Prologue/Epilogue

"It was an accident, I swear."
The words weren't working with her. I had just killed her son, without any intention. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was there one second, kicking his football, lights bouncing of his angelic blonde hair, the next, laying lifeless on the ground. The glistening blue eyes had faded into a jet black stare. Blood had drenched all of his clothes; some had splashed onto the child's innocent frame. The mother was having none of it. I showed her my card. She understood and let me go. As I left, I watched the adult cuddling the lifeless body. She was singing to it, as if it was waiting to drift off, into a dream world. (Where everything was fine, and you hadn't just had your chest crushed and your lungs burst.)

I revived the boy twenty-seven long minutes later.

It wasn't easy. Trying to get back into contact with this victim's parents was like finding a needle in a haystack, no, scrap that, like trying to find a needle in a million haystacks. Even when I did find out the phone number, earning their trust and respect was no walk in the park. It was worth the wait. 'When greeted at the door, welcome your followers in with a smile.' I doubt my furious, older generation folk have heard such a saying. 'The welcoming of a saddened glare, with hints of aggression.' is how I would advertise the entry to this hell hole.

"He's on his bed, we haven't touched him for what feels like hours." whispered the dad in my left ear, his ice cold breath pelted on my skin like needles on a peach. I tiptoed my way through the mansions corridor. I often wonder why the parents of my 'unfortunate kills', are always spookily turning the heating down, and then insisting you sit down for tea and biscuits (, 'Digestives' normally,) and then hope that you will have a discussion with them about, 'So... you do this...often?'.

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The whole sentence structure of a conversation with me is poorly structured. All of the words that escape their slender lips are random and haphazard at best. You can see the lips tremble, and the hands, the giveaway hands. Every time one dies, another person gets the shivers. Whether this be down to the temperature, or the supposed 'spirit walking through you malarkey'. (Which is load of rubbish, I was a spirit for a long time and not once did I go through anyone, most spirits have good manners, and won't even go near a human, unless you want them to. For help on this matter, go speak to your local psychic.)

I think the main reason most people shake rapidly during my visit, is because they think I'll kill them to. They think I kill people for the fun of it. I'm not like all the murderers in the world today. I don't carry a knife or gun. I use my hand and my brain, but not on purpose. Never on purpose. After half an hour of 'discussion', the main attraction kicks into place. The mother has been clasping her fingers together in an integrated pattern, to try and conceal the shivering. But you can just smell the next scene. She goes to pick up her burning hot cup of tea, the hand shaking, and drops it all down the oak table. The liquid flows off the edge and scalds the mums hand, blood forms to the surface, the sweet... delicious... blood.

I offer to go and see the child. The still body is lying on the ancient bed, the blanket grey without cleaning. The temperature either just dropped another two hundred degrees, or the father has decided to breath on my ear again. It's the second option.

"I own your child's life, let me give it back." I pleaded to the father, desperately trying to avoid all contact with him.
"I'm sorry for your troubles." Then with that statement, my work was done, and then the earth was fine for a few minutes.

Only a few, mind