I hear your music. I hear the sound of your voice. It travels into me, into my mind, into my very soul. It takes over me, it consumes me. You make me bow, yelling at me, I bend over low.
But your voice, when it echoes in my mind, it forces away all thought, you make me bow, but your voice brings me to my knees.
How is it you do not see me? How? When I am right here before you? When I am cowering on the ground?
I am here because of you, because of what you have done to me. Do you not see my suffering?
How is it you do not hear me? How? When I am right here beside you? When I am screaming, even though I am coughing up blood?
I am hurt because of you, because of what you have done because of me. Do you not hear my anguish?
How is it you do not feel me? How? When I am right here hitting you? When I am trying with all the strength in my body to hurt you, to make you hurt?
I am hurt because of you, because of what you have done for me. Do you not feel my music?
The music that I make. It is not produced by my voice. I am not playing some sweet instrument because of my loss, because of my hurt. No.
It is Murder's Music.
The music I make is much sweeter than yours. It is produced by my rage, by the hatred I nurture that was conceived by you.
The music I make is much more beautiful, it is produced by my need, my infallible desire for revenge. Revenge for what you did to me.
The music I make is all for you. Sung by the thrill of a chase. Played by the cock of a pistol, listened to by the victim I hunt, appreciated by myself, by my vengeance.
The music I make is your shrill scream, when I find you at last, when the blood you spilt is repaid.
The music I make is my cruel laughter. I spare no mercy for you. Because of you, I have no mercy left to be spared.
I compose Murder's symphony.
And when all is over. When the music has played, the dramatic end is finished. I am walking away from your body.
And I am smiling.
How is it you did not know me? How? When you knew what I was capable of?
I was hurt because of you, because you still lived, even when others died. Did you not know of my lust for equal payment?
Did you know? Did you really know what I can do? I don't think you did. You used to sing this music. You don't anymore.
Because now, murder is my music.