I'll let you die (English)

1. Killer

Plic. Plic. Plic.

The sound of the thick embalming fluid dripping into a puddle on the floor makes me smile with satisfaction. I have to admit that this play was particularly good for me, although the truth is that the actress did not put much enthusiasm to collaborate. On the contrary, she was rather unpleasant.

I tie up my hair and make sure the sleeves cover the marks left on my forearm by Itzal's porcelain nails. I can't help but wrinkle my nose when I think about what it took to get them off, I'll never understand why anyone would put those on their hands. She did, however, have a beautiful bush of curly orange-red hair and cute freckles around her nose area.

That's why I chose her, because she reminded me of the woman on the billboard in that famous mystery movie. As in the case of the protagonist, my art is also undervalued and reviled.

To honor it, I spent a considerable amount of time preparing a perfume with the girl's body fat, which was unfortunately quite scarce, before bathing her and carefully shaving her for her display. I made her a high bun and covered her with a large plastic tarpaulin and carried her to the deserted small square, where I placed the white sheet on which she would lie until she was found, as if peacefully asleep, her right hand under her pale face and the other pointing to the ground, limp and delicate.

Next to her and to the bottle of handcrafted perfume in an antique glass bottle, I carefully placed my signature: a film plate with her name and age, to later send an identical one to the police station, with the GPS location of the body.

I stop for a moment to admire my work, feeling a strange mixture of pride and satisfaction. It is a scene of pure beauty, one that only I can comprehend in its full magnitude. I made sure that every detail was flawless, from the softness of her hair to the subtle yet penetrating fragrance of the perfume I have so carefully created after countless hours of study and practice.

Every moment with her was meticulously planned. I kidnapped her after class one rainy night, taking advantage of the darkness and chaos of the storm, which would erase any trace she might leave behind. Her cries for help, though irritating, were quickly silenced with a well-placed gag. It makes me cranky when they shriek too much. It pleases me to think that fear had been the last thing he experienced before he died. That mixture of terror and despair gave her a touch. I treated her like a blank canvas, her fading life was the first stroke of my art.

Like all the others, it will go down in history. The cleaning, the shaving, everything was done with ritual precision. As I prepared her, my hands moved with the skill of a surgeon and the delicacy of a pianist. It was not just a murder, it was a transformation, a magnificent creation. It was dirty, meticulous work, but the result was worth every effort, as were the long months of vigilance, preparation and study.

It was perfect.

When I took her to the small square, I made sure there were no witnesses. It was barely four o'clock in the morning, and the city was still asleep, oblivious to my work. The moonlight illuminated her body, enhancing the pallor of her skin and the perfection of her posture. The arrangement of her body, carefully positioned like a puppet whose strings have been cut, was meant to convey serenity and peace, like the sleeping Antiope in the painting. A macabre illusion for those who would find her, but for me, it is a declaration of my superiority, of my absolute control over my art. I discreetly walk away from the site, leaving my work behind so that people who are beginning to leave the warmth of their homes to face their daily chores will discover it and be horrified.

I know they will not be able to understand it, that they will see me as a sadistic monster. And that pleases me. Although I had been relishing the idea since my teens, it wasn't until I carried out my first murder that I understood the true power of the act: it was an art, an expression of absolute control over life and death.

I discreetly walk away from the place, leaving behind my work so that people who are beginning to leave the warmth of their homes to face their daily chores will discover it and be horrified. 

I know they will not be able to understand it, that they will see me as a sadistic monster. And that delights me. Although I had been savoring the idea since my teens, it wasn't until I

carried out my first murder that I understood the true power of that act: it was an art, an expression of absolute control over life and death.

The girl had been perfect for my purpose. I groomed her meticulously, making sure that every step of the process was carried out with almost surgical precision. As I watch her, I feel a surge of emotions. I have accomplished what many could only imagine. Each kill, each creation, brings me closer to perfection. Yet there is always something more to seek, something more to achieve. The real challenge is not only in the execution, but in constantly pushing my own limits.

I know they will find it sooner rather than later. The reaction of the public, of the authorities, is predictable. Horror, fear, incomprehension. They cannot see what I see, they are not able to understand the beauty in death, the purity in the work created from the life taken. For them, I am only a monster, but they are wrong. I am an artist.

I leave her there, in the deserted square, a masterpiece waiting to be discovered. Every detail, every move, had been precisely calculated. Just as I turn the corner under cover of darkness, a high-pitched, terrified female scream echoing through the cobblestone streets, through the mist, bringing a smile to my face.

This is how I find my purpose, my raison d'être. In each homicide I immortalize the essence of a life, turning it into something eternal, something that transcends death.

And while they will never understand, I continue to perfect my art, one piece after another.