You’re a killer. You murder innocent people. You watch their eyes roll into the back of their heads, their writhing slowing to a stop as the glow of life leaves their body. You wipe the blood from your blade and use it as your ink, writing your story on the walls in mirthless glee. You leave and skip from town to town, choosing new victims wherever you go. You never stay in one place for long. Do you feel bad?

I’m not a bad person. At least I think I’m not. It’s just something I do, killing people. Everyone has a hobby, everyone has something they’re good at. My hobby happens to be killing things, and I just happen to be good at hurting people. Am I good at anything else?

Are you good at anything else?

Am I good at anything else?  I wonder on those rare occasions when I get bored of listening to the person under me begging and sobbing. There must be something. I recall in my elementary years trying out new things. I didn’t want to, but my mother insisted when she found another dead cat in our yard. Anything, she had said, that does not involve... this. So I tried. Art. I couldn’t draw anything without my hands shaking in pent-up excitement, resisting the urge to just hurt becoming harder and harder to conquer. I scratched that off the list. Then I tried Music, I played the flute. I thought I was good at     it, but the instructor thought otherwise, so I slashed her tires. Scratch. Then Sports. I actually quite enjoyed soccer; I have a talent for running, and no one ever knew that I kicked the ball too hard at someone too often because it is soccer. Mistakes were bound to happen. (It was when I kicked the ball particularly hard and it hit a boy, who was rushed to the hospital immediately. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was dead by the way he was not moving. But I do know better. I know something dead when I see it.) Nothing worked. Nothing interested me. It was all boring and unenjoyable, and if it was, my murderous tendency ruined it. So I just gave up. Why try anyway? I already found something I liked to do a long time ago, this is just wasting my time. But apparently, no one else liked what I was doing, so I had to figure out a way to do what I wanted without getting caught. I laid low for a while, keeping my urges hidden deep in my mind, just being a normal, happy kid. 

What were your thoughts when you first killed a human?

When I was sure my mother had almost completely forgotten my hobby, I continued it. All around the neighborhood, pets went missing, only to be found dead at least a few days later. No one ever suspected the innocent child with a wide smile and shining eyes. Families briefly grieved because it was just a dog. It was just a cat. It was just a mouse. They are saddened, but to them, it was just like losing a toy, or losing a relative you never even knew. They exaggerated cries and pray that their souls pass peacefully because it’s just a custom. But people?  People were a different story. A much different type of game. They have feelings, families, and intelligence; I am fully aware that those pets did, too, but humans are different.  But, then I realized, we’re all the same, too. We are living organisms. We were made on this Earth, whether you believe we were put here by some divine being or a blip in existence it doesn’t matter. You’re a human. You’re an animal. So with that thought in mind, I killed my first human. 

Her name was Sara. I didn’t know her last name, nor did I care for it. All I needed to know was where she lived, who she lived with, and if she’ll be leaving anytime soon. She lived a few blocks away from my house, in a blue house. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, medium-sized living room, a kitchen which was connected to the living room, and a small garage that, had an old car that does not work anymore. I had never seen it come outside of the garage. She lived with her father, an aimless drunkard who used to spend most of his time trying to find a ‘new wife,’ and an older sister, who used to distract herself from reality by taking psychedelic drugs and played sports. She had no friends, save for a few kids who occasionally said hello to her when they bumped into each other in the hallway, so I did not have to worry about her going off to some sleepover, and her mother, as far as I knew, is out of the picture. She was... sad, I saw that much.

Her life was sad, her father was sad, her whole life probably had been miserable. It is how she responded to this that picked my interest. Her smile was, for the most part, infectious, and her upbeat personality and bright clothes hid the truth behind thick curtains; she was not new at the acting game, and fortunately, neither was I. I saw through her as if she was like glass. I saw her insecurities; she was pained by the responsibilities she had upon her shoulders. She blamed herself for the disappearance of her mother she had probably never even met. She was tormented by her sister’s condition, scared that she would do something fatal to ‘live in the moment.’ She was afraid of her father losing it and hurting her and her sister. Her mind was broken, worn from all those years of undercover mental abuse, both self-inflicted and caused by her family. 

