The Warmth of a Glove

He had gloves. Not just a pair, he had several pairs. Over the years his collection grew. He had one of every colour and every pattern, the weird part was that he did not buy them. He stole them, but not from shops. The trigger for his impulse to kill was on a breeze autumn morning, his fingers were blue. He needed gloves but his parents weren’t the richest in the island. He became envious of the other children. So before his fingers couldn’t take anymore he finally snapped, he targeted this one child from the richest family and took his gloves. However it proved more difficult to him, when the child was threatening to tell his parents, that’s when it happened. The first kill was the hardest he said but the ones after were easier and easier. The rush was so tranquil to him, but he felt that if he didn’t target people with gloves it wouldn’t be the same. When he finally passed my mother gave the key to the upstairs room, I was scared to enter for my dad had always been closed off. When I did, I finally knew what he was. He was a murderer. He killed to get gloves. I then knew what I wanted to do. It was as clear as a day. I wore the gloves he wore for killings and they just felt like it was supposed to be worn by me. It was my destiny and it was my fate. Murder and I were meant to be, just like a glove and a hand. I had finally found my happiness, all I needed was glove.