The Rubber Gloves
During the day everything was fine. They were just an ordinary pair of blue rubber gloves. Inoffensive.
But at night, especially late at night, especially very late at night, at three or even at four in the morning, those rubber gloves could really frighten him.
He’d go into the kitchen to get a late-hours glass of milk, not thinking of them and—wham!—there they were, lying conspicuously on the counter, the two of them, one next to the other, suddenly sucking towards their hand-like shapes all the attention in the world, as if lit by some ethereal spotlight made out of the same stuff of which sixth-sense is made.
And yet, during the day, he used them to do the dishes; he’d wear them without experiencing any kind of anxiety or getting any weird ideas. What then made them so unsettling now that night had fallen? Impossible to express with words. But it was something about identity, something about murder. It was something about masks, something about killers.
About killers? But was it about a killer, or rather about the killer that might lay asleep inside any of us?
He didn’t know, really. He just knew that the idea of the killer was there, embedded in those stumble-upon gloves, in those blue rubber gloves on the counter in the kitchen in the middle of the night.