Azbogah
Demigod
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- Messages
- 2,852
Every Fall, the Leaves Change Colour. This Morning, They All Turned Black
---
Autumn. It's when I feel most alive.
The rest of the year, I'm just like anyone else. I blend in. I sit in my cubicle, I answer emails, and nod along to pointless conversations. I make coffee in the breakroom like everyone else does, masking myself in the smell of stale paper and cheap grounds. But when the leaves start to change—that's when everything feels different. It's a kind of crispness in the air, the soft death of summer hanging over everything. There's something about it. It gnaws at me. It calls to me.
It's colder now, and the days get shorter. People move faster, heads down, and everyone gets just a little meaner. No one notices the way the darkness creeps in earlier, stretching its fingers across the streets before you even realize you're alone. That's the beauty of fall. The shadows grow longer, and in them, I hide.
This morning, I woke up and knew it was time again. The leaves were black today. Not just brown or red or gold—black. That's how I know. The leaves always tell me. They signal the end of the waiting. They signal the beginning of the hunt.
---
I didn't start out like this. I think that's the lie they always tell you, isn't it? That killers are born, not made. That's bullshit. I wasn't a kid with dead eyes who tortured animals. I wasn't dropped on my head or neglected or beaten. I was normal, whatever that even means. But there's a rot in me, like something that's festered long past the point of saving. Maybe it was always there, but it didn't surface until the leaves turned one fall, years ago. I remember the first time so clearly.
Her name was Rachel. I worked with her. She had this smile, one that barely touched her lips but lit up her eyes. She smelled like vanilla and cigarettes, like something both sweet and toxic. I never really cared about her, but one day, in October, I saw her walking alone after work. The air was cool, the sun setting early, just the two of us in the dimming light. I followed her for a while, just out of curiosity at first. The leaves were falling, the wind scattering them around us, brittle and broken. And then, something snapped.
It wasn't planned. It just happened. One minute I was walking behind her, the next I was dragging her into the alley. I don't even remember how it felt, the weight of her body slumping against mine as I forced her to the ground. What I do remember is the sound. The sound of her skull hitting the concrete. It was soft, almost wet, like the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot. And the blood... it came slow at first, trickling down her face like it was hesitant, and then it pooled, dark and sticky, black in the fading light. I stayed for a while, watched the blood turn cold in the chill.
I didn't feel anything then, but later, when I got home, I realized I was smiling.
---
The funny thing about killing is how easy it becomes once you've done it. It doesn't matter how much blood there is, how much screaming, how much resistance—they all end the same way. Once they stop moving, they're just... there. Bodies don't look like people anymore. They become something else, something broken and meaningless. You can do whatever you want to them, and they won't care. They can't care.
The hardest part is the wait. I can't do it whenever I want—that would be reckless. Stupid. I only do it in the fall. Something about the season makes it perfect. Everyone's so distracted. They're too focused on their phones or getting home before dark. They never notice me.
Not until it's too late.
---
Tonight, I'm waiting outside a bar, the kind of place where people forget themselves. It's a dive, a hole in the wall where no one asks questions. They'll be stumbling out soon enough, faces flushed from cheap whiskey and bad decisions. I've been here before. I know the routine. I wait. I watch.
There's one. A man, mid-thirties, his eyes glazed over, stumbling as he makes his way down the sidewalk. His jacket's too thin for the cold, and he's walking too slow, like he's fighting gravity. He won't make it far. I slip into the shadows, my breath steady, and I follow. He won't see me. They never do.
The wind kicks up as we walk, swirling the leaves around our feet. They're still black, brittle, dead. They scrape against the concrete, the sound so familiar it's almost comforting. It feels like home.
He turns a corner into an alley, looking for a place to piss. Perfect. I close the distance between us, my hand tightening around the knife in my pocket. It's not the blood I like—it's the moment just before. The fear. The realization. The last breath they take before they know it's over.
I'm close enough now. He's fumbling with his zipper, swaying slightly. I let him hear me, just the faintest sound of my foot scuffing the pavement. He turns, confused, and that's when I strike. One quick movement, the blade sliding into his side. His eyes widen, a soft gasp escaping his lips. He drops to his knees, and I press in, twisting the knife. His body jerks, his mouth opening in a silent scream. He's bleeding fast now, a dark stain spreading across his shirt, dripping onto the ground.
I watch him die. I watch the light fade from his eyes.
And then it's quiet again, just the wind and the leaves.
---
I don't stay long. I never do. The body will be found in the morning, another nameless victim of the city's indifference. They'll talk about him for a day or two, maybe less. No one will care, not really. It's fall. People are too wrapped up in their own lives, too consumed by the season to notice a few more bodies. The leaves will keep falling, turning darker with each passing day.
And I'll keep hunting.
