He presses it into my hand, lecturing me on responsibility.
"Remember to avoid them at all costs until the time is right."
He recites the rules, rules I've heard a thousand times, before telling me what he's picked out: a spirited one, it looks like. I laugh.
"You sure about this?"
"You'll be fine," he chuckles, and reciting the rules one last time, he pushes me outside.
I drive slowly to her house, the moon glowering in the air, recounting the rules as I go.
Stay in the shadows, don't let them see you, don't approach them immediately, isolation is key, all the other ones.
I clutch it harder, digging into my palm.
I can see her through her window, peacefully asleep. Sliding on a pair of gloves and stepping out of the car, I stalk up the fire escape and come to the side of her apartment.
The window slides open easily, and habit takes over. To the bedroom, silence her, then deal the final blow; a cut straight through her neck.
Her death is not painless, but we make it as quick as possible.
Loading her into the trunk, it shuts with a click and I drive home carefully, suspicious. By the time I get home, I hear a dull banging from the trunk and a quiet sobbing.
I open the trunk and she clutches my arm, her eyes wild, panicked sobs escaping her lips.
Fuck. I didn't cut deep enough.
I slice her neck, again and again, washed in blood, and by the time I'm done her head's barely hanging on. Whoops. But I'm sure she's dead this time, which is a plus.
Me and my dad together take her into the house, clearing off the table and laying her on it, and we begin the dissection.
If you've ever come over to our house and been enamored by the quality of the leather on the sofa, or maybe the taste of the pork, or even just the warmth of the blankets,
never forget that we use every part. We're not selfish, no; we kill, but we do not maim. We honor each and ever one of our successful hunts, in their own special way.
So you shouldn't be scared, no. After all, you might die now, but you'll live on forever in our memories.