I’m not innocent.
I’ve never been innocent.
It was me.
It was I who painted the walls with their blood.
And I’m not sorry.
The thrill I get from it is immense.
I love the way they plead for their lives.
The way you have complete control over them.
Pretending you’ll spare them.
Then driving the weapon right through their body.
Their screams make my blood race with excitement.
Then I watch them bleed.
The crimson liquid spreads slowly across the ground.
It stains their clothes and anything else it comes into contact with.
I dip my hands in their blood and laugh.
It’s all so easy.
But it’s the best high I’ve ever had.
So I do it again.
And again.
And again.
Until THEY start to notice.
Then I’ll abstain for a short while.
I’ll go to another part of town.
And I’ll start all over again.
They call it murder.
But that’s silly.
I don’t call it murder.
I call it fun.