[ WP ] You are given a deal by a higher power that grants you eternal life . The catch ? You have to kill one person every year . If you fail do do so , even a minute too late , you will die .

Oh, I'm a good man. I mean, what's immortality without humanity? I've worked so hard to preserve that. I have children, you know. Tiny little children, mothered by hundreds and thousands of women. I can love. I've held each and every single one. I've watched them crown, bloody and triumphant. I've held them, with their tiny perfect hands and their tiny perfect smiles. I sing to each and every one. See? Humanity. 
 
 
 I do n't think I'm a bad man. I've never enjoyed that one death a year. Killing is no fun, it's a chore. I take the people and I cage them. Not for long; six months or so. To me it's a blink of an eye. Like I said, little dog cage. In the basement. That's where the killing happens. It's like being matured in a cellar, like a ham or cheese or wine. By the time the date comes around, they are ready to die. I retrieve them from the cage, I ask my lover to wait upstairs. 
 
 
 Killing is the most private thing a man can do. 
 
 
 
 I lay them out on an ice-cold table, and I beg for forgiveness. I am a good man. I give them their last rites; I close their eyes softly, then I place the tip of a silver knife at the corner of their jaw and their throat and I open them as softly and smoothly as butter. 
 
 
 The table is cleaned; the knife is disposed of. I do n't know what happens to the bodies. Once there is no life left in them, it is no longer my duty to care. Life is intoxicating. 
 
 
 
 This year it is a woman. I have been readying myself for her death for quite some time. A chore, not a pleasure. She cried at the beginning of her imprisonment. They always do, but soon they realise I am merciful; I give them good deaths. This one is older; closer to fifty. She was attractive once, and her skin is still firm. Lean muscles mark her arms, grey hairs are few and far between, but her skin is sun browned. She has freckles and wrinkles in equal measure. I imagine she is beautiful when she smiles. 
 
 
 
 I pull her from the cage and bid her lie down on the table. She shivers involuntarily as her back comes into contact with the surface. She already knew it for what it was: her deathbed. 
 
 
 `` Would you like me to say your last rites?'' I ask her. `` What religion are you. I cater for them all.'' I gesture at the bookshelf in the corner of the killing room, where I keep every holy book I can get my hands on. She turns to look at them and shakes her head, tears beginning to appear at the corner of her blue eyes. 
 
 
 `` No verses,'' she says. `` Can you sing me a song?'' 
 
 
 I am bemused by the request, but I accept. A man's last wish is sacred. 
 
 
 `` What would you like me to sing?'' I ask her. 
 
 
 `` Scarborough Fair. You used to sing it to me, before I went to sleep. It'd be nice to hear it again.'' 
 
 
 
 I am a good man. I have had children. I sing her the song, I open her throat. 
 
 
 
 Humanity, see?
