Miles of Deception

On the day of the funeral, the lone concealed man peered out from behind the trees trying to get a better look at the crowd assembled by the grave.      
             Curiosity had been gnawing away at this man for three days now. Finally, the moment he longed to witness had arrived. Watching the pain of the family and their friends made the man's blood thrill with excitement. Beneath his dark garments, he sweated.  
              The mourners stood two rows deep at the graveside as a priest gave the funeral oration. They were dressed heavily against the chilled autumn weather. Several people clenched handkerchiefs to their faces and one or two sobbed audibly.
             The secrete man glanced from one damp face to another.
              In those eyes he could see the pent-up tension that had been there all morning, only now it was finally starting to evaporate. Some faces he recognized from the hospital, where he had sat in the waiting room, watching from behind a newspaper as people came and went. Later, he had taken a seat at a table in the canteen, trying to catch a glimpse of their tired, veined eyes as they came to take a break from their vigil. Their gaunt, drawn faces had given him much needed pleasure.
He had talked with them as though he was a relative of another critical patient, and he had joined them briefly in their time of sorrow and sadness. He spoke to them solemnly of “being strong” and “needing the ones you love at a time like this.”
The man behind the trees smiled at his convictions. She was not the only one he killed recently and he knew there would be more to come. He had an itch to kill and he needed to scratch it.
He would happily sell his soul to the devil just to be able to replay her final moment in the hospital over and over again. Oh, to see the tired wrinkles relaxing in her face as she swallowed her last breath of air. She had been alone in the room with only him, making that even more special.
    The man’s gaze kept returning to one woman in particular. She stood in the center of the crowd, with the others gathered around her. She was young, perhaps in her late 20s, and wore a demure suit of dark wool. She was quite attractive. Her long dark hair and big brown eyes were encased by long lashes, his favorite type of woman. As he stared at her, the hidden man beamed.
He closed his eyelids as the tangy aroma of distant burning leaves hung crisply in the chilly air. He opened his eyes again and studied the picturesque view so that he could store it in the back of his mind for days to come. He wished he could be closer. He wanted to be a temporary part of the funeral party just so he could feel the agony and savor the gloom of the loved ones.
The man yearned to stand alongside the deceased’s daughter, the woman in the dark outfit. To be the shoulder she leaned on, to hold her tightly in his arms and stroke her. He looked up to the heavens, begging God to let him take part in the rite today and feed off the horrific end of this woman's life story.
It was his right to be here, he thought. He was the real guest of honor. After all, he was the one who had made this day possible.