While walking on the street, I thought of sex and killing.
I still remembered my first time, when I was the age of everyone else, fifteen, sixteen.
I still remembered the curves of the woman's back as she slept beside me, she was two years older.
The pale surface staring me down as she scooted away from my figure.
Like as if right after pleasure, she was afraid that I was going to hurt her.
Because I didn't love her.
I didn't love anyone; I couldn't bring myself to do it, especially if I knew their most private of places.
My appetite for love has choked in my throat ever since I was seven.
The image of the woman being гɑре couldn't escape me.
I lived in a city when I was younger, and I had just convinced Mother to allow me to go to the market just across the street to buy groceries.
She let me, and off I went, but just as I came out, everything was in slow motion, but the screaming was fast.
It was fast and choking and the air was suddenly thick, I was happy, and then, I wasn't sad, but horrified.
But I wasn't horrified by the image, no, I didn't know what the man covering her was doing.
Such a dark place.
I was horrified by the sounds, the sound like a pig being butchered from inside out.
The sound that the old man made as I killed him from behind.
But for some reason, that didn't make me sick, it just made me more sickly curious.
And I slept well.
When I was seven, all I could dream about was the high pitched sound, and the redness of the apple I dropped while running that I didn't notice before.
Children were only naive because they know what, but they don't know why or how.
I could clearly see the man pushing the other woman down, but I didn't know why, or how he could do such a thing.
When I was working, it was because he was an angry man, an angry man with everything to lose and a lot to make it up.
When I was killing, it was because he just wanted to feel dominance, blindly.
You had the same faults of that man, you sweep things under the rug every day after the newspaper of cases like that are published, put a dollar bill between your fingers and pray that it will go away.
I prayed when I was eight, too, I prayed that I would find the answer in which the screams would leave me in my dreams, and that a thing like that wouldn't happen to me, or anyone else.
Anything that made a person scream just as pitifully as her should never be committed.
That's what I believed.
Yet God did not answer, and the nightmares only intensified, but I had not done anything wrong.
I was not the one who stripped another against their consent.
Perhaps it was because my eyes were tainted with sin.
God hates sin.
But now.
There was something to justify the things that I thought were wrong.
There was something I could blame my whole life upon now.
