The world isn't what they say it is. It's not good or bad, not right or wrong. No. It's a bargain, a transaction. You give a little, you take a little. They want peace? Fine. It's always been at the price of something darker. Something that scratches, claws, and never lets go.
I've always understood that. Maybe too well.
I know they think I'm broken. They call me a monster. But monsters don't question things. Monsters just do. Me? I'm a thinker. And that's what makes it all the more complicated.
I remember the first time I felt the need to kill. It wasn't rage, wasn't hate. It was a quiet hunger. Not the kind that gnaws at you until you can't sleep. No, this hunger was patient. Calculating. It sat at the back of my mind, waiting for the right moment.
I've killed because I had to. I've killed because I wanted to. And sometimes, I kill because I can. It's not about enjoyment. It's about necessity. The world doesn't stop for you. If you want to survive it, you have to take what you need. Even if that means taking someone else's life.
This job. It's just a mask. A distraction. Like everything else. The factory, the grind, the paycheck. People think they know me, but they don't. Not really. They laugh, they joke, they make small talk about their weekends. But they don't see me. They don't see the quiet rage that lies beneath. They never will.
Take Jane, for instance. The redhead from packaging. She flirts with me, thinks I don't notice. But I do. I notice everything. Her hand brushing against mine, the way she lets her laughter linger when I say something—anything—remotely funny. Her interest in me is as shallow as her understanding of the world. If she knew what I was, what I could be, she wouldn't look at me the same. She'd run, scream, and pray I never found her.
But I'm not interested in her. Not like that. She's just another distraction. A side-effect of normalcy.
I'm not normal. And I know that now.
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Flash. Orchard. The sharp scent of blood. The thrum of a heartbeat, too slow, too soft.
The first man I killed... I didn't even remember his face. It wasn't important. None of them are. The ones I've killed, the ones I will kill—it doesn't matter who they are, who they were. The only thing that matters is the act itself. The process. The precision.
I've been asked, once or twice, if I regret it. If I feel guilty. They don't get it. They think guilt is supposed to follow murder like a shadow. But it doesn't. Not for me.
When you take a life, it's just another exchange. A sacrifice. You give death, you take something in return. Sometimes, it's peace. Sometimes, it's power. Sometimes, it's just the relief of silence.
I wonder if they feel it too—the ones who are still alive, the ones who sleep soundly at night. Do they ever wonder what it would feel like? To pull a trigger. To feel the blood. To watch life slip away and know you're the one who caused it? No. They never will. Not unless they're me.
I remember the first time I saw someone die. The last breath. It was a woman. Young, with brown eyes that begged for mercy. It wasn't her fault. She wasn't the one who mattered. I remember that moment so clearly—her pleading, her cries—but I didn't stop. I didn't hesitate. That's the difference between me and them. I don't hesitate. I can't. It's not an option.
They say murder is evil. That it's wrong. But is it really? Or is it just part of the game? Every animal kills to survive. Every person, every society, has blood on their hands. They just don't always see it. Me? I see it. I can't turn it off. I've tried. But there's something about it—the blood, the quiet aftermath—that calls to me.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm a prophet. If this is what I'm supposed to be. They all talk about sacrifice, about giving up something for a greater cause. Well, what if I'm just doing what they've been doing all along? What if my sacrifice is the same as theirs? The difference is I know it for what it is.
They don't.