FicWad

I smiled, barely able to resist my urge to kill the girl now. I want to kill her so bad, the urge to cause tragedy for those around me just so undeniably strong.

My fiancé, the girl I asked to marry me. Why would a gay man ask a woman to marry him? Well, why would a man with every intention of cheating marry a woman? None the matter, as I had planned to kill her from the beginning anyway.

Bleached white hair and a smile that can light up a room. It’s just so tempting, every moment I’m around her I just want to stick a knife into her back, turn and twist it as she screams out in pain, crimson blood running down her pale, blemish free skin and onto my hands.

She’s a wealthy girl, a lovely kill really. I’ll get all her money when she’s gone after we’re married, but that’s not really what killing’s about. I want her, I want to feel her cold body and have the pleasure of building her make-shift grave out in the woods.

I shiver in anticipation just thinking about it. It’ll just be so lovely, murdering my wife to be. It doesn’t hurt that I have a sexy as fuck partner, not that I’d ever tell him I think that of him. He’d never let me live it down, and then I’d have to kill him. And I can honestly say I don’t want to kill him. I think he’s the only person that really falls into that category, and I’d never tell him that I even have that category.

Again, I’d never hear the end of it.

What I mean is that after you murder your brother when you’re six you sort of have a reputation to hold up. Murdering your parents at age five is even better.

I am, in all honesty, one of the best. One of the best killers, you ask? No, of course not. There are far better killers out there than me, others who are far better at hiding bodies than I am. But I am the absolute best when it comes to blood lust.

I’m perfect. I’m not bulky and buff, I’m not someone you would immediately expect to kill you. I can control myself enough not to be suspected or make rash decisions, but still want it enough to fantasize about it. I’m patient enough, and when I kill I take a sadistic pleasure in it, but I’m not led to believe it’s something that I’m not. I don’t think God is instructing me to kill people, I don’t think there is a greater force driving me to kill mundane people or sinners, whatever they are.

I’m dirty, simple as that. The kind of dirty you can’t wash out of clothes, the kind of dirty that rips people apart and destroys families. Everyone is equal in my mind, everyone is the same, be them man, woman or child. Why should I discriminate? It’s wrong, isn’t it? That’s what they say; Don’t discriminate. So I don’t, I really don’t. I try to be a fair person, kill the poor, kill the wealthy, kill the weak, kill the strong. I kill the old, kill the young. Because I am a murderer.

You can’t deny it, you can’t deny how I drink in the pleasure of watching someone drain of warmth, of watching their life pass before their eyes. It’s excellent, the absolute best feeling you can imagine. It’s sex wrapped in a box, pretty colors adorning the immense feeling of joy.

I soak up their worst nightmares like it’s a fine wine I can’t get enough of; quite frankly I can’t get enough of it. I enjoy twisting people’s minds, those idiots whom think God is on their side.

Drenched in sin, drenched in their own unworldly creations and dreams my victims die, bringing any hope they ever had with them. They writhe in pain as I smell the perfume of burning flesh, as the fumes cascade all over my body and settle into my own flesh. Of course, I quickly lose that wonderful smell but it’s one of my favorites.

Burning people to death seems to be a favorite of mine.

Frankie, my partner, doesn’t like to burn people. He prefers to deliver quick and easy deaths, only nasty ones if he knows the victim. I constantly find myself fantasizing over how he would destroy me, if he would slowly torture me with awfully wonderful concoctions of evil or just shoot me executioner style. I’ve never been one for guns; they’re too impersonal.

I prefer to let someone scream every last detail of their pained existence to me while I pull nail after nail out of their injured fingers and toes. It’s just so lovely, so beautiful and something I don’t know if I could live without. Sex on a blade. Everything one could ever want in the form of tortured screams and last, labored breaths.

Grim as ever.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve always just felt the need to kill. When I was four, I accidentally pushed one of the other children at my daycare of the swings set. Of course I didn’t plan for her to hit her neck and go into cardiac arrest, finally dying moments later as the blood ran in tiny little vines all around the playground.

I was transfixed upon those veins of blood, completely overwhelmed by their beauty. It was just so… so… words couldn’t even describe that moment for me. The blood spider webbing away from that ordinary lifeless body was so perfect to me, it was something I could look at for hours. I ran to my cubby to get the little camera I kept on me, one my parents gave me to document special moments, as my day care had gone to the zoo earlier.

My parents weren’t too happy when they found the entire camera filled with pictures of the girl I’d killed. And I was so proud of myself.

Age four, my first kill. Of course, there are so many more to come.