Night Out


 

The night was chilly, but he didn’t feel the cold. He weaved down the path, singing “the rare auld times”. He'd had a good night. He had been out with friends at a ballad session, in McGroarty’s, and was now heading home. Slightly drunk, he weaved along the street. The light from the street lamps guided him like a row of lighthouses. Clasping his collar tighter around him he continued to sing.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a shape and stiffened. Cautiously he turned to see what it was. He was always wary of the young fellows when he walked home. A friend of his had been mugged and badly beaten not long ago. He had started to walk the longer way home after that. Tonight was the first time he had taken the back streets since then.

It was only a couple leaning against the wall between two buildings, kissing. Smiling, he relaxed and thought of the times he had done just that in his younger days. The woman had her back against the wall the man was holding her tight, his face buried in her neck. The man was taller than the woman and was pressed against her. He couldn’t see their faces. They were standing in a shadow. Smiling, he silently wished them the best and continued home.

He been a rake when younger, a different girl each week, and then he had met Marie. They had had a whirlwind romance and then married. They were still together thirty-five years later and he loved her just as much now as he had then. They had four grown children and two grandchildren.

Continuing down the path towards home, he started to sing one of Marie’s favourite songs, “Once I had a secret love”. His bladder started to tell him he needed to piss. Looking around he stepped into an alcove and, sighing in relief, he started. He smiled and quietly whispered his good luck to the couple, hoping they had the same luck he'd had.

The man stepped away and pulled out the knife. He sighed; he thought the old fuck had seen him. Looking where the old man was he wondered if he should he follow him and kill him. He had been watching the woman for a few days, following her, finding out her habits. She was the one. He had picked her up in a bar and chatted her up. They were on their way back to her place when he had pulled her into the alley with a smile.

He had pulled the knife when he had heard the old fucker coming closer singing. She was about to scream when he pressed his hand over her mouth and pushed the knife into her. He had watched as her eyes first grew bigger and felt the scream against his hands over her mouth. Holding himself against her he had cum as she died. The old fucker was gone when he let her go. She had slid down the wall. He looked down at her. Hatred and disgust rushing through him. He had planned so well. He was going to take his time, enjoy himself.

Thinking again about going after the old fucker, he decided no. There would be others. He would make them pay. Yes! They would fucking pay.

 


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