A Collection Of Short Stories

The Taste Of Freedom

I'm a villain of my times, but I wish I had done it differently.
Murder. Anyone can plot a murder, but how many actually follow through on their plans? On their fantasies? On their desires? How many are willing to take drastic—but needed—measures to move on with their life?
I'm a villain of my times, but I wish I had done it differently.
When I had chosen the axe, I hadn't thought much of it, but thinking back now, I know why. The weight of the axe I lugged behind me was reminiscent of all the burdens, the expectations, and the responsibilities this family had bestowed upon me, forcing me to carry them out, no mistakes along the way. The flow and normalcy of my muscles working as I lifted the axe above my head and bringing it down was a reminder of the slave they made of me, forced to do all their dirty, unwanted work. The sudden thud of the axe embedding itself into their flesh flashed the words they had said to me countless times, now engraved onto my flesh and branded in my mind behind my eyes; the words I once loathed and now embrace. The screams of each of my victims, my family, pale in comparison to the daily screaming that went on inside of my head, silent and hidden to others.
I'm a villain of my times, but I wish I had done it differently.
I always seemed to have a fascination towards blood. Seeing it ooze around the axe as I started to rip it out of the flesh, lifting it up and back to strike down again seemed to call to me. I felt the beginning of freedom thrum through my veins, warm like the blood sprayed on my face, soaking my clothes and painting my skin red. Every second that went by, every member of my family that fell onto the ground choking on their blood or dead already, every swing of the axe echoed my thoughts, my realisation at how much more blood had flowed from easily hidden places on my body compared to how much blood they were willing to sacrifice for me. The cracks in the dried blood became more evident the longer and closer you looked; if only they looked closer at me, maybe then they would have seen this coming.
I'm a villain of my times, and I don't wish I had done it differently.
It's not as if I feel guilty for what I have done, no. I feel rather happy and content as I stand before the noose. No more sister, no more brother, no more mother, and definitely no more father. They're gone, chopped up into tiny pieces. I didn't waste time with cleaning the axe, cleaning the mess I had made of my family. Why should I? I'm not their slave anymore; I am free from the shackles they clamped around me, the shackles that made my wrists bleed countless of times. The police had caught up to me a week later once they concluded I wasn't part of the plateau de viande de famille—the family meat platter. I didn't fight them as they took me away. After tasting freedom for a week and living life as I should have always been, I realised that once they came for me, I didn't need to make up a lie, to put on a mask of mourning for them. I didn't need to do anything else for them anymore, no. Instead, I confessed to killing them, a grin stretched across my face as I recounted the day I broke free. Standing in front of the noose now, I accept my fate.
I'm a villain of my times, and I welcome the death that awaits me.
I step up to the noose, move my head into position and fasten it around my neck.
I'm a villain of my times, and I will stand proud even after the Darkness claims me.
I feel freedom one last split second as I start to fall.