The Afterparty

Zak sits on a folding chair, cold sweat trickling beneath his flannel shirt. Onstage, her performance makes his nostrils flare with a familiar, frantic excitement. He remembers the psychiatrist’s diagnosis—the word "psychopath"—and uses it as a gauge. I’m not one of them, he reassures himself. Psychopaths don’t feel, but I do. I feel pure elation every single time I kill. He stares at her, his face a smooth mask of indifference. He doesn't blink; he just lingers on the dark promise of the afterparty. Tonight, I am definitely going to break your pretty little neck.