He isn't human. There is no way that a monster who takes such pride, such joy, in seeking revenge can be considered anything remotely close to the species we call human. He laughs so humorlessly in the face of death. Almost as I do, but his laugh is full of pain. My laugh is one of heart. He is the reason I do what I do.

I open the door and walk toward the bed. The covers are pulled up over the head of the warm, breathing body. I can not resist the temptation to pull down the thick blankets and take the this life. It is like a delicate flower, in a field filled with birds. So easy to just reach out and take it. Break the fragile thing in my hand. I reaches out. My hand is barley visible, even to me in the moonlit room. But no doubt that the sleeping figure can feel the roughness of my skin as I pull the blanket off his face. The man laying there is not what was expected. His blonde hair is plastered to his head from a restless night. His dreams are not pleasant. I like to believe that I am the cause of his unease. He is always searching for me. What he doesn't realize is that I am always there. A face in the background, a wallflower to his life. The sleeper is still wearing his suit. The silk crinkles softly under the my hand. I was expecting the short, dark haired woman to be sleeping here. But I will except the man. A fitting end. I put my hand gently over the sleepers mouth and nose until his breathig evens. He is uncounsious and will not wake up when the shiney, sharp knife breaks the skin.

The blood pools on the old hotel bed, staining the white sheets red. A perfect color. The color of passion, of blood, of love, of hate, of vengence, of revenge. My revenge on this man the second time is just as sweet as the first. I pull a glove over my thin, boney fingers. Dipping them in the growing pool of blood, I draw a mocking smiley face on the wall across from the door. I sit in the only chair and wait for the man to awaken. For him to die while not aware would be cheating him out of his right. The right to see my face. The face of the man who ruined his life. That night so many years ago. It was the night I first made my move. I had been looking for a way to enter him into my game, after all it was his actions that caused the deaths of every person I have killed. The man's stupid actions. Many, many years before the first kill. It was him who mocked me. Him who drew the face first. He must realize that every time he walks in to see my mark on the wall, that I am his creation.

I find, sitting before he wakes that I don't want the game to end. I need him there to follow the clues I leave behind. To keep me sharp. Without his cunnng, each slice into human flesh would be meaningless. I will have to find a new opponent if I kill him. So I will take my leave and save his end for another day. Because when Patrick Jane dies his creation, Red John will die along with him.