[A short story/character building piece on what The Grabber may feel when he does what he does.
Also I wrote it in like five minutes, so don’t judge too harsh. ]
This is a special kind of release, on like no other. One where you feel it inside your own brain like a warm touch, the kind when you can feel it behind your eyes.
You can smell the satisfaction and taste it’s sweet feeling, but not just any taste the taste like the greasiest, nasty, best hamburger you’ve ever had when you haven’t eaten since yesterday. That kind of feeling of a taste. The one you feel in your soul.
And the sensation on your hands, like soft feathers of warmth, tingling from your palms to your whole body. You have to rub your fingers together to remember where you are, so lost in the feeling of the sweet release you drift away inside your own mind. No grip tight enough on any knife to make you keep feeling it.
Then you sit. Mind blank and gaze distant in the pool of blood of what you’ve done. No remorse. Only clinging to the fading sensations, draining the last drops of it before the black abyss of nothing returns. You sit there all night, feeling nothing, not even the cold of the basement. Complete deprivation of all feeling sinking back in once more by morning when the last tingles have faded away. Devoid of all emotions like all the days before, your own identity seeping back into the cracks abandoning once more.
And then you have no identity, just the mask.
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