strange love | yoonseok

0.1

"I stepped into my dimly lit apartment, closing the door behind me, and set my heavy backpack on the floor next to my worn out sofa. I pulled off my rubber gloves and dropped them into a trash can near by, then I unzipped my bag and grabbed the bloody knife from inside. I took it to the kitchen and washed away the evidence of my nights activites. I smiled.

"Thats number 13." I said to myself, proudly.

I hate humans.

Not all, but most.

People call murderers and serial killers psychotic and repulsive. They think we're vile and corrupt.
Honestly though, I just want to rid the world of worthless people. People who have nothing to live for, who'd be better off dead. I want to put them out of their misery.

I get this rush, this fierce adrenaline running through my veins when I pierce my razor sharp knife into someone's heart and watch the life drain from their eyes. It's a feeling I can't get from anything but taking the life from my victim. But that feeling, I live for it. The feeling of having so much control over life and death.

I've murdered exactly thirteen people in this city, and I've not been caught once. I'm just that good at hiding evidence. People seemed to be getting suspicious though.

The thing is, I only kill people I deem worthless, malicious, or I know nobody will care about when they're gone. I usually go for homeless people, those are the easiest, but sometimes I get bored of that and want more of an adventure. So maybe I'll go to a bar and meet random people and get them to talk about their lives. If they talk about how they don't really have any family or friends, I'll get them drunk and take them to an ally. This is what I love to do, why not try to have some more fun with it?

I live in a small apartment in a crappy neighborhood. It's cheap but, I've grown to like it considering not many people live there so I can get away with things easily. I work at a small convenience store near by and that's where I like to spot a lot of my victims.

I only have two friends, and they know exactly what I do. Surprisingly enough, they care a lot for me. They help me pay my rent and they feed me. They worry about me getting caught though. They warn me about being seen, though I'd usually just brush it off. The crime rates are high, the police suck, so I've got nothing to worry about.

As I finished cleaning off my weapon, I dried it and sat it in the pile next to the sink. All different shapes and sizes. They we're beautiful glowing in the beacon of moonlight that shone through the window. My dearest one though, it was the one that had been passed down through my mess of a family. It was porcelain with floral print down the blade with a white handle. It shows how beautiful something so dangerous can be. I always keep it with me but, I only use it on special victims. Like people who are close to me.

My ex. I used that knife on her. She hit me. She cheated on me. She talked to me as if was nothing. So, she got what she deserved. I stabbed her 60 times in the chest while she slept. She was my first love, and my first kill. She was beautiful like the design on my blade but, wicked and dangerous like the blade itself.

I truly believed that I'd never use that weapon ever again. I really did.