• It is a simple task, killing a person. There needn’t be any blood or violence, the victim doesn’t even have to stop breathing. Though you can be sure that every intake of oxygen afterwards will sound forced, and every pulse of blood in their heart will sound hollow. Every bite of food eaten there after they will scarcely wish to swallow. I do not speak of destroying flesh and bone; no, I speak of the soul. So that everything they are- were- would be forever gone. I live for these broken spirits staring with faded unblinking eyes; rotting in the physical body, a mobile coffin.
    I am a psychopathic murderer of the worst sort, encouraging and cradling my victims in a sequence of beautifully happy moments, a climax building up to the inevitable fall. Then with the choking blooms of your self doubt and words like poisoned blades I send you nose-diving into complete and utter despair. The impact when you hit rock-bottom is crushing, and the effects lasting. Few can be pulled from wreck, and resurrected from their zombie-like gloom.
    It’s amusing really, but someone has to show the bright, young optimists just grown out of a child’s naïve sort of cruelty, that this world is built of hurt. It cannot be fixed, and soon they too will be broken like toys in the hands of so many awful little children. Those that pick up their own scattered pieces become killers themselves, creating a cycle of emptiness to pass on to future generations. What is this world but an empty shell inside more empty shells, fragile and so easily shattered? How many layers must we crack open to find the center, the ‘heart of the matter’ that may possibly save us?
    I’ve been breaking these shells for years, and so many are strewn at my feet that the Earth is barely visible beneath the mess. I hope I reach the center soon, or maybe the center isn’t in the middle at all, and I’ve already cast it away, crushed beneath my feet. ‘Getting to the heart of the matter’ is impossible, and I’ll be breaking shells for all eternity.