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Even Monsters Weep -a short short story-

Death came for everybody in the end. Theodore's mother had always told him not to fear it, not to run when he felt its cold hand, or breath on the small of the back of his neck. She said if he was lucky it would take him in his sleep. If he were lucky, he would never have to see Death's face on that day or maybe Death wouldn't come at all. Theodore never had that kind of luck.
Theodore didn't much care for lights, and so he kept his apartment dark. He was a desert on the inside, slept on the floor or couch. A stained table was where he kept the things he'd need that day, prepared the night prior. If he was anything, he was efficient. He was all the things a good boy should be, and wherever good, old ladies went in the next life his mother was proud of his work. “Be diligent,” she would tell him, “the world won't forgive lazy boys and vagrants.”
The harshest of her regiments left no room for anything but Theodore's best. To the world her ways might be cruel, but he knew each slap of the belt on his back was the only way she knew to love. His father lasted as long as it took for her to birth and then he was gone, it was her responsibility to beat that man out of Theodore's heart. Sometimes she'd put him behind the basement doors for days on end, to teach him the importance of not breaking her things. Why should he break what had taken hard work and sacrifice for her to get? Because she loved him, she was strong enough to let him scream and claw at the door until his fingers were raw and bleeding. Because she loved him, Theodore learned not to waste his tears.
The morning paper lay strewn out over the table by the couch. Inside it were the leftovers from past days deeds, and stories about monsters and mayhem. In one of those stories one of those monsters had a name. They called him “the Blood Beast,” for the brutality of the way he killed. Faces were mangled, parts ripped off at the joints; the cruelty of Theodore's manner might seem brutal, but they didn't deserve the kindness of Death's quick hand. None of them cared about the mess they left in wake of their living, or that their lives were wasted on complacency and sloth. To teach them Theodore had no choice, they had to learn by the belt.
The firsts were sloppy, as he learned to hone in his artistry. Keeping them alive long enough had been difficult, but Theodore never made the same mistake twice. He knew enough by the Beast's 3rd victim not to cut certain things off so quick, or to cut in places they wouldn't bleed out. Women weren't violated because, good boys kept their parts to themselves. It was just as much value in bashing their heads in with a heavy tool, their skulls crushed just fine under the swing of a random stick he brought along. He took the knife to the men, removing all those parts they might use to do bad things the way his father had done bad things to her. Theodore had become professional with blades, by victim 7 he knew just where to gash them to make them bleed but not die.
Outside, the sounds of feet screeching across the wood of the stairs filled up the empty spaces between Theodore and Death. He knew it was coming, he could feel its cold breath on his skin, like beads of sweat dripping down his face and off his chin. He could hear the click of their guns being readied, their whispers of urgency as they made preparation to come in and bring Theodore to his end. In a moment, a thud would cry out as the door splintered inward and the light of day crawled over dust and dark toward him. They would rush in and bullets would cut through the stagnant air into his flesh. He wondered if the pain would make him laugh, as it did so often the older the boy became, or if Theodore the man would go down without so much as a moan. He tried to imagine the bullets pierce his flesh, and the thought of it found nothing to cling to so it left. It was just the dark with him, his breathing and them. Very soon, it would just be the dark, his breathing and them.