Shadow Hunters

Violence

He heard the howls beyond the mayhem of the traffic. The drum beats of a concert near to him infected the air and he grumbled in reaction, moving away. The howls were barely reaching his ears-just the echo of it. And he was prepared.

He was lazily loitering under a street sign smoking a cigarette and watching the smoke curl upward to disappearance. If the storm did strike, there was no denying it. The shadow creatures will be revived.

At 11 in the night, sleepless people still haunted the streets. Chattering and eating or simply being dazed by the lurid lights of the city. He had other objectives.

His eyes for once focused on something else other than the smoke. A moving black blob, behind the  telephone pole. He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his foot on his step forward to the little disturbance. People passed him to their ways. Next he stood over it.

Two sleek arms, scorched in black and brittle, and a scrawny lumpy head were struggling to push out from under the telephone pole. The lights here were dim and sub divided and shadows were in plenty. The little ugly creature persisted against its frailty to snuggle out of its prison and roam free. But it was pitifully weak.

He stepped on to its head and it gave out a shriek only he could here. He stepped harder, forcing his entire weight on to the head of the creature which jerked its head right and left to shake off the torturing foot away, wincing and whimpering. It's futile resistence filled him with disgust and he lifted his foot and kicked the creature hard. It shrieked.

He aimed for its repulsive arms next. His energy delivered in fury on the creature-his hobby.

Whenever he saw one of these lurking around, he will always intend to destroy it-to kill. Except the kills were much different. There is no residue of a body at the end, there is nothing. What was born out of the void, returns to the void. And so he never recognized them as living creatures at all-just ugly vermins people would want to get rid of.

He became angrier and performed harder, each kick like a blow. The strangers passing by never looked back, one or two of them gave a concerned look and surmised the killing of a rat. Street kids and men do that a lot-squashing rats and mice under their shoes was kind of pass time.

Mentally he was thankful for the lack of attention. The cities are ideal for a reason, everybody minds their own business. And he could simply kill without distractions.

In the valley's this was not the case. His mother noticed him being enraged by nothing. He would run towards whatever it was and start kicking and punching. It was a reflex for him to attack. His mother- his plump mother with her curly red hair electrified in all direction. He had no father-the whereabouts of this man was always hazy. But he had an overprotective mother. And she would not condone his aggression.

But she studied him first. Did he actually aimlessly go assaulting anything whenever  his mood declared? It didn't appear quite so. After careful watch, she realized, his activation has something to do with shadows.

The doctors in the valley gave him doses of bottles to drink from and pills to gobble down. He did. The results were displeasing. His mother wept as a result, getting stressed by the day. Days later, he was riding a car to the rehabilitation. And so he did, his unforgettable three months in the rehabilation centre.

Rage overtook him. He kicked aimlessly on the ground, hitting the creature and dust alike. The creature no longer scowled. Dead. But not exactly. Disintegrated.

He rubbed off a sweat bead from his forehead, finally satisfied. The temptation intensified in his heart. More. He needed more to destroy.

The rumbles of the sky deepened. There will be more soon as the creature will come out to eat the cold. Tonight is going to be his working night.

He didn't forget the rehabilitation so easily.