Exploring the depths: 100 revelations on anxiety and depression

🔪 Short Story 🩸

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of violence, murder, trauma, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

Read at your own risk!

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In the heart of a desolate city, where the streets echoed with the distant hum of life and the shadows danced to their own twisted rhythm, there lurked a figure. A figure consumed by darkness, fueled by a relentless urge that clawed at the recesses of their soul.

"Kill, kill, kill," the words echoed in their mind like a haunting refrain, driving them forward each beat of their heart. They knew why they killed, or perhaps they didn't. It didn't matter anymore. The thrill of it, the rush of power, was all-consuming.

"No reason," they muttered to themselves as they prowled through the deserted alleyways, their steps silent against the cold pavement. It didn't matter why they killed. It was enough that it felt...nice. Too nice, perhaps.

"You see me," they whispered to the empty streets, their voice a chilling whisper in the night. They craved attention, recognition, even if it came at the cost of bloodshed. They wanted the world to see the darkness that lurked within their soul.

"It's cold and disintegrated, isn't it?" they mused as they gazed into the abyss of their own existence. Their heart, if it could be called that, was a desolate wasteland, devoid of love or warmth. No sign of redemption in sight.

"No love for me," they spat out the words, the bitterness of rejection lingering on their tongue. They had been forsaken, abandoned by those who should have cared for them. No pride, no acceptance, only disdain.

"They think I can't do anything," they growled, the anger simmering beneath the surface of their skin. They had been underestimated, dismissed as insignificant. But they would prove them wrong. They would show them the power they held within.

"Murder, murder, blood drip," the words rolled off their tongue like a macabre lullaby, a twisted ode to their own depravity. Each kill was a masterpiece, a work of art crafted with meticulous precision. That's why they killed. Because they could.

"Look mom, I'm finally good at something," they whispered to the night sky, their voice tinged with bitter irony. They had sought validation, approval, but it had never come. Not then, not now. But they would make them see. They would make them proud.

"I told you I'll prove you wrong," they murmured as they vanished into the darkness, leaving behind nothing but a trail of blood and broken dreams. They had been doubted, ridiculed, but they would rise above it all. They would be worthy of something more.

"Are you proud of me finally?" they whispered to the night sky, the words heavy with longing. But there was no answer, only the mocking silence of the night.

"Of course you can't hear me," they scoffed, the bitterness rising within them like bile. Their mother was gone, lost to the void of death. But they would never forget. They would never forgive.

"Haha, I killed you," they laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the deserted alleyway. They had silenced her, taken away her voice, her life. But still, her pleas echoed in their ears, haunting them like a ghost.

"I played deaf," they admitted, the confession heavy on their tongue. They had turned a blind eye to her suffering, ignored her cries for help. But it was too late now. The damage had been done.

"Remember the time I called for your help?" they taunted, the bitterness rising within them like a tempest. Their father, the one who should have protected them, had been the one to inflict the deepest wounds.

"When dad threw his hands at me," they whispered, the words laced with venom. He had used them, abused them, left them broken and bleeding. But they would not be silent. They would make him pay.

"Both of you killed , so I'll kill," they declared, the words a mantra of vengeance. They had been victimized, violated, but they would not be powerless. They would take back control, one kill at a time.

And as they disappeared into the abyss, a sinister laugh echoed in the night, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurked within the human soul. For in the heart of every murderer, there lies a truth that cannot be denied: they killed because they could. And therein lies the unsettling reality that villains are not born, but rather made.

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I watched a reality criminal show and my brain started to narrate their story into the script you read just now.
I wanted to share this story with you to emphasize that even those whom we may perceive as evil have their own narratives, struggles, and challenges. It's crucial to consider both sides of the coin before passing judgment on someone.