[ WP ] As the plane plummeted to its certain destruction , one want-to-be serial killer realized they would never get the chance to kill . In the ensuing panic all around , they strangle and kill their seat mate unnoticed . Suddenly , the plane averts disaster and is able to restore normal flight .

A gentle nudge drives the image of the crimson sheep from behind my closed eyelids. I am not angry. This pulsating heat is simply… blood… flowing steadily through my veins. The blood always calms me. 
 
 Another nudge interrupts my calming exercise; and yes, I am indeed calm. The culprit is a rotund man in tweed. His elbows are driven outward by his thrift-store suit jacket, which appears to be tailored to a man closer to the size of this man ’ s midmorning snack. The elbows jab me again as he shifts his left ass-cheek closer to my right. Just breathe. Just breathe. 
 
 Coach was a mistake, my inner monologue tells me. Too many people; too many too close. Their jugulars cry out to me. You would think that after a lifetime of crushing this writhing need within me, these plebeians would have little power over me. But they do. 
 
 The gentle rocking I have been subconsciously ignoring is roughly shoved to the forefront of my thoughts as the seat belt sign comes on with a sickly green glow, right next to images of my finger nails clawing chunks out of Mr. Tweed ’ s throat. The light of the sign and the man ’ s life blood splatter across the canvas of my mind, and it reminds me of Christmas, red and green mixing in… interesting ways. 
 
 As usual, the urge does not dissipate so much as it gets shoved roughly back into the closet that is the back of my mind. I can see Mr. Tweed struggling to clasp a woefully inadequate buckle around his girth out of the corner of my eye. I smirk. The image is almost as satisfying as the other. 
 
 I am one of the few who does not scream when the cabin abruptly turns sideways, although the sensation leaves a sick pit in my stomach. When it tilts the opposite way even more abruptly, the screams all turn into groans, which are in turn eclipsed by the sounds of thunder. 
 
 The gods are bowling, and we are one of the pins, I think deliriously. 
 
 Suddenly I am dangling from my seat belt, my slim frame slamming repeatedly against the left side of Mr. Tweed ’ s bulk. Then we are slammed back into our seats and the lights are out. 
 
 The screams begin again, and I can hear Mr. Tweed ’ s annoying wail. It grates on me, and I recall the image of his blood on my finger nails. They do need to be painted, I think, although I know it is absurd to be thinking about a hemoglobin manicure when there seems to be a great chance that these are the last thoughts I will ever think. 
 
 The bottom seems to drop out of my stomach, and I can hear the plane groaning with effort. My hands begin to shake, and I realize that I am about to die. A victim. I will not be a victim. I am surrounded by sheep, but these are not the sheep in my dream. These are all afraid, all screaming and weeping, and I alone stand; a wolf with clean jaws. 
 
 Adding my own scream to the cacophony, I feel my hands tear through warm flesh, and blood spurts. It is in my eyes and in my hair. I can taste it. Mr. Tweed ’ s voice becomes strangely muted, no longer adding to the chaos of noise. 
 
 I lay back and revel in it. A she-wolf ’ s first kill. A first at the last, I think. I can feel the plane steadily plummeting further and further, yet I am at peace, for I am at last… whole. 
 
 The blood always calms me. I imagine bathing myself in it frequently. So when the lights flicker back on, and the plane ’ s tragic descent abruptly flattens out, I at first think I have simply achieved my inner peace. It coats my finger nails, and I can feel the blood clumping in my hair around my neck. I got my manicure, I think, as I hold my hand up in front of my face wonderingly. Then the reality of the moment strikes home, and I look around to see shocked faces turning towards me one by one. Sheep faces and sheep eyes, reflecting a wolf that just tore off sheep ’ s clothes. 
 
 Oh. Shit. 

