Short Story - A Confession

I should probably start off with a confession of my own : I have killed with my own hands.

My first murder, I believed after the countless self-therapy sessions I had and hours I spent on introspection – was probably an accident. I have tried multiple times to rationalize my actions.

I just wasn’t careful enough.

I just wasn’t paying attention enough.

I just wasn’t mindful enough.

… I’m sorry.

Still, that never erased the bitter truth. Someone is dead. And it’s all because of an element of intent in my actions and simple curiosity.

Please. Forgive me.

I was curious on how it would feel, what would happen, and what it would look like. Perhaps you may have experienced this feeling as well. As you stand at the top of a cliff, you wonder what it would be like to jump. Only this time, your life isn’t at risk. That question instead will be answered with the life of another being.

I can still remember the raw, traumatizing scene that I caused. I can still remember staring at what I just did in disbelief. I can still remember the sight of their fluids splattered all over my gloves.

This feeling of anxiety had haunted me for a while like a specter whose presence is always felt – but never seen. However, it disturbed me even more to realize that this moment was the most powerful I’ve ever felt. It felt satisfying. For the first time in my life, I felt superior. No longer will they ever look down on me again. They will only look upwards from their graves at me – who’s still alive and living my life.

I knew killing was wrong, but I couldn’t care less about it for some odd reason. I never had any plans to repeat it – yet I still felt a strange, corrupted desire to do so.

And a few months later, I killed again.

Please, take a few moments to put yourself in my shoes. Imagine seeing a lone innocent, walking outside on the streets – with street lamps being their only source of light. You might as well have missed them, if it weren’t for the street lamps and the dancing shadow of a victim. You glance around. There is nothing and no one around you, except for the bare conifers that are still statues, the ephemeral flowers that are wilting, and the waves of the ocean that are as black as the darkest night – especially in this time. You’re completely alone. And with that, your time has come.

You would be the final thing they see before the light in their eyes dims forever.

You would be the only person who saw them in their final moments.

You would be special, wouldn’t you?

I do wonder sometimes if my second victim even realized what was happening in their final moments.

After that, I gave up and succumbed to all the instinctive urges I have felt. I killed again and again, convincing myself that I’m only purging this world of those who should have never been alive and of those who are the equivalent of trash. Every time, it was a simple opportunity – a crime that was executed by the cold, cynical entity who I’ve become in these moments.

To this day, I have killed dozens, if not hundreds or even thousands of victims.

I have killed before. And I will likely kill again, even though I’ve learned to feel remorse.

While this may seem absolutely repulsive – the motivation for why I murder still stays with me to this day.

I absolutely despise spiders. They terrify me.

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Behind the scenes :

This piece of writing had stemmed from a single random thought : what if I wrote a very mundane action that we perform from time to time and transform it into something that may seem to be extremely barbaric?

This was when I decided to focus on killing insects (particularly spiders, because I do hate them). After all, we do this very frequently. Plus, there isn’t a lot of people in the world who would question the ethics behind this action.

However, the feedback I received from some of my peers were overwhelming – with some believing that I actually killed people. This enabled me to put up an initial warning at the beginning of the essay. The warning was ultimately scrapped in the end on the recommendation of my english teacher.

Overall, writing this was fun. I had a rather interesting time attempting to write from the perspective of a mission-oriented serial killer. After all, it isn’t an everyday opportunity where we can immediately pen down unorthodox ideas we have on our minds.