Andrea Carlo Cappi

Stetit puella

It's the night that gets him out in the streets. I know it, I feel it. I shouldn't have gone out tonight, but I didn't feel like sticking to the TV and listening to the usual newscasts. To learn… what? That the serial killer has killed a new victim? That still nobody is able to make an identikit? That's reassuring. Perhaps that's what they want: making us feel under siege. They enjoy it. The people of the TV love to make us all feel scared, as if they were really behind a screen, safe from anything that might happen in the real world. And for sure he enjoys our fear. He's not behind a screen. He's not the character of a horror movie. He belongs to reality. And sometimes reality is much more frightening than any fantasy. I bet he doesn't miss any newscast. I bet he likes the people talking about him, though nobody knows his name. He knows he can walk among us, among common people, and decide of the life and death of anyone of us. You, come with me… and then, bang, you're dead. He must feel almighty. No, that's wrong. He is almighty. And here am I, in a dark street, walking home since my Panda just decided to stop. If I weren't able to start the engine, at least, I might have asked somebody a lift, outside the Japanese restaurant. I might have asked it to Teti, or Claudia: they live in the neighbourhood. God, I feel sushi freezing in my stomach. Here am I, walking all alone, in the cold, in the darkness between one streetlamp and another, with the yellow flashes of the traffic lights and my heels keeping the rhythm. A young woman alone, in a desert city. The only one, out here, at this time, is he. I know he's here. I feel him waiting for me, somewhere. Nobody knows who he is, nobody knows what he wants. He's not like all serial killers, who just choose the same kind of victim, to get their revenge on their father, mother or uncle who raped them when they were kids. He doesn't make any difference: men, women, young and old. All he needs is to kill. And what if tonight I'm the victim? Because he's here. I feel it. Stupid car that left me in the street. Stupid me, going out in the night, maybe just to get eaten raw, like sushi. The last victims were all in the neighbourhood. All of them killed with a caliber 45. Nobody heard the shots. Nobody pays attention to anything, in this town. There's somebody. I stop in front of the ATM. I put the hand inside my bag and pretend to search for the card, but what I do is listening to the sounds of the night. Soft, calm, regular steps. It's him. He's got no hurry. I can see him in the reflections on the glass. He's got the gun! I'll be faster. I draw my automatic Smith & Wesson M6-45, holding the butt with both hands, and press the trigger. The gun explodes a deafening shot, the recoil almost making me fall backwards. The bullet strikes him in the throat, almost lifting him up, just to fall on his back on the pavement. I run away. He looks dead, but he doesn't deceive me. He does that all the times. He doesn't deceive me with that bank guard uniform, just like he didn't last week with the one of the city police, or two weeks ago with the rasta dreadlocks. Not to mention his masterpiece of last month, when he disguised himself as an old lady. But he doesn't cheat me anyway. I know he pretends to die, but then he comes back again to the hunt, for me. I don't care. As long as a girl can count on her caliber 45, serial killer like him must learn to stay home. Who does he think he is, this guy? God?