The Last Life

Excitement coursed through Langton’s body as he watched the life drain from his victim’s piercing hazel eyes. His grip around the man’s throat loosened, then tightened again, savoring the ebb and flow of panic. Blond curls clung damply to the victim’s scalp, fear-sweat dripping in thin rivulets. The chipped front tooth fascinated Langton; the way the man gasped and opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish made something inside him hum.

When the victim finally succumbed, Langton exhaled, satisfied. He took his time afterward, making precise incisions, letting the blood drain in clean, controlled lines. Ritual mattered. Precision mattered. It was the only place in his life where he felt fully awake.

Living on an island of barely two thousand people gave him everything he needed: isolation, water everywhere, and a population spread out just enough that disappearances took time to notice. A boat, a cinder block, and the ocean’s quiet mouth ensured the bodies were never found.

He disposed of his latest victim in the early hours of the morning, hurriedly this time. He had a doctor’s appointment across the island, and maintaining his reputation as a punctual, well-respected citizen was part of the game. The island was hundreds of miles from any other land, and medical help was limited. Dr. Jacobs, formerly of the Mayo Clinic, was the closest thing to civilization they had. His wife was from the island, and he’d traded prestige for quiet.

Langton arrived five minutes early, chatted amicably with the girl at the front desk, and waited.

Dr. Jacobs entered the exam room and gestured for Langton to sit in one of the conversation chairs rather than on the paper-covered table.

“Langton,” he began, “I’ve got bad news—but there may be good news.”

Langton felt a cold thread of tension wind through his chest.

“Your blood tests show a rare disorder. Untreated, your body will begin attacking itself. There’s no cure, but we’ve had promising results with stem cell extraction from a very specific blood type. It’s rare, but not impossibly rare. Time is critical. In about two weeks the damage becomes irreversible.”

Langton’s mind blurred. Panic at the thought of his own death. Desperation at the thought of giving up his hobby. And a thin, trembling thread of hope at the mention of a donor.

Dr. Jacobs continued, “I have records for most of the island’s residents. I’ll run a search to see if anyone matches.”

The news rattled Langton so deeply that his hobby fell silent. Killing required absolute focus, and his mind was now a fractured mirror. So, he went about his days as the good neighbor everyone trusted.

Within a few days, Dr. Jacobs called. “There’s one match,” he said. “A single donor on the island. I can’t give you his address, you know – HIPAA, you didn’t hear it from me, but his name is Randy Anders.”

Randy Anders. One man between Langton and a horrific death.

Langton began searching. Social media yielded nothing; Randy didn’t seem to exist online. Langton then did what he did best; he charmed, chatted, and asked questions. It took three days before someone finally pointed him toward the restaurant where Randy worked as a waiter.

Langton went immediately.

The hostess frowned when he asked. “Randy used to work here, but he hasn’t shown up in days. The manager even sent the police for a wellness check. No answer.”

Langton felt a flicker of irritation. “Do you have a picture of him? Just in case I run into him.”

The manager disappeared into the back. “We’ve got photos from the Christmas party,” he called.

He returned and handed Langton a photograph, pointing to a smiling young man.

Hazel eyes.

Blond curls.

Then the chipped front tooth.

A collection of emotions crashed through him; horror, disbelief, fury, a sickening recognition. His arm went numb. The picture fluttered to the floor. Without a word, he walked out of the restaurant.

Later, staring into his bathroom mirror, Langton watched the life drain from his own bloodshot green eyes. Sweat drenched his balding head as the disease turned his body against itself.

The only life Langton had ever truly stolen was his own.

He prayed for death.

When it finally came, the world was right again.