By Al Bruno III
December 9th: As I glance out of the hospital window, I see the snow falling steadily, covering the streets of upstate New York in a thick, white blanket. It's the kind of snowfall that quiets the city, casting an eerie stillness over everything.
Yes, I'm still in the hospital—thanks for asking. The long, ugly cut on my arm has been stitched up, and I needed a small blood transfusion. Mrs. Vincenzo stopped by with Sara in tow, taking turns scolding me for my recklessness, which to me felt like a comforting embrace.
I'm grateful that Sara is making eye contact with me again. Things got a bit awkward a few weeks ago when I accidentally said 'I love you' instead of 'goodbye' at the end of a phone call, but now things seem back to normal.
Well, as normal as they can be when you're being pursued by eldritch forces from the 1600s.
The nurses will be here soon to give me my next—and likely final—dose of painkillers before I'm discharged tomorrow morning. But before that happens, I want to finish this post and tell you about the final fate of Prisoner #C44031.
It's been over three weeks since she escaped from the local lockup in a bloody and improbable incident. The manhunt for Prisoner #C44031 has been extensive, reaching all the way to the Vermont border and marked by widespread incompetence. The police's notable achievements so far include panicking and mistakenly shooting at a car full of joyriding teenagers and arresting yours truly for lingering near a crime scene.
Interestingly, for a homicidal maniac, Prisoner #C44031 has maintained a low profile. No new killings, no media letters, not even a sighting at Arby's.
They say love makes the world go round, but bribery keeps it spinning smoothly. Bribery secured me a copy of the document you're about to read—the document that helped me uncover her hiding place.
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Exhibit A
Diary recovered from the scene, entered into evidence as item #789012
The first time it happened was a complete surprise. Love is like that. I was twelve years old. It was a boring Sunday, Father tinkering in his workshop, Mother dozing on the couch, and me snooping through Dad's closet. He was a soldier and kept interesting things there—dirty magazines, Polaroids of foreign soldiers, and a switchblade nestled among ribbons and a service medal. The handle felt right in my hand, the blade popping out with a satisfying click. Dad never noticed its absence, and I would have lied if he asked. Back then, I never lied, but love changed that. I spent hours in my room with that switchblade, watching the light dance on its edge. Sometimes, I'd cut tiny half circles into my skin—a red smile for a silver one.
Eventually, just having the blade wasn't enough. My first time was on the week of my thirteenth birthday. There were homeless men in the woods behind the baseball field, easy prey. One old man, reeking of urine, slept soundly, oblivious to my approach. The blade clicked. He grabbed it. There was more blood than I expected. I ran home, discarded my stained clothes, and wept for losing the knife in the woods. The police never found it, nor did I after days of searching.
I'd never known such loss. I tried to move on, even bought a replacement switchblade, but it wasn't the same. Years passed; I graduated high school started college, yet felt empty.
Love found me again in college, sharing an apartment with Rose Marie, a culinary student with a kitchen full of knives. One chef's knife stood out, long and thick, used for everything. I watched her cook, the knife slicing effortlessly. The sound made me shiver; I grew jealous. After seeing that silver smile, I'd eagerly help in the kitchen, sometimes cutting myself just to feel the blade. Rose Marie thought me clumsy, but as they say, the heart wants what it wants.
This time, I planned meticulously, wearing gloves and a coat, hair pinned back. The chef's knife felt close to my heart, hidden in my pocket. The first time with it was perfect. A woman with a broken-down car trusting me to help—I cut her open from belly to throat, watching her insides spill out. Electric shocks ran through me. I left my coat and gloves behind. I was shaking on the drive home, but it was a good kind of shaking.
I cleaned the knife meticulously, and it grinned back at me from its slot. Rose Marie never suspected and continued to use the knife, but it wasn't hers anymore. This secret love affair was sweet; I thought it would last forever.
Summer came, Rose Marie graduated, and she moved away. I knew it was best to let the knife go, pricking myself one last time as I helped her pack.
Years passed, I had jobs, I went to my father's funerals, I had lovers, I had friends, but I felt nothing. My life was crowded, yet I was alone.
Then I saw it—the American Angler Folding Fillet Knife, smiling in its display case. It was love at first sight again. I bought the display model, paid in cash, and used it that night.
I used it eight times before everything went wrong—getting into an undercover cop's car. Surrounded by lights and shouting men, I seized my last chance, the blade tracing from nape to jawbone in a final farewell.
The officers beat me unconscious. Now, with a metal plate where part of my skull was, I await my fate in lockup. My lawyer thinks a mental hospital might be my future. Writing this down, distracting myself from what's to come, was oddly satisfying.
I've found something new, not love—just convenient, meeting mutual needs. It's not a knife, just a shard of glass with cloth for a handle. It doesn't smile, but it will get the job done.
###
The nurse just left, and I took my pill like a good boy, but I'm sure I can wrap this up before it takes effect.
It wasn't until after my release that the police discovered her body half-covered by snow. No, I had nothing to do with it. I'm a blogger, not a vigilante.
How did I figure out where she was? Back in the day, crime reporters relied on police band radios. I have something better—social media—local Facebook groups, Nextdoor, and others. It's not always easy to sift through the intel and nonsense, but this time, it paid off.
Thanks to a chatty police dispatcher, I learned about a break-in at the Unique Army-Navy Surplus shop on Central Avenue. Money and some camouflage clothes were stolen, along with a very special knife—a Nepalese Kukri. If you haven't seen one, it resembles something out of a Sinbad movie, almost like a sickle but with an angled blade instead of a curve.
Nearby is a former comic book store that also dealt drugs on the side. The police shut it down over a year ago, and it's been vacant, aside from occasional squatters.
That's where Prisoner #C44031 had been hiding all this time. For the record, she was already dying when I found her. What do I think happened? I believe some other fool stumbled upon her. Did she hear him on the stairs? Likely. The urge to use that Kukri must have been driving her mad.
Well, madder, at least.
She must have attacked him, slashing and screaming. There was a struggle, and in the end, she stabbed herself in the gut. The intruder must have fled because he was nowhere to be seen when I arrived. I never laid eyes on him. Again, I want that noted for the record.
I found her staring at the blade lodged in her stomach, breathing shallow and wet. Despite it all, Prisoner #C44031 was smiling. That smile never left her face, not even as she gripped the handle with both hands and pushed the blade deeper. It may sound insane, but I doubt I'll ever experience the kind of happiness she had at that moment.
