Small Stories

A Killer

Another day, another victim. Another "poor, innocent" person to brutally murder.
Silver blades, check.
Duct tape, check.
This is my daily routine. Killing? No no. Torturing. One person a day. Seven people a week. 365 people a year.
As I walk to my basement, the familiar metallic stench of blood- new and old- greeted me. I make out the outline of someone squirming in the middle of the room and I watch silently as they attempt to break free of the binds that hold them down.
I twist and play with the small blade in my hand, and begin to walk slowly to my victim as they lay helplessly upon their death bed.

Once I reach them I start to trace small circles on their stomach with the end of the silver knife, teasingly. I scrape the blade along their arms, making small trails of crimson from the act.
I look her dead in the eye as I push the blade into her stomach.

Red blood oozes out as I start to slash and cut the flesh of the woman. Her screams are like music to my ears as she desperately ties to cower away from my blade.

Doing this makes me feel... Good. Watching the life drain from my victims eyes, the happiness in them. Gone.
I smile to myself and keep at it. Cutting.
Slashing.
Slicing.
Stabbing.
Watching the blood remove itself slowly from her body.

After only five minutes of this, I stop, wipe my blade on the fabric of my pants and throw it on the cold silver surface of the bench. I leave the room with a small smile twitching on my face, ignoring the cries of pain following behind me leave her on her own.
                               ---
"Why did you do that? Kill all those people? They were innocent. They did nothing to you!" His shouts echo across the room, slamming his fists onto the metal bench that separates us. I keep quiet and give a small smile as an answer. He sighs and slouches into the chair. 

"Why not?" I start. Watching him now sit up, our eyes meet and neither of us look away.
"This is how I live now. This is how I've chosen to live. I like living like this. To hold someone else's fate in your hands. To hold their destiny. Their life.
I haven't always thought of doing this, at first it was being an actor, but that was a stupid thought. People would want to be me without knowing what that would cause.
I thought about being a policeman, a fireman. But then I thought, why should I save lives... When I could take them away?
I don't do what I do for revenge, or for justice. I do it because I like the feeling it gives me. Not guilt for taking what they value most away. Instead, it gives me relief. Like I need to do it. To see the pleading look in their eyes before I rip the life out of them. It makes me feel good.
If I saved lives people wouldn't really care. But to do something bigger, like take the lives of innocent people away, everyone stops. Everyone listens. Everyone pays attention to me. And I like that.
By gripping that small silver knife on my bed stand and driving it into their stomach; to watch as they squirm and try to fight for their life back, it makes me feel good.
Watching the red blood drop from the table to the floor, pooling together to make a flood of it at my feet. To watch the terror in their eyes as I walk slowly towards them, blade in hand, to end their beautiful life.
Now tell me, officer, look at me in the eye and tell me that you haven't wanted to do this type of thing to anyone. Anyone. So don't sit there and look at me, a pathetic, little girl, and think that I'm crazy or bad. The first time I did it I felt great, and I knew that this was how I'd spend my life.
Taking other people's away from them.
Torturing people comes natural to me. I've always thought about it. Never did it until a year ago. And I don't regret a single thing about it. So, lock me up. Keep me away from the light for years. Do whatever you want with me. I don't care what you do. As long as you remember these eight small words when you try and do something to me." I paused watching his slightly terrified expression.

"I don't want to kill. I need to."