Frankie Doyle

Estimated reading time: 2 minutes

frankie doyle


Today I’m not feeling well so I’m just going to share something I wrote last year or so. It’s part of a longer piece that I was writing and never got around to finishing…

Enjoy :)


I travelled the world; sleeping by day, living by night. When I got hungry I would kill, bury the bodies and no one cared. It was a different time back then; cops didn’t have fingerprint or facial recognition software or GPS tracking; teenagers couldn’t take your photo and share it with the world in half a second. People kept to themselves and grabbing a homeless man off the street was easier than taking candy from a kid.

Then the endless nature of time started taking its toll on me. I couldn’t make friends. The sex was good but knowing that you’re just going to kill her (or them) when you’re done ruins the mood. And before long I found myself dragging my feet through the streets of New York again.

Time had changed the city so much that I could barely recognize it, which was great because it meant the city couldn’t recognize me either and because the 80s were just the kind of thing someone like me could get into.

It was in one of those rocking-all-night, orgy-in-the-basement nights that my life took the second biggest turn. I met Kathryn, a blonde girl, barely eighteen years old, and for the first time in decades I fell for her the same way I had fell for Elizabeth. I’d get lost in her big brown eyes and she’d get lost in my arms. Nights blended together in a thick fog of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll.

One night, she never showed up. I waited for an hour then I went looking.

I shouldn’t have.

Having gotten used to it, it wasn’t hard to track her scent down. I found Kathryn in an alleyway three blocks away from our usual corner, sprawled on the cold, hard ground, blood leaking from her slashed neck. Watching her like that broke something inside of me. An anger I always knew I possessed – but never had to use – erupted, filling my body with rage, fury, strength and finally, focus. Everything around me became crystal clear. Every scent, every slight movement, every drop of blood splashing on the ground. The stench left by her killer filled my mind and I followed it.

When the rage gave me a break I found myself standing over the butchered body of a teenage boy, no older than fifteen. Ten paces away, his mother lay spread eagled on the table, her clothes and flesh ripped, life long gone from her eyes. My mind raced trying to find an explanation but I was lying to myself. I was the explanation. The kid’s taste in my mouth, and the mother’s blood dripping from my fingernails were the proof. Then I caught it again. Kathryn’s killer’s stench, coming from the floor above.

I found him cowering in a corner of the bedroom. This twenty five year old piece of nothing?

“You killed her,” I said. It was less a question and more a statement. Fact.

He tried to apologize, I think. He wasn’t what one would call coherent.


Something about money.

I walked out of the house wiping pieces of his chest off my shirt.

Amante Reale

I'm a freelance writer specializing in tech, gadgets, security, cryptography and cryptocurrency. Warning: I am armed with very strong opinions and I'm not afraid to use them. Hire me!