It is always people like her who intrigue me. Those who hang on. The ones who, despite losing almost everything they have, decide to clutch on what they have left tighter and tighter, no matter how insignificant it is. No matter the fact that it may hurt others. No matter the fact that it may hurt themselves. All the more reason to do what I am doing.

Now let me tell you how I did it.

~Some years in the past

Sara attends a dance class, ballet, to be exact. This is new information to me, who sees mother rushing to put on her slippers and fix her hair. Where are you going? She jumps and stares at me, as if she didn’t notice me before, staring at the window. I have to pick up someone’s daughter, she says quickly, panting in between words, he has asked me to pick her up. He’s... Busy. Ah, I pause. May I come? At this, she hesitates,

Yes. I put on shoes and follow her out the door, careful to shut it behind me. She’s sitting outside of a large building, head resting on her hands as she seemed far away, spaced out, in her own world, whatever you prefer. The car stops next to the curb she sat upon, startling her out of her dream state. Her smile is genuine when she sees our car, then she realizes it’s not her family and her smile turns into a shy, disappointed one. Veronica. She addresses my mom, who smiles back.

Then her eyes are on me. She sees me for the first time, and for me, this is probably my hundredth time, but I smile as a greeting anyway, and her eyes shift away in a nervous manner, face flushed. She didn’t ask for my name. What are you doing here? Sara asks inquisitively, brown eyes curious, I am supposed to be waiting for my father.

Fairfield asked me to pick you up from ballet classes. The smile is gone, it was a performance. My mother’s breath hitches, and she looks at me. I shift my eyes to Sara in response. I’m sorry I missed it, Mom says finally. The younger girl sighs and walks to the car, getting in the back seat and slamming the car rather forcefully. You’re not the one who is supposed to be saying that. She is quiet for a minute, and we were all back in the car by then. No one is supposed to be saying that.

The car ride was silent. My mom’s front seat was full of junk, so I had to sit in the back with Sara. I take a whiff of her when she was distracted by a frog hitching a ride on the window. She smells like sweat and mangoes. I catch her staring at me a couple times when she thought I wasn’t looking. Was she going to introduce herself? Before she could say anything, though, the car halts, almost sending her flying forward. Always wear a seat belt. Sorry, my mom apologizes, we’re here. Sara gets out the car and without another word, enters her house. I watch her with an unblinking gaze. 
 

It’s Monday. I’m heading to my first period. I am already two minutes late, but it’s okay because my teacher is always at least five minutes late. I sit in my usual spot: back row, far right, away from the windows, besides the bookshelves and textbooks. I busy myself with dark thoughts. When was the last time I’ve killed something? My hand was twitching in anticipation; perhaps I should make a visit to the pound a few neighborhoods away-Pricks upon my neck. Someone is watching me. My head snaps up in response, eyes involuntary searching the room. I see her. Dark brown hair and wide, unsuspecting eyes: Sara. Sara Fairfield.

 I was correct. Her eyes snap downwards automatically, face burning. Then she seems to say something to herself. She stands and makes her way towards me. My gaze must’ve made her nervous because she stumbled a bit. I would’ve laughed if it was funny. She stops in front of me, eyes still casting downwards and hands folded in front of her politely. This bothers me a bit, reason unknown. Sorry for just getting up and leaving yesterday... I was a little upset at the fact that my dad missed yet another performance. And he called a friend to pick me up instead of doing it himself. I will tell my mom of your apologies, I answer, and she smiles at the simplicity, coming out of her transparent shell slowly and slowly. Good. My name is Sara, what’s yours? She asks. I tell her my name and then the classroom door opens, revealing the teacher in all her flushed glory. Sorry students! She breathes heavily, fixing her messy hair, turn your textbooks to page... 

