FicWad

It's something I've been doing for a long time. It comes easily to me, and I need it. I long for it. I think about it all the time. It's something that never, ever, escapes my mind. Because I live for it, I breathe for it. It's my everything, it's everything I have, all I ever will have. It comes easily to me, the practice from past years making it so unexplainably easy. I don't even bother crying anymore. I've long since stopped thinking about their terror, their horror, as their nightmares come to life, all I can think of is satisfying my own taste, my own desires. Because they don't matter, there are millions more where they came from.

My life, as it it, is dedicated to destroying others. It's not for the fame of it, and it's not for the money, but more for the bodies I have claimed. It's what I live for, and without it I wouldn't be alive. It's really, in all honesty, quite simple. It makes my job so much easier, knowing that I can't skip out, because the smell of rotting flesh and decomposing bodies is something my body craves. Even when I don't have a job, I kill often. It's a sport I've grown used to by now.

The killing is my thorn, it's what makes me so undesirable. The inability to stop killing. It's one of those things I just can't help but do. You have things like that, everyone does. Mine is just more...extreme. Because I kill. And it's not that I love it. It's that I need it, something I will never forget. No one will ever forget the way I look when I kill them, hungry and relieved, an odd mix that makes me only that much more threatening, that much more terrifying, that much more insane.

So it's natural that I've given up my humanity now. Because I'm evil. I was born this way, and there's nothing anyone can ever do about it. So I might as well do a helluva good job. I'll be doing this forever.

I don't feel any mercy, in fact I chuckle, as I pull back my arm, and the extension of my arm, a wonderful wood and metal ax, glints in preparation for my hunger, my thirst, my swing. I take the first swing- the girl screams in agony, pure agony. I strike again, and again, and again, until she's a bloody mess. Not easily identifiable. Her previously blue, bugged out eyes are indistinguishable from the rest, her screams dead in her torn up, slashed throat. The poor girl, barely able to scream as I massacred her life. I hack and hack, even after she's log gone, splitting her body into uncountable different parts. An unidentifiable pile of blood and bones. Nothing of worth left.

I've never been caught, and I never will. It helps that I'm ambidextrious, so I can use the same weapon twice without the authorities suspecting the same person. Me. I've killed so many people. It's laughable.

I've become a master of killing, an art I've come to perfect. I strive to succeed, it's become as normal as anything else. It's always interesting, the way people squeal in horror, or beg for their lives, knowing it themselves that I would never let them go. Just vain efforts, going through the proper motions.

The way they ask if I'm going to kill them. It's almost laughable. They know I will. But they hope, and I should give them credit for that. Hope is something I lost long ago. But they don't seem to understand. Their pain is what I desire. It's really that simple.

I chuckle slightly, wrapping my scarf around my face. I'm already rich from all the money I've made on other jobs, but the payment for this one is always welcome. I'll get it, but I have to kill her entire family first.