Vincent was walking down an alley way. Light was filtering through the windows on either side, and the moon high above set a blue-silver tint to everything. Vincent was holding a knife, six inches long, five inches of blood on it. He raised it in front of his face, then dropped it to the ground, watching it melt into the shape of his latest victims, an older woman and her son, and turned around to go back from where he had come. All of a sudden, a black cat dropped down in front of him, and began to cry a sorrowful tune. The cat was soon joined by another cat, this one a tabby, and then another, and another, and before long, a hundred cats blocked the alley way, echoing loudly the same sad song.
Vincent jerked awake. His cell phone's ring tone, a sad musical piece written by some famous French conductor, was playing loudly. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
"This is Vincent," he said quietly. He was tired, and hoped that nothing had gone wrong, or worse, that Jason didn;t want to leave so late at night.
Vincent jerked awake. His cell phone's ring tone, a sad musical piece written by some famous French conductor, was playing loudly. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.
"This is Vincent," he said quietly. He was tired, and hoped that nothing had gone wrong, or worse, that Jason didn;t want to leave so late at night.