 Lunch. I generally eat alone, sometimes with a group that doesn’t mind me eating with them. Today, the former was happening. I bite the sandwich I picked out and chew slowly. A tray lands in front of me; it’s Sara again. She beaming down at me and makes herself comfortable at my table. How was second period? She asks cheerfully, is this going to be a regular thing now? It was okay. Just like any other day. I answer, not even looking at her. I never really noticed how many classes we have together. Me neither. You have P.E. next too? That’s right. I do too. I know. Oh. Silence. Chewing. Talking. Repeat. She talks... a lot. I did not expect this. But it’s fine, this doesn’t change anything. I don’t know what her end goal is, interacting with me, but I have an idea of what it is, and if I’m right, this is just going to be easier than I thought. Do you do sports? She asks suddenly. Soccer, I pause, once. You don’t play it anymore? No. Why? No. Oh! She says, flustered at my lacking answer, okay.

Say something. You? Huh? Oh! Um, she hums in thought, tapping her foot. This, again, annoys me. I like soccer. Are you just saying that? Really? I respond, and she smiles weakly. I’m on to her. Mhm, she replies, I played for two years, but I found out that I liked dancing more. I consider my next words carefully; should I say we should play sometime? That would be a perfect set up to kill her. No, I shouldn’t. I would be the last person seen with her if I decide to do that, drawing unnecessary attention. Should I call her out on her lie so we can laugh over it and get closer in this friendship? A false sense of security. I need to remember that. Oh. I intelligently respond. Silence. She finishes her food and tries to sneak a piece of my sandwich on her plate. Her last meal. The bell rings. I automatically stand and grab my tray, catching her thieving hand by surprise. Let’s go to P.E. together. She says, and we do. 
 

We hide behind the bleachers, effectively scaring away teenagers with ill intentions. My legs are crossed while she sat with her knees up to her chest, watching our class run around the building for laps and the teacher looking for us. She turns to me with a small smile. How’s your life? Pardon? You know... Are you happy with how things are? I want you to die. More or less. Same, well, sort of. An opportunity. Oh? I mean, she begins, my whole life been pretty sucky.

My dad drinks all the time and brings different women home every week, and my sister is always high as a kite, if she’s not, she’s either away with her sporty friends or tormenting me. My mom... She sighs deeply. You don’t like being kept waiting. What are you waiting for? We already know. She walked out on us when I was born. I don’t even know how she looks like. My dad always breaks down when I ask about her and my sister doesn’t tell me anything. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this crappy life. Do you ever wonder about your own existence? I was dozing off, but not enough to miss the last question, a lot. She smiles, happy that she wasn’t alone in at least some things. I do too. I resist saying ‘I know’ and we return to silence, watching the students on the other side playing.

It didn’t take long for her to trust me enough to let me come over to her house. Her father didn’t care, and her sister had no authority over her to say whether she can or not bring friends over. So there I was, sitting next to Sara and watching some old horror movie, clutching the knife in my pocket. An hour later, just when the movie reached its climax, I asked her where the closest bathroom is. She told me where it was and I got up and went there. I grabbed the gloves I had and put them on, adjusting them so they wouldn’t be so tight on my skin. I was ready. I silently crept out of the bathroom, and already my hands were shaking - the familiar rush of doing something absolutely wrong began to kick in, two-times - no, ten-times more intense than usual. Because this was no dog, this was no cat. This game is a human. The difference is that I can understand her sobs. She’ll last longer. She will feel the pain and describe it to me in the form such beautiful screams of anguish until she feels nothing at all. I stand right behind her and inhale sharply.

The knife is in her so fast she didn’t have to time process the pain yet. I feel as if it feels like getting a splinter: first, you feel the sharpness of the wood, then the real pain sets in. She screams, I quickly cover her mouth. I flip over the couch and straddle her small form, yanking the knife from her back and plugging it back inside her, this time in her stomach. Her screech is muffled by my hand, the glove beginning to shine from the tears and foaming saliva. Yank, plug. Yank, plug. Again and again and again. A wonderfully fatal cycle. Her yells grow weaker with every stab, her eyes begin to dim as her essence spilled all over the floor. Blood and urine mix and form a puddle on the floor, and I cringe in disgust as I feel a warmth on my clothes. I hope it’s just the blood. The price of conflict, I sigh. She’s not screaming anymore. Her eyes were narrowed as she cried endless tears and struggled uselessly. Another good thing about humans: they struggle a lot more than a dog or cat does. She gazes up at me. Hurt, fear, betrayal. Why? Do I feel bad?

