I was feeling depressed again. So I wrote a story to make me feel better. Hope you like it. I hope I still got it.

I'm a terrible person.

Truly terrible.

I'm jealous of other people's happiness. I'm covetous of the joy they can obtain just from everyday life. How they can laugh with such real sincerity. How they can smile with such undiluted joy. How they can converse with such visible energy. How they can bounce around and play with such sheer enthusiasm. How they can feel. How they can feel happiness so easily. So simply. So effortlessly. I can never understand it. Not with my dead body. I can hardly feel anything. Every day, day after day, I walk through my monotonous existence, feeling nothing. Living meaninglessly. Being no one. It was difficult to feel anything. Almost infeasible. I'm hardly alive. I can't understand how they can live out their lives so happily. I can't understand how they can be so happy. How they can smile. How they can laugh. Not with my dull existence. However, when they laugh, when they smile, even if it was just a hint of a smile, when happiness crosses their face, the pure joy just starkly visible on their face, with what little emotion I can feel, I grow melancholy. Deeply depressed. Somehow, with my dead emotions, I envy those people. Their cheerful smiles. Their cheerful laughter. Their pure, undiluted happiness. I envy the pleasure that they get just from living their life. Just from being alive. Pleasure that they can obtain so easily. So effortlessly. So simply. Pleasure I myself can't obtain. Happiness that's so out of my reach that I can only long for it from a far distance. Euphoria that I have never experienced. With what little emotion I can feel, I envy them. I covet what they have. I want their happiness. That's why I torture them. Kill them. Slaughter them mercilessly.

I'm a deplorable person.

Absolutely atrocious.

In the dead of the night, disguised in black, I sneak into their home when they're restfully slumbering. Then, I tie them up. Rendering them helpless. Waiting for them to awake. Waiting for the sleepiness disappear from their eyes. Watching fear replace it, entering into their eyes when they realize the situation they were in. That they're completely helpless. At my mercy. Cornered. Like a wild animal. With me as the predator. I watch the complete and utter terror that takes over their eyes, that devours them, consuming them, eating them up inside, when they realize they're staring death in the face. Me. Faintly relishing the complete power I had over them. Then I slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, peel their thin dermis from their bodies. Strip after strip after strip. Then one fingernail after one fingernail. Next, one strand of hair after one thin strand of hair. Then, finger after finger. And listen to them scream bloody murder. Agony etched into their voices. Their faces. Pain masking their happiness. They're no longer happy now. Hah. A thin wisp of happiness rises up in my dead heart at their misfortune. I stick sharpened pencils into their arms, their legs, purposely avoiding vital organs, and watch them bleed. The blood dripping slowly from their holes in their defenseless, tied-up bodies. I slice a razor-sharp knife along their delicate skin, scarring their helpless bodies, and watch the vermillion blood bubble up, agony flitting through their countenance. Laughing softly at the stark terror in their eyes. Smiling because they were in agony. Snickering because I had the power. A wonderful rush coursing through my dead veins, my very soul, when their blood flows out. When they scream. When they cry, pleading pathetically for their life. Knowing they won't survive this night. Having complete and utter control over them. Holding the key to their fate. Being able to determine their destiny makes me feel alive. The pure, undiluted euphoria that courses through my dead soul when my brain registers these facts. I let them bleed to death, stabbing more pencils into their soft flesh, slicing them some more with my knife, pulling out more fingers, toes. I let them die an agonizingly slow and excruciating death. Who's happy now, huh?

I'm a horrible person. Completely heinous.

Witnessing their pain. Their complete and utter helplessness. Their inevitable death. Knowing I caused it. Knowing that I was the one who had all the power. Absolute power over them. That I was the master. That they were at my mercy. That they were cornered. Knowing that I had the power, the freedom, the choice to determine whether they live or die. That I held the ropes. Knowing that I affected someone. Gives me such a terrific rush. Such euphoria. Such pleasure. Unlike what I experienced before. Pleasure coursing through my dead body. For a wonderful moment in my dull and apathetic existence. It makes me feel. It makes me feel alive. Like I wasn't a zombie. Like I was someone. Like I was a living, breathing human being. In that wonderful moment between deciding life and death, I am alive. Torturing them, killing them gives me such an ineffable rush, making me feel alive for a day. The loads of blood. The stark terror. The incredible rush. The adrenaline. The power. Makes me feel alive.

I'm an abominable person. Truly despicable.

I take pleasure from torturing people. Killing them. Ripping their nails, their hair, their fingers, their toes off. Ripping them apart limb after limb. Reducing them into bloody shreds. Somehow relishing the total power I had over them. After I was through with them, I would sit back and admire the masterpiece I made them into. Signing my signature with their blood with my gloved hands. I loved it. I loved the rush I obtained from murdering. The pure, undiluted joy. The absolute control I had over them. The sheer inhuman screams. Their pain. The terror in their eyes. I loved all of it.

Because for that split second, I feel.

I feel something.

I feel alive.

I'm a terrible person.

And I loved it.

Thank you for reading. A lovely present and future to you.