A Life Macabre

By Jessica Lake

Here’s the quick of it.

As a boy I had a touch of the macabre. Not so that you could put your finger on it. That would come much later.

I was abrasively polite. I was invasively curious. But these predilections merely destined me for bachelorhood. What was considered disquieting was my obsession with infants. I looked but did not touch.

There is no mystery to it. An infant is pure potential before its shell hardens. Were you to strike it just right, the secrets of the universe would spill out. It just takes practice—lots and lots of practice.

I’ve killed on countless occasions to scratch an itch. But is it murder? If indeed I were a murderer, shouldn’t I feel a twinge of je ne sais quoi? Or, as I feel nothing, am I a force majeure?

Water under the bridge.

Tabloids have named me Erlking after the folklore elf king who fancied lost boys.

Checkmate, I tip my king in resignation. The constabulary has blocked my every escape save for death. I take naught with me, but the glory that one stood against so many for so long.

And if a murderer I am, then perhaps at death’s brink something should stir.

Surprisingly, I feel—