The Sun Will Rise No More

I am a ghost. A whisper in the city's background noise, a gray blur on your retina that you forget a second after seeing it. My work is my cloak of invisibility. I'm a technician for a large telecom company, one of those guys in uniform who comes into your home, fixes your connection to this digital world you cherish so much, and then disappears. You don't see me. You see the uniform, the function. You let me into your intimacy, near your children, your secrets, without ever asking who I am. Last week, a man in a suit called me “my good man” while handing me a crumpled five-euro note, as if to a dog. I smiled, I thanked him. But inside, a sheet of ice formed. It's a mistake to believe that shadows have no memory. I observe. I catalog. The photos on your walls, the books on your shelves, the mess of your lives. And I despise you. I despise your noisy happiness, your feigned sadness, your full and insignificant existence. Mine is empty, and in that emptiness, an idea has sprouted. An idea of power. The ultimate power. The power to decide who deserves a tomorrow.

I chose her, Chloé. I was at her place last week. A fiber optic problem. She was light. She was laughing on the phone, dancing in her living room while waiting for me, the music too loud. She offered me coffee in a chipped mug, her smile an insult to my nothingness. As I left, I discreetly took an impression of her lock. A small procedure I've perfected. Simple, quick, invisible. Like me. Tonight, the excitement is a cold drug in my veins. Each step is a delight. The key, freshly cut, slides into my pocket. The gloves, thin, fit my hands like a second skin. The plastic shoe covers, silent. I am not a monster of fury. I am an artist of the end. A surgeon of destiny.

The building is asleep. The door to her apartment opens without a sound. I am inside. The air is heavy with her perfume, Verbena and Utopia, a light fragrance that nauseates me. I close the door, the click of the latch a hammer blow in the silence. I am home, now. I cross the living room, a shadow among the furniture she chose. The moon casts a pallid light through the window, drawing spectral shapes on the carpet. Her bedroom door is ajar. I push it gently. She sleeps. Her chest rises and falls to the rhythm of a life that suspects nothing. I approach, my breath controlled, my heart a glacial metronome. I stand at the foot of her bed, and I wait. This is my favorite moment. The moment suspended between being and non-being. I am the predator, the god in the machine. I watch her breathe, I count the seconds between each breath. I am the master of the time she has left.

I don't know how long I stay there, watching her. Ten minutes? An hour? Time no longer has meaning. Then, I decide. I take a step. The floorboards creak slightly. That's all it takes. Her eyes open. Not suddenly. First a flutter, then focus. She sees me. A dark, motionless shape at the foot of her bed. Her body freezes. Confusion, then fear. Pure, animal fear. Her breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. This is where I savor my power. I am the master of the air she can no longer breathe. I raise a gloved finger to my lips, in a grotesque gesture of appeasement. Slowly, I walk around the bed. Each step is an eternity. Her eyes follow me, dilated with terror. She is trapped, a prey in the web I have woven. I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under my weight. She recoils, her back hitting the headboard. I lean towards her, so close I can feel the warmth of her skin, the smell of her fear. I whisper to her, my voice a hoarse breath: “For you, the sun will rise no more.” Understanding strikes her. This is not a burglary. This is not a rape. This is an end. Her tears flow silently, rivers on her cheeks. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I place my hands on her neck. The contact is electric. Her skin is soft, vibrant with life. A life I hold between my fingers. I squeeze. Not violently. Progressively. I want to feel every second of her struggle, every spasm of her body refusing to die. Her eyes plead with me. They see me, finally. I am no longer invisible. I am her world, her universe collapsing. And then, emptiness. The light in her eyes extinguishes. A final sigh. Silence, again. But this time, it's my silence. A silence I created.

I leave the apartment as I entered it. A ghost. But a ghost who has left an indelible mark. Outside, the city is still asleep, ignorant. But for me, the world has changed color. I feel alive. Real. Powerful. The following days are an ecstasy. The newspapers, television. “An inexplicable murder.” “No forced entry.” “Police at a dead end.” I am the author of a perfect enigma. I drink every word, every theory. They talk about me, even if they don't know it. I exist. But the euphoria fades. The memory of this absolute power haunts me. It's a drug, and the craving begins to gnaw at me. I start again. An arrogant lawyer who treated me like a dog. The act is quicker, more brutal. Less poetry, more efficiency. It's a confirmation. I am indeed what I thought I was. A god of death. But the second time doesn't taste the same. I need more. I need pure fear. Not just the victim's fear, but the fear that contaminates, that destroys an entire system. A family. I chose them. The Martins. A perfect couple in a perfect suburban house. A child. A postcard life. I studied their habits for weeks. Their comings and goings, the flaws in their security, the location of the little boy's bedroom. Tonight, I am in their house. I entered through the basement, a window left ajar. I am the serpent in their Garden of Eden. I won't show myself immediately. I will play. I move a doll in the child's room, turning it to face the door. I turn on a faucet in the bathroom, letting it drip. I steal a family photo from the mantelpiece and slip it into my pocket. I sow seeds of doubt, of unease. I hear their voices upstairs. They've noticed. The tension rises. Whispers, anxious footsteps. They reassure each other, but the worm is in the fruit. Fear sets in. The time has come. I cut the power at the main breaker. The house is plunged into darkness and silence, except for the cries of the child who has just woken up. This is my symphony. I climb the stairs, slowly. Each creaking step is a note in my macabre composition. I hear them, huddled in their bedroom, the father armed with a ridiculous baseball bat. The door opens to my shadow. Raw terror. The mother's scream is the music I was waiting for. I don't kill them immediately. I separate them. I lock the father in the bathroom, the mother in the child's room. I let them marinate in their helplessness, in their fear for each other. I hear their pleas, their promises. It's pathetic. And delicious. I deal with the father first. Then I return to the mother. She is curled up over her son, protecting him with her body. I crouch before her. “No, not him, please...” she whispers. I smile in the dark. I take the child. He is light. I carry him to the window. “Look, Mommy. He's going to learn to fly.” I force her to watch. The scream she lets out is no longer human. It is the sound of the universe tearing itself apart. It is only afterwards, when she is nothing more than an empty shell, that I grant her my mercy. I leave the house with my trophy: the family photo. I place it next to Chloé's earring and the lawyer's pen. My collection. My altar. Proof of my existence. I am in my apartment. The night is calm. But within me, the hunger is sharper than ever. I look out the window. The city lights are so many potential suns to extinguish. I am no longer Arthur. I am the coming night. The cycle has only just begun. For many, tomorrow will be the first day the sun will rise no more.