Sometimes, one must wait. Waiting is a fact of our busy, headlong rushed lives. We spend, yes I looked it up, an average of five years waiting in queues, at traffic lights, for that Big Mac that won't look anything like the picture. We can't get away from it, so I got used to it.

I know there's those who hate it. They'll honk their car horn after a few seconds. They'll curse. Moan. Throw a tantrum that stops just short of lying on their back, kicking their legs in the air.

I don't mind it. It gives me time to think. To ponder the greatness of the universe and the miracle that is life. And tell myself that I will remember that I need deodorant and toilet paper.

So I waited. I waited six times six years. When I killed the second person, which I actually counted as my first because my father was an accident, I had just turned thirty six years old.

My foster family had adopted me and had treated me very well. They'd tried, though failed, to erase the memory of my younger years. But, they died. A car accident that had nothing to do with me. I'd grown and left home by that time. I mourned them and grieved. They weren't my natural family, but had done everything they could to be the next best thing. With this, they succeeded.

But people do die. It's as much a fact of life as losing five years to waiting. I moved on, remaining alone. I think my father had beaten the emotions out of me, and my mother had used any dregs as a mixer for her vodka. Relationships were meant to be filled with feelings, and that was something I seemed incapable of feeling.

The last thing I did remember actually getting something from was the pooling blood from the wound where his tibia poked from his shin. I wanted to experience it again and, though my mother told me he'd left, I knew there was no way I could track him down and try to reproduce the episode.

Which was fine. I'd just use someone else. I mean, with seven billion people crawling over the surface of the Earth, I had plenty of choice.

The day of my thirty sixth birthday was quiet. I had a small circle of friend, but none close enough to do more than give a card. Certainly none who'd want to drag me out for drinks or a meal. They knew I wasn't that sort of person. I didn't mind. It gave me the chance to finally decide to do that which I'd thought about more and more often in the blanks of my life spent in line for one thing or another.

I'd left the actual decision until that day. Prior to it, I had considered and wondered, but not quite planned. I wanted to wait. So I did.

Then the day came and I said yes, a word that I knew would be uttered but hadn't been until then.

Yes. The world can turn on that or it's opposition. Lives can be made or lost. In my case, one would be made and a number would be lost.

Six, to be precise.

I celebrated by myself. A bottle of £3.50 wine that I didn't dislike and steak with peppercorn sauce. I was treating myself. It was a momentous day.

After dining and washing the pots, I went for a walk. I tried to walk as much as possible, though it caused me physical pain. Osteoarthritis had given me the need for a walking stick and a blue parking badge. And a label. Disabled. It wasn't one I'd allowed to define me, however. I refused to remain in its shadow, and saw my stick as a sort of Gandalf's staff, protecting me against those who might laugh or stare. I didn't hide behind it, rather I held it metaphorically aloft.

Anyway, I'd seen many an action film where a walking stick could house something else entirely.

Coincidence met me as I left my house, causing me to check my watch. A little after six pm. As an unbeliever of signs and portents, I still thanked Coincidence for that little pointer to the fact I was doing what I should be, and when I should be. I smiled, suddenly more at ease at my impending actions than I'd been a few moments before. Not that I was uneasy, but my confidence was boosted. My step more purposeful.

So many scenarios had passed through my mind regarding my intentions. The perfect person. The ideal place. How I could dispose of the body or kill in the first place without being discovered. They were just idle thoughts, though. Until it happened, I wouldn't know until I knew.

It was dark early. Winter had made sunlight a precious commodity and was allowing us only a few, scant hours of day before night time descended and hid the world. I was hidden also. A thick coat, gloves and beanie hat were my method of discretion. I'd added a scarf, but felt it was too tight at my throat, something I wanted to save for that special someone. Rather than discarding it, I stuffed it into my coat pocket.

Just in case.

Killing on my birthday would have been the icing on the nonexistent cake. I didn't, however, expect to be successful on my first outing. I was wandering mostly aimlessly. I knew the places I should go to, and did so, but I didn't follow a defined path. I meandered. I'd saved my painkillers until not long before I went out, and kept my pace fairly slow to prevent too much of a build up of pain.

I was excited, I think. I wasn't sure, and assumed the bubble in my gut was anticipation, rather than indigestion. I'd waited for three decades for my moment. I was prepared to grasp it and, if it didn't happen immediately, I knew it would come. The thrill I was feeling was alien but not unwelcome. Perhaps I was growing as a person. Perhaps my feelings still existed deep down inside me. They weren't necessarily a dead mouse at the taloned feet of a hawk.

People tend to go about their business encased in the bubble of their own thoughts. They're oblivious to those around them, spending their day concentrating only on what affects them. I was abundantly aware of this and planned to use it for my own devices.

Or device. After all, I only had one in mind.