his lack of enthusiasm that this prey was not following the usual routine, run and be captured (she was taking intelligent actions, judging her movement based on sound not sight) he quickly put them away. He had left her too long in thought; it was a dangerous thing to do when on the hunt. You never leave the prey any chance to escape or devise a plan for retaliation, he knew this, but desired to have something more than the usual set-up with this one. He wanted a perfect kill, not a fast paced rush of murder that was gone only weeks from now, needing to be quenched. He wanted a challenging, even patient game that would satisfy him for some months to come.
The thread of the night pulled him and he knew he had to do something. He decided to move on her now, frighten her into running, let her fight a little, let her go, then double up on her on at the end up the street and finish around the back of a boutique on the corner.
So, with a knowing gait to his stride he came around to the tree where she was still huddled. He leaned over and whispered to her ear, trying to hold back his laughter—“Hello,”
And she ran from the tree down the path that came out on the street. He had been right, as he usually was about these sorts of things. He came out of hiding and walked openly out of the park, turning corner instead of the straight and wide space territory of the open street, as he knew she had done. He walked thinking of how to finish it, would she be one of the cattle that called out, or would she be a specimen that simply opened her mouth as if to yawn, and then died.
He hoped she would at least struggle, even as she experienced the first pangs of death—if not it would be disappointing. He slipped the stiletto from his coat as he rounded the corner expecting to see her running madly, right into the thing she feared.
He came to the around the corner and was in the small narrow part of the road behind the boutique. He looked around for her hiding place, combing intelligently through all of the usual sorts of holes people hid themselves in.
She wasn’t present. So, he thought, she is smarter than the average member of the herd. He picked diligently through every other location on the street that could be utilized as a hiding place. But she was in none of them. He put the stiletto away and knew what she had done, he grit his teeth and back-tracked, re-entering the park.
He was steady in his gaze, looking for any movement; there was none. He glanced at the reflection of the moon on the water and saw that the night was closing in on three in the morning. This had been a good exercise, he thought, but it must be finished.
Then he felt the pain in his jaw and knew something had been thrown at him, in mid-blink he looked in the direction that it had been thrown. He saw her bend down to pick up something else, then looking up and seeing him as he made his way to her, anger present on his face—bolted. He gave chase not caring for his normal precautions. He did not even stop to feel the rough patch on his face where the stone had scratched him. She ran, putting obstacles such as a light-post, a mailbox, and soon the private relay that they had begun was at an end.
She had run into a dead end, and he pulled the stiletto out once more, letting the light play off the blade for her amusement. He walked forward to where she stood with her back against the wall. He lunged for her, reaching out with his other arm and felt his hands grasp air, she pulled on his wrist and let go, sending him into the wall. He felt the stiletto slip from his fist and heard it hit the ground. She kicked him in the knee and went for it, but he slapped her with the back of his hand sent her away from it. He reached for it, and as his fingers touched the handle she stepped on his hand, picking her foot up and sending it down again.
He screamed as his hand pulsed and her face stared down at him uncaring. She had the audacity to mock him, she would learn though that one did not mock your betters, he thought.
He grabbed her ankle with his other hand and moved her foot; she was caught off guard and fell over to the ground. He had the blade in his hand and moved to stab her breast, but he was kicked in the groin as he bent over her. This time the back of his head impacted the wall and he was momentarily stunned. She still lay on the ground, her chest moving rapidly and he knew she was tired, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and prepared to move upon her.
But she sat up—a glint of metal glazed his eye—and he felt the push of the metal as it slid into his leg. It broke the skin and he knew if he could see the wound there would be a circular puncture wound in his thigh, the blood flowing evenly down his leg. He watched as she stood up and bent down for the handle (the stiletto was embedded in his leg) and before she could grasp it, he had removed it from his leg, and slid it into her chest. There was no shock on her face, no remorse (or so it had seemed to him), or trace of self-pity. She looked down to where he now cut upward, severing tissue (expertly, yes he had done that well).
She had been dead before he had pulled it out and cleaned it on her over-coat. He looked down at the body at his feet, hunched as he was from the pain. Keeping a calm demeanor, he drug her body beside an exit door and limped away. He saw no other living person as he made his way back to his home.

Later the next evening, after he had nursed himself yet again and bound his leg—he sat on his bed, and imagined how her face would have appeared had she not struggled. And then, he slept, dreaming of faces that he had seen, of expressions on lips that had gone cold. 
There was a period of time while he slept in which he dreamed of nothing save his face.