20 YRO WOMAN FOUND DEAD! Headlines scream across the front page of the newspaper a man holds across the aisle in the bus. The noise while boarding was incredible, the hype people feel when heading home for Christmas directly corresponding to the decibel measure. The bus is full, and it takes several covert glances to make sure the man hasn’t gotten on. In a sea of frenzied bus riders, he’d stood still, staring, until making eye-contact. Then he smiled a smile so lifeless and devoid of any joy, it was shiver inducing. He looked like a hunter who had just found his prey. The bus could not leave him behind fast enough.

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          Two hours later, the bus reaches home. Except home is where the heart is, and there is no heart here. Papa sits in front of the TV set, he and his armchair forming a solid mass, one starting where the other ends. Mama is drinking, and crying, and shouting to be heard over the news report that has Papa’s attention. ‘Found with her bowels torn out, she is the third on this month. Dubbed the Butcher, police have declined any comment about the situation. Commissioner….’

‘It is your fault!’ Mama screams. She sobs and her mascara runs over her cheeks. She swings into the kitchen, grabs a bottle off the filthy table, and chugs. She ignores any attempt to tell her about tomorrow’s departure. Today is Christmas, and she hasn’t paid any mind the whole holiday. It feels like today will never end.

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          At the bus stop again, so few people around. The air is biting and cruel. The bus is late, and the seat is narrow. Snow begins to fall, glorious and perilous. It is not cold, although there is a fine layer of ice over untreated surfaces. Hairs begin to rise, and on the right, outside the bus shack, stands the man. Same clothes as before, and he is staring. The bus pulls in, and the doors open. He climbs up behind and sits near the back. From behind the driver, even without turning around, his stare and smile can be felt. The temptation to run away at the next bus stop is overwhelming, but the only thing near here is Mama and Papa, and one horrid Christmas is more than enough, thanks.

There are, perhaps, three other people on the bus, though is hard to count them as they come on and off, and even harder without turning around. Finally, the bus arrives at the right stop. Hurrying off, it turns out to be the wrong stop. There is nothing here except a snow-blanketed field. Confused and looking around, the bus is noticeably speeding away from this stop. A bolt of terror strikes: the man is there. He has gotten off at the same time.

There is no one else here. Walking away, not caring where to, just leaving, a stolen glance confirms that he is staring. He smiles. Feet frozen, staring in blank terror, locked in eye-contact, running seems imperative, but impossible. He takes a step forward, and he points the ground nearby. His footsteps leave a deep impression, but they are the only ones. Glancing around in impossibly greater panic, the snow has stopped, and his are the only footprints in the fresh snow leading away from the bus. Glancing up at him, he says, in a voice clear as a bell, but not loud at all: ‘I killed you three days ago’. And he grins, his teeth crooked and overlapping, thin, more of them than there should be, his lips splitting to go further across his face, his mouth now stretching across his cheek bones to his ears. Running. Screaming. Futile, because: killed three days ago, bowels torn out, the third murder this month. I have left no footprints in the snow.

I tried writing a story without pronouns to refer to the subject. I did use one, in the end. What did you think? Bad? Good? Middling? Let me know in the comments if you have a sec!