Because every fall, the leaves change colour.
This morning, they all turned black.
---
Autumn. It's when I feel most alive.
The rest of the year, I'm just like anyone else. I blend in. I sit in my cubicle, I answer emails, and nod along to pointless conversations. I make coffee in the breakroom like everyone else does, masking myself in the smell of stale paper and cheap grounds. But when the leaves start to change—that's when everything feels different. It's a kind of crispness in the air, the soft death of summer hanging over everything. There's something about it. It gnaws at me. It calls to me.
It's colder now, and the days get shorter. People move faster, heads down, and everyone gets just a little meaner. No one notices the way the darkness creeps in earlier, stretching its fingers across the streets before you even realize you're alone. That's the beauty of fall. The shadows grow longer, and in them, I hide.
This morning, I woke up and knew it was time again. The leaves were black today. Not just brown or red or gold—black. That's how I know. The leaves always tell me. They signal the end of the waiting. They signal the beginning of the hunt.
---
I didn't start out like this. I think that's the lie they always tell you, isn't it? That killers are born, not made. That's bullshit. I wasn't a kid with dead eyes who tortured animals. I wasn't dropped on my head or neglected or beaten. I was normal, whatever that even means. But there's a rot in me, like something that's festered long past the point of saving. Maybe it was always there, but it didn't surface until the leaves turned one fall, years ago. I remember the first time so clearly.
Her name was Rachel. I worked with her. She had this smile, one that barely touched her lips but lit up her eyes. She smelled like vanilla and cigarettes, like something both sweet and toxic. I never really cared about her, but one day, in October, I saw her walking alone after work. The air was cool, the sun setting early, just the two of us in the dimming light. I followed her for a while, just out of curiosity at first. The leaves were falling, the wind scattering them around us, brittle and broken. And then, something snapped.
It wasn't planned. It just happened. One minute I was walking behind her, the next I was dragging her into the alley. I don't even remember how it felt, the weight of her body slumping against mine as I forced her to the ground. What I do remember is the sound. The sound of her skull hitting the concrete. It was soft, almost wet, like the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot. And the blood... it came slow at first, trickling down her face like it was hesitant, and then it pooled, dark and sticky, black in the fading light. I stayed for a while, watched the blood turn cold in the chill.
I didn't feel anything then, but later, when I got home, I realized I was smiling.
---
The funny thing about killing is how easy it becomes once you've done it. It doesn't matter how much blood there is, how much screaming, how much resistance—they all end the same way. Once they stop moving, they're just... there. Bodies don't look like people anymore. They become something else, something broken and meaningless. You can do whatever you want to them, and they won't care. They can't care.
The hardest part is the wait. I can't do it whenever I want—that would be reckless. Stupid. I only do it in the fall. Something about the season makes it perfect. Everyone's so distracted. They're too focused on their phones or getting home before dark. They never notice me.
Not until it's too late.
---
Tonight, I'm waiting outside a bar, the kind of place where people forget themselves. It's a dive, a hole in the wall where no one asks questions. They'll be stumbling out soon enough, faces flushed from cheap whiskey and bad decisions. I've been here before. I know the routine. I wait. I watch.
There's one. A man, mid-thirties, his eyes glazed over, stumbling as he makes his way down the sidewalk. His jacket's too thin for the cold, and he's walking too slow, like he's fighting gravity. He won't make it far. I slip into the shadows, my breath steady, and I follow. He won't see me. They never do.
The wind kicks up as we walk, swirling the leaves around our feet. They're still black, brittle, dead. They scrape against the concrete, the sound so familiar it's almost comforting. It feels like home.
He turns a corner into an alley, looking for a place to piss. Perfect. I close the distance between us, my hand tightening around the knife in my pocket. It's not the blood I like—it's the moment just before. The fear. The realization. The last breath they take before they know it's over.
I'm close enough now. He's fumbling with his zipper, swaying slightly. I let him hear me, just the faintest sound of my foot scuffing the pavement. He turns, confused, and that's when I strike. One quick movement, the blade sliding into his side. His eyes widen, a soft gasp escaping his lips. He drops to his knees, and I press in, twisting the knife. His body jerks, his mouth opening in a silent scream. He's bleeding fast now, a dark stain spreading across his shirt, dripping onto the ground.
I watch him die. I watch the light fade from his eyes.
And then it's quiet again, just the wind and the leaves.
---
I don't stay long. I never do. The body will be found in the morning, another nameless victim of the city's indifference. They'll talk about him for a day or two, maybe less. No one will care, not really. It's fall. People are too wrapped up in their own lives, too consumed by the season to notice a few more bodies. The leaves will keep falling, turning darker with each passing day.
And I'll keep hunting.
Because every fall, the leaves change colour.
This morning, they all turned black.