I got the idea for this two nights ago, and I just had to write it down. To be honest, I'm not really sure what to make of it, but it's the first time in a while I've had spontaneous inspiration like this. I don't think I've written anything in first person present tense before, so I'm not sure how well I did. I welcome critical reviews!

I LOVE YOU

I trace my finger over the photographs. I do not remember when I took them. I do not know who she is. I do not know who he is. But I know what I feel. I feel anger. I feel sad. I feel a lot of things.

A very dark part of me feels happy. I do not like that part of me. But it is a part of me, so I have to accept it. I just hope that people don’t hate all of me for that part of me.

Some of the picture shows the girl being raped by the man. I am sad when I see her pain. I am angry when I see that he enjoys it. I am sad when I see that he didn’t have to do it. I am angry when I see that the reason she doesn’t resist because she doesn’t want to hurt him.

I am mostly angry with myself, actually. I am angry because I took these pictures instead of stopping it.

But there is no erasing the past. What happened has happened. What has happened yesterday cannot be changed today. What happens today cannot be changed tomorrow.

And I am going to do something today.

Seeing the strong take advantage of the weak sickens me. Not just in a moral sense, although that’s true, but more so in a physical sense. It makes me feel faint. It makes me feel lightheaded. It makes me feel frail. It makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.

It makes me feel weak myself.

I am unable to look at the photographs any longer. My eyes move to the gun. I pick it up. It’s a Berretta. Nine millimeter, of course. I’m not a bad shot. I squeeze the handle tightly. It doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t feel like I’m a man with a weapon. It feels like I’m a child with something he shouldn’t be touching.

Guns sometimes bother me. They’re not like you see in the movies. They don’t go “BLAM!” or “BOOM!” They crack. They sound like firecrackers. It’s as if they’re mocking me. Their high pitched, short lived sounds would seem so innocuous, if not for their volume. But they’re little death machines. A lead projectile as wide as your pinky finger travels faster than the speed of sound and flattens out at first contact with a solid object, ending up twice the width by the time the exit would occurs. Following behind it is a gaping hole. All over the course of a blink of an eye. Faster, actually.

I’ve been told that a lot of killers like to use guns because they let them dissociates themselves from the killing. Using knives and whatnot makes the killing personal. Guns make it distant and manageable. But in truth they’re messy.

Point. Pull. KRAK. Splash. Drip. Blood everywhere. Everywhere. So simple, but so difficult. It takes days to clean it. Even then you revisit a few days later, and you find that you missed a spot. And another spot. And you realize you didn’t check to see if any of it flowed into the closet. And then you realize that there was splatter on the ceiling.

My blood is running cold from holding the gun for so long. I put it down next to the pictures. I would not do this with a gun. It wasn’t right. Instinctively, I bring my hand to above my right shoulder. It touches a rubber handle. I must have put this on my back during a time of greater sobriety. Not that I drink at all. But I’m not always sober.

I grasp the handle and pull out the weapon. I see in my hand thirty inches of black, cold, sharp, unforgiving justice. It is my gardening machete.

I drag a finger along the edge and see that I have made two errors. Firstly, the blade is not cold, but is in fact quite warm. I have a revelation from this. Justice is not cold. Justice is not distant. Justice is close to home. Justice is not in the jury of twelve peers who know nothing about you, in the prosecutors or defense attorneys, or in the judge. They are simply fulfilling their duties. Hopefully that will lead to justice, but that’s not justice itself. Justice is preventing evil, not responding to it.

Justice is love. I glance at the photographs. I love the girl. That is why it hurts to see her in pain. I love the man. That is why it hurts to see him cause pain. I love them both so much. That’s why it hurts so much. That’s why it will hurt so much. This is going to be personal.

Secondly, the edge is far from sharp. It’s very blunt, actually. It has numerous chips and rough parts from its use. I notice that dirt and bits of grass are leftover from my last project. I have a second revelation. Justice should not be easy. Justice is not clean, it’s not smooth, and it’s not gentle. It’s rough, harsh. Any immediacy this thing had before is gone now. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I turn and see the man tied in a chair, looking at me with terribly frightened eyes. I bet he would be screaming or yelling too, if he weren’t gagged. I suppose I brought him here in a time of greater sobriety. I do a lot of good things when I’m sober.

I walk up to him and look at him in the eyes for a while. I begin to cry because I love him so much. I love him so much. That’s why I can’t let him continue doing this. To her. To himself.

I begin to choke, but I fight through it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “This is going to hurt.”

I exit the room. I’m not sure how long I was in there. I’ve always been a bad judge of time. I am drenched in blood. I don’t like the feeling of being wet. It makes me feel messy.

In front of me is the girl. She is also tied up in a chair. I don’t remember when I did that. Was I sober when I did that? I don’t know why I tied her. I don’t know why she’s here.

She’s crying. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no. Stop crying. I hate seeing girls cry. I hate seeing people cry. It makes me want to cry. Don’t cry. Did I do something wrong? Oh yes, I tied you up. I’m sorry. I don’t remember why I did that. But I would never hurt you. I’m sure I didn’t tie you too tightly. Anything else? Oh yes, I’m holding a bloody machete, coming out of the room he was brought into. I’m sorry, it’s not what it looks like. I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. I forgot to put the machete down. Honest. Please trust me.

I can’t say any of it. Seeing her cry is too much. It makes me want to cry.

I blink. My cheeks are wet. Am I crying? I’m crying. I don’t like crying. Stop crying. It’s making me cry. Is it the machete? I’ll put down the machete.

I drop the machete. It clangs on the floor. It startles the girl. She flinches. She whimpers loudly. I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong again? I’m a bad person. I need to understand people better. Please forgive me.

What should I do? Oh, you have a gag on. You can’t answer. Oh, I didn’t say anything anyway. Let me take that gag off so I can ask you.

I take a step forward. She flinches again. She whimpers more. I stand still. I do not know what to do. Should I go back into the room?

I do not want to go back into the room. He’s in the room. I do not want to see him.

I blink. I’m still crying.

I’m crying because she’s crying.

I’m crying because I love her.

I’m crying because someone I love is crying.

I love her.

I love you.

Who are you?

I love you.

Don’t cry. I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you.

I’m not like him. I won’t hurt you.

I didn’t want to hurt him. I love him. I loved him.

I did it because I love him.

I look up. I blink. More tears flow down my cheeks.

“What now?” I say. “What am I supposed to do now?”

She flinches again. She whimpers more.

I love you.