I rest, shrouded by suffocating denim, awaiting the sensation of being drawn from my prison. It won't be long now, judging by the desperate cries for help. He must have cornered tonight's playmate. A sweat slick hand clutches my handle, pulling me into the cool open air. A look of sheer terror spreads across the face of a young boy as he eyes my sharpened blade. He attempts to run, but there's no hope of escaping me. No one ever escapes, and no one ever will. I relish in the feeling of piercing flesh, warm red liquid encasing me completely, over and over. It continues, with shrill screams of agony filling the unforgiving night. Not a soul comes to his aid. They know all attempts to save him would prove futile. Their chivalrous actions would only earn them the same fate as the boy. The despondent husks of civilians simply drift along like wraiths, tuning out the fading voice. They tell themselves it was nothing, that they were just hearing things, anything to ease their conscience. Finally, screams turn to small whimpers. One more puncture and all grows silent. The boy lays drained of life on the crimson splattered cement, cold and alone. I am cleaned then sheathed once more in suffocating denim. Here I shall patiently wait for the next night, the next victim, and we shall continue this pattern until we are all alone, just the two of us.