The End of the F***ing World

One

I’ve always known I was a psychopath.  Ever since childhood, I’ve felt nothing. Of course, I’ve felt physical pain. Every human does. I plunged my hand in a deep fryer when I was eleven in order to prove to myself that I was still alive, still human. It does not bother me one bit that I am like this. I go too school, do my work, come home to my bland, lifeless apartment, and sleep. The next day I repeat my cycle. School is beneath me. I only go so I can graduate and my dad keeps paying my bills. It’s a good place to people watch as well. You’d be surprised at how much restraint it takes to not kill each and every single one of those drones every day. It is quite humorous. That is saying something from me, I do not have a sense of humor. From what I can tell, I am not missing out on much anyways. Jokes are beneath me as well. Not beneficial in any way.

I started killing animals when I was thirteen years old. It was a birthday present from me to me. I have been getting quite ambitious, however. I want to kill a human now that I am seventeen. Animals are child’s play. That is where school comes in handy. Who better to kill than a sad high school teenager? They all want to die anyways. I want my first kill to be an “outcast”. Someone who nobody would miss. Maybe myself? Hah. Funny. There is a particularly interesting specimen I’ve been observing as of late. A bubbly, chestnut haired boy. He gets bullied often by the Neanderthals that roam the school hallways because of his sexuality and attraction to males. Pathetic, if not a bit disgusting. Maybe if I was not who I am, I’d take a liking to the boy who has resorted to sitting across from me every day at the luncheon hour. I have noticed that he enjoys talking very much. It’s a pity he wont talk for much longer. He tells me about his day or what new method or torture the apes came up with for him that day. Sometimes he cries. I nod every once in a while, and pat his arm when he cries. I’ve seen others do that when someone cries so I tested it out on him and he looked up with tearful eyes and thanked me. It was interesting to see how a tiny action could have such an impact on a fragile person. I’ve uttered about three words to him in the 37 days of our lunch time meetings.

On Day 8, he asked for my name and I released 2/3 of the words. “Min Yoongi”. He then asked for my age and I spoke the final word I spoke to him up until Day 38. “Seventeen”. His name is Park Jimin and he is a year younger than me. He says “Hi Yoongi Hyung!” with glee every day when he sits at our regular table. I wonder what he’ll say when I’m taking his life from him. That’ll be a joy.

On Day 38, I planned to ask him to come to my house. I figured now is the ripe time. He trusts me. I did not account for his failure to show up at our table, however. I waited throughout the hour and eventually got up to look for him. He informed me the apes crushed his phone on Day 19. I personally choose not to own a phone. They rot your brain but not literally. They are not beneficial. I found him in a garbage can crying. He is a small boy so picking him up and carrying him to my house was easy. He babbled the whole way about what events had taken place. I nodded every once in a while. When we reached my bedroom, I laid him on my bed. I decided to let him die in peace, so I left him lying there as I sat on the edge of the bed. I calculated the best and most efficient way to terminate him but then I felt arms wrap around me and a muffled voice talked from behind me.

“Let’s leave this town.”

“Okay.”