Not Crazy

Psychopath. That's what they had always called him.
He shrugged the words off like water rolling off a tarp; kept his head steady and resumed his path in life. He knew better than that.
He wasn't a psychopath. No, he mused as he heard the sound of a single drop of blood hit the pavement.
He wasn't crazy. He flashed his teeth in an ill-tempered grin when the echoing sound was followed by a whimper.
He knew exactly what he was doing, why he was doing it- how he was doing it; even if the driving force was raw anger. A shuffle of feet scrape the ground, he can picture the blind panic.
He wasn't a psychopath; he was a sociopath. "There's a difference!" He sang out as he finally just whipped around the corner and drove the knife through the screaming women's heart.
"There has always been a difference."
He pulled out the blade feeling no remorse, the guiltlessness was, after all, the defining factor in his sociopathic lifestyle, and then wiped it on the edge of the wall, watching as the blood collected and oozed downwards, barely illuminated by the crescent moon. He breathed in deeply, seemingly savoring the smell of the abandoned underpass accompanied by the tainting scent of death.
"Ugh."
He spoke out flatly to the night, suddenly cursing his own impulsiveness. He really didn't feel anything. Not joy during the killing, not satisfaction afterwards. He felt nothing but rage. He stared at her lifeless body, thinking back to moments before he snapped. He never had intended to kill her, ever, he just went out for a pint of Sam Adams at a highway bar and she had come up to him, all flirty- and he ignored her. The lady had looked at him, disgusted by his attitude and had called him: "Crazy for denying this." 
So he lost it, his steady head and careful facade, and punched her.
No one saw, no one cared to see, so when she ran out into the night, he pursued.
Call him crazy? We'll see. You'll see.
He trailed back as she had ducked under the underpass, taking time to grab his hunting knife from his Swede jacket he'd stolen from his short job at Sport's Authority.
He had lost his temper there too; that and he had no interest in pretending to want a job- to want to help others.
So here he was now, stalking this ignorant hater under a highway, proving her right. Proving the world right.
She realized that she was being followed and whirled around; taunting him with words, words that sting like bees in his already festering wound of a brain.
"Why are you following me, you creep? What are you, a psychopath?"
She said it jokingly, like those words meant nothing, she said it as casually as if they were spoken between friends. Her slurred speech was a clear indication of intoxication, but to him that didn't matter. To him, there was no distinction in thought when everything came down to alcohol; he saw your lips moving making the words you'd regret later and it didn't matter. He saw, he heard, what she was saying and didn't care that she was just another hapless, loose tongued drunk. He cared about justice; his justice.
He swiped out in a wide arc in front of him, catching her cheek with the blade and opening a decent sized cut.
She squawked, crying out in pain, and ran behind a concrete column.
Far too late, but in this mindset he decided to let her think she had a chance to escape, to get her hopes up; so he could crush them like she stomped on his emotions.
He'd show her what he was.
A sociopath and PROUD. NOT CRAZY.
So when he did plunge that knife through her rapidly beating heart, and when he did indeed feel nothing at all afterwards- he went back to the bar and finished his pint of Sam Adams. He sat there and tipped the waiter; he sat there and watched the baseball game- he sat there and clinked glasses with a fellow loner.
No one asked his story. No one cared to know his story.
He went home, a small dinky apartment one could expect to afford being a worker of odd job to odd job, and he fell asleep. For him, nothing changed.
The cops had a different story.
The murder of Angelina Walker left them bewildered and perplexed.
No motive, no witnesses. No evidence.
They questioned the workers at the bar off the highway- they didn't remember a gal like that, they didn't recall anyone suspicious either. Business was business, life went on.
And so did he.
He bid his time day to day, never knowing, never caring.
He went on, namelessly passing through the crowd as a face like so many other faces.

He still goes on.