|The Guiltless Slaughter
Author: twerpknocker PM
I'm not your average murderer, if there's such a thing. I like the ones in the very clichéd movies, but they're just urban legends. I kill to live. This is me, this is reality.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Drama - Words: 1,765 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 06-19-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3033949
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It's ironic that death scares the crap out of me, yet I kill people. Please don't compare me to the serial killers you know because I'm not your average murderer, if there's such a thing. I'm just as normal as any person out there.
That's probably the most terrifying part of the act; the exterior doesn't reveal the sickening truth within. Yes, I like being evil. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a sick, twisted bastard. Neither was I molested at childhood, so don't put me in a box. That's overused.
I like to think of it as humanity paying its debt for the life we were given. At least that's what they said, that we would all end up dying sooner or later from old age, our souls would either ascend into heaven or burn eternally in hell, leaving our bodies to be swallowed up by the earth and shatter into pieces.
But not me. Do you hear me? Not me. These fools who worship a piece of wood and statues they created themselves believe they will be saved from the rapture if they have the strongest faith. Bullshit.
I believe in immortality. I make my life, my own fate, and I shall only have faith in myself and nobody else. It just so happens that everything has a price to pay. So what I do, I kill to survive.
In this cruel modernized world controlled by technology and religion, death comes at every age, race, sex, size and shape. You never know when you're going to get life sucked out of you, and how. And that's the only thing that terrifies me beyond my wits.
I don't know how it started like this, but for as far as I can remember, the paranoia had grown up with me over the years. Actually, the term paranoia is an understatement. It's much more than that. It's all that defines me now as a living piece on this planet.
I am nothing more than just an empty shell of nightmares hiding behind a mask. I have never really spoken to anyone about it, not even the voices inside my head. I can't really stop them from hearing my thoughts, but they co-exist with me quite peacefully.
I've never really named them, and they sort of alternate at times so I'm not really sure who I'm speaking to, which then gets me very annoyed, but who am I to complain when they're my only friends? Friends. The word disgusts me, just as much as every other lowlife in this world. In this life, there are no friends. People betray one another, screw their neighbours' wives and do kinky shit, go to school and join the booming population of the unemployed, and go to sleep at night worrying about the next day.
Sad, sad earth. What is there to worry about, when Death can no longer claim your life? It's selfish, I know, that I have no plans to reveal my secrets of immortality to anyone, except of course for the voices in my subconscious. They are the ones who'd helped me see the light and pursue the path to an endless life untouched by Death.
Yes, they told me that as long as I keep doing what I'm doing, then Death will never stray my way. That cunning son of a bitch. How many souls does he take everyday, if souls did indeed exist? He must be so happy, if such feeling exists as well.
I don't live in a permanent place for more than three months, that's why I never get caught. And I never will be, because I'm an expert at cleaning up my own mess and disposing of the evidence. I smirk to myself as I'm writing this down.
My killings are not that frequent either. The dates are well spaced apart and most of them just end up as missing people to never be found. The voices have taught me, that as long as I shed blood every couple of months, I'm good to go.
There are times though that I kill more than one person at a time, but that's only when chances are low or if Death is threatening to come knocking at the door. I always get away with it, always slamming the door right in that dipshit's face, assuming that he has one. I always imagine him as that funny masked clown in the Scream films.
The most satisfying part of the act itself is the torture. I don't just kill to sacrifice their lives for my own, I do it with a passion. I enjoy it. Especially when I have them strapped in chains and gagged perfectly so no one can hear, I love the smell of fresh blood pounding under their skins.
I'm not a lame vampire in the Twilight series, either. I just love the shedding of blood so much, and watching them squirm and see the terror in their eyes, it makes me feel powerful. I always start with a few cuts here and there, just to test their resistance to pain, then make them confess to their sins before going for the final kill.
Of course I promise them I'd set them free if they confessed. If they knew I would kill them anyway, would they even bother? I've heard countless stories, and I'm sure more than half of them are made-up. Regardless, I still enjoy them stutter and beg for mercy.
I take back the part of torture being the most satisfying. The best part is when they actually die. Most times it only takes a second, other times a full minute or two. That depends on how deep the cut is, or where the sword strikes. Yes, an actual sword, one I learned from my favourite film Kill Bill.
In that short span of time when pain ceases to exist and Death starts to cloud their vision, I feel aroused. It makes every strand of hair on my body stand on end, as though they're applauding my achievement.
I just realize as I'm scribbling this down that I am sort of helping Death with his duties. One of the voices is telling me that that is exactly what the purpose of the murder is. Death is clever, unpredictable, and omniscient. The other voice says this is the reason why bad people don't die at a young age.
I ask why they still die, and I'm told that they sooner or later stop being the bad ones, so Death eventually puts them back in his list. I am vaguely reminded of my childhood movie The Frighteners, where Death swoops in through walls and claims his victims off his numbered check-list.
In a way, I'm both fascinated and scared of him. I hope to never meet him in the future. He's always in the films I watch, in the food I eat, in the air I breathe, in my every waking nightmare – he's driving me nuts. Like I'm not insane already.
My parents used to think I'm special so I was home schooled my entire childhood life. Actually, I did want them to think I'm retarded, because I didn't want to go out except to do my deeds. My tutor who came in three times a week was bone-chillingly terrified of me. I could see it in her eyes and the way she kept her distance from me at all costs. I found that very amusing, because I wanted so badly to plunge my pencil right in her throat, but I didn't. My victims from day one have had no connections to me whatsoever.
Probably the most notable of my killings was that of a small family when I was camping in the woods one time. It was like a total re-enactment of another favourite, The Hills Have Eyes. I was even playing the theme song California Dreaming by The Beach Boys as I slowly killed them off one by one.
All the leaves are brown
And the sky is gray
I've been for a walk
On a winter's day
They were all tied up in their silly plastic chairs huddled in a circle facing each other, so they could watch one another being tortured to death.
I've been safe and warm
If I was in L.A.
On such a winter's day
I was so consumed by the rhythm of the music that I forgot it was a brilliant summer's day and other might people might be camping near the area. I was even half-expecting for a bunch of people to jump out of the bushes and avenge the poor family. Now that reminds me a little of The Last House On The Left.
Anyway, that's the best memory I have so far and it still arouses me to this day whenever I think of it. The coolest part is me throwing them all together in a heap and making a bonfire out of their corpses. Mind you, I was there for ages and it never really reduced them to ashes so I still had to bury their remnants under the soil.
They had to at least thank me for the decency of doing that. Now that I recall it all, I suddenly think of all the lives I've taken. How many have there been? I've lost count. Thirty? Forty? Fifty? And how much more blood will be shed? All I know is Death will be pleased and will forever be so grateful he will completely take my name off his list.
I'm watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre again as I write this. I absolutely adore this movie. I can relate to the antagonist, as he has felt inferior all his life, controlled and dominated by others. Yet when it comes to his killings, he commits them with grace and authority. With power.
I don't know where my nightmares will take me, but I don't intend to stop any time soon. The voices are there to guide my way. All I know now is that if worse comes to worst and clever Death gets his chance, I will not go down without a fight. Not ever.