Tell me, Sara Fairfield, I murmur, searching her blood-soaked body. Where does it hurt the most? She cries harder. Here? I place a finger on her heart. I can feel it beating frantically. I can hear it. I use the hand on her mouth to stroke her hair lovingly as I grip the knife tightly again. I’ll make the pain go away. Would you like that? Was it just the shaking, or was that a nod I see? In one second, her body ceased convulsing, and her lifeless eyes stare back up at me, forever burned into my mind as my greatest achievement. The lights flicker on, making me snap my head up in the hallway. Someone was there. It was a boy my age staring at me in shock, probably looking at the blood and the dead body pinned beneath me. Sara.  He breathed in horror.

I calculated wrong. She had a brother.

I remember these times fondly at nights when everything is quiet and I lay in bed, waiting for sleep to claim me for just one night, or morning, depending on when I decide to go out and kill. Killing seems to be the only thing I do these days. Not that it’s getting old; it will never get old, hence the reason why it’s all I do. It’s as if receiving a game you always wanted. Perhaps a game your mother had bought you when you were a child, a time when you were innocent and the smallest things interested you. A reward, maybe, for being a good child, or maybe just because you keep pestering for her to get it for you. Either way, you get it, and you’re the happiest child this world has ever seen. Hmm, no.

It is not like that at all. Let me try again. It’s like drugs. You know it is wrong, what you’re doing, but you can’t stop. You’ve gotten this far, what’s the point of stopping? You keep doing it over and over again. The high becomes more important than your friends. The high becomes more important than your family. The high becomes more important than you. You need help, but you don’t want it. That’s the difference. That’s the sin. I need my fill. I need my fill. This is my hobby. This is all I’m good at. This is all I have to offer. This is my drug. This is my sin. I still do it in secret; it’d been a week since Sara and her brother had died mysteriously. It shook my little town. Did I tell you? I’m sorry.

I need to let you know everything. We are the same person, after all. His name is Matthew. His instincts reacted quickly to the scene and he bolted, running for his father’s room and screaming at the top of his lungs. Luckily, running was one of my few talents, so I had no problem subduing him in the middle of the hallway, silencing him quickly and effectively by slicing his throat. It took me two hours to get rid of the bodies and evidence, which I put in the old car and set ablaze. Everything was ashes, and I had no worry about whether the house will burn down or not.

Apparently it took a whole night for the father to realize half his house was on fire. The two remaining family members moved out immediately. No condolences. No funeral. Pity. (I was later able to recognize Matthew as the boy who I hit with the soccer ball that day and had to be sent to the hospital. I later thank him, because without him being on that particular spot at that particular time, I’d probably wouldn’t have been where I am today. Maybe. Unlikely.)When news came out that Sara and Matthew had been mercilessly murdered in their own house, homes have been locked up tight. Parents didn’t let their children out after certain hours. My school practiced a lockdown. It was quite surprising to me how serious they took this little test-run. Maybe I should stop for a moment, I remember myself thinking, let it sink in. This just in: This morning, a little boy was found dead in his bedroom, multiple stab wounds to the chest. Studies show that this did not kill him, in fact, and instead caused him unbearable pain until the killer stabbed him in the heart, ending his life.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My resistance lasted for a week at most. When I found my will wavering, I killed animals, but it just wasn’t the same. I wanted my kind. I wanted a human. He put up the most fight out of all three of my kills so far. Honestly, my mother spoke from besides me, cupping her hands to her mouth. I think I see tears. It’s unthinkable. How could anyone do such a thing? I can only imagine how bad it must be for the mother, going to wake up her son only to find a crime scene instead. Sniffle. I don’t think I have ever understood how dark the human race could actually be, nor if I ever will. This is just horrible... despicable... She stutters. Evil, I offer Evil. She cries. First Sara and Matthew, now this.

She stops talking. I hoped that she would just go and cry in her room or something, but she just kept talking. It’s scary, isn’t it? To know that we just met her a little over a month ago? You were her best friend, too. You must have been so frightened when you heard of the news. Absolutely. I say. I won’t ever let that happen to you or your siblings. My mother emptily vows. I smile at her meaningless determination. The knife in my pocket seems more appealing than before.

I need my fill. I need my fill.