He wandered the desert alone, as far as he knew, for hours.

He wasn't alone. I was there. I was watching him. No one else, but me and the buzzards.

I watched him in the dry heat and the sun. I watched him amid the cacti and the rocks. But he did not watch me. He did not see me. He was not aware of me at all.

A bird made him flinch once. He chatted quietly to a spindly, spiky bush. He looked up at the sky. 

I watched him there, losing moisture through his flesh. His meat. I watched him as he began to hallucinate. I got in his face and he never knew. I watched him and he didn't even realise he was thirsty. He wasn't thirsty. I sat and I watched him as his blood began to turn to sludge. As his heart had to pump twice as hard to get his life's flow to move.

I watched him there in that desert and I had fun. I had his fun. 

In that desert, he died. I killed him. I did. A blade, just one. A hand, just one. And a moment. Just. One.

His crimson didn't pour, so much as trickle. Thick. He was barely there in the first place. If I'd not killed him, he'd have died anyway. At least he wasn't alone.

But he was. Alone. Didn't know I was there. Didn't feel me when I touched him. He couldn't smell me on the wind or sense me at all. He was alone. He died. Alone.