It was time. I knelt by the bed. I could have pulled over the armchair and sat in it, but somehow kneeling seemed right. The razor lay on the carpet beside me, the blade winking gently in the soft yellow light dropping from the nightstand.
What's in a name? Evil. Was he? As I had dragged him from the debris that had been his car, he had felt more like a man; a heavy man at that as I tugged his flopping weight through the snow and back to the cottage. He lay on the bed; saliva snailtrailing from his mouth, tangling itself in the jungly grey sideburns, like an old man fallen from his position of power on the commode, tumbled to a cracked tile floor, reaching in vain for a emergency cord to alert a nurse, and then falling unconscious as he waited for help.
Help that would never come. No nurses here. Just me and my razor blade. Without moving from my kneeling position, I reached across the bed and pulled back the covers, rolling them down to his yellow feet with their hooklike nails. He lay naked before me, pathetic and shrivelled.
Evil. I think not. I raised the blade and then lowered it again. The grey pelt across his chest rose and fell, its curls fluffy and inviting, like the hair on the poodle I had as a child. Tentatively I reached out a hand and my fingers slid between the curls to the soft skin below, stroking and then gently tugging.
He spoke. One word. 'Lower'.
Now, three days on, I can say I truly know evil.