BORN TO KILL

Journal Entry 3

Dear Journal,

Daddy mentioned the boy today—George, the young son from down the street. He told me how they found him with a knife through his chin, saying he must have fallen while playing. He warned me to be careful, his voice filled with concern that I mirrored back with a nod and a smile.

But I know the truth, and it’s far more interesting. George was an easy target, with his wild imagination and eager-to-please nature. I convinced him he was Freddy Krueger, whispering tales of adventure and mischief. I told him to take a knife and play, to unleash his inner monster. He didn’t quite follow through as I envisioned—he merely slashed at the sofa and tore apart the kitchen bins in a frenzy. His mother found him there, bewildered by the chaos he’d created.

The next time I saw him was at the park near their house. I approached him with a smile that quickly turned into something harsher. I slapped him hard across the face, grabbed his chin tightly, and told him he’d ruined everything. I was going to give him sweets and a kiss, but now that was off the table.

Instead, I proposed an awesome secret game—a thrilling adventure only we could share. His eyes lit up with excitement as I described it, pulling him into my world of make-believe.

He returned with the knife hidden inside his jacket, clutching it like a secret treasure. As he handed it to me, I acted swiftly. I plunged the blade into his chin, driving it upwards into his brain. It wasn’t instant; he staggered back, confusion and pain etched across his face. I had to stomp on the back of his head to finish it.

Watching him collapse was surreal—a mix of horror and beauty in its rawest form. The euphoria washed over me as I observed the life drain from his eyes. It felt like crushing an annoying fly that had been buzzing around me—satisfying and freeing.

The fucking shit deserved it! Imagine if he'd said it was me? I'd never take any chances again after that day