BORN TO KILL

Journal Entry 1

Sometimes I think back to when my sister was just a baby. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I remember it clearly. She was sleeping in her crib, and I had sneaked into our parents' room. I didn’t want her to wake up and cry because it would get me in trouble. So, I held her mouth to keep her quiet. I didn’t know she wouldn’t wake up again.

Everyone thought it was cot death. They said it was one of those sad things that just happen. No one ever suspected me because I was just a little kid. They cried and talked about how tragic it was, but I felt nothing. Just calm, like everything was finally quiet.

I remember watching my parents as they cried, their faces twisted with grief and confusion. They kept asking why, but I knew they would never find an answer. Not the real one, anyway. It was strange to see them so vulnerable, so lost in their emotions while I stood there feeling nothing.

Over the years, there have been many others—so many that I've lost count. Each one different, yet the feeling remains the same: a strange mix of control and peace. People who got too close or too loud just disappeared from my life.

It's almost amusing to think about it now—how I've become the most prolific serial killer ever without anyone suspecting a thing. If only they knew! The thought makes me laugh sometimes, this secret life hidden beneath layers of normalcy.

I’ve learned how to act so no one suspects anything. At school and work, I'm the person who gets things done efficiently and without fuss. People praise me for my dedication; colleagues come to me for help with their tasks or advice on their problems. At home, I'm the perfect friend or partner who does what’s expected and never causes trouble.

It’s like wearing different costumes for different people so they see what they want to see. Smiling when expected, nodding along to conversations that mean nothing to me—it’s all part of the act. But keeping up with all these roles is exhausting. It’s like carrying a heavy weight that never goes away.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I stopped pretending—if I let them see who I really am. Would they be scared? Would they even care? Or would they simply turn away, unable to comprehend what lies beneath the surface?

I write in this journal because it’s the only place where I can be honest. Here, there are no masks or lies—just me and my thoughts. Sometimes it feels like this is the only real part of my life.

I think about what it means to be different—to see the world through a lens that others can't understand or accept. It's both isolating and empowering in its own way. While others are bound by their emotions and fears, I'm free from those constraints.

But freedom comes at a cost—a constant balancing act between who I am and who they expect me to be. The tension builds with each passing day as I navigate this delicate dance of deception.

As much as I crave authenticity, there's also comfort in knowing that no one sees through my facade—that my secrets remain hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed lies.

For now, I'll continue playing my roles—efficient worker, dedicated friend—while keeping this part of myself locked away where no one can reach it.