I know I am unusual. There are not very many females that take up this particular vocation. I suppose it is because we are naturally, or societally, conditioned to love order. And death is rarely orderly. Oh, you can impose a pattern on it. You can plan out what you want it to look like and delay it, stretch it out to fit your mood. But the true beauty of it lies in the mess, in the sticky sweaty fight for it. The best laid plans can come to an abrupt halt if their heart goes out from a weakness no one saw. Or they could have the miraculous will to survive that pushes them past the endurance of a normal human body and forces you to find ever more delightful ways to test yourself against their will. It doesn’t appeal to everyone, this unpredictable struggle. Or, better yet, perhaps it is the risk involved that keeps them from giving in to the need to kill. The fear before you strike, the knowledge that it’s not a matter of if you are caught, but when. Knowing that everyone who knew you will turn against you and everything you’ve won in your normal, mundane existence, will be lost.