I am a killer. I am an assassin. A murderer.
I know how to take lives, and I am infinitely skilled at it.
Consider the doctor who goes to school for so many years yet still f***s up when someone’s life is in his hands. An incision that goes a fraction of a centimeter to deep. A ounce of saline that shouldn’t have been given. No matter what, if that doctor makes a mistake, he has killed.
It’s far easier when that’s your goal from the onset. You don’t have to worry about pressing too deep with the scalpel. You go as deep as you can and give a twist. You don’t worry about to much salt. You drown them in salt water and peroxide. Their skin dehydrates and the liquid burns through their lungs, as they gulp in breaths of water.
But the skill comes when they fight back.
Some would call it an art. You’ve all heard the villains in movies, who say each murder is a masterpiece. It’s not. It’s sloppy. There is never an easy way.
When they fight back, you have to make it bloody. It takes more than one stab and twist, more than just holding them under the surface. It’s always more difficult to accomplish what needs to be done. They somehow are stronger, and it just takes more damned effort. Whereas a stab and a twist in the chest would kill this man on a normal day. Somehow, he can with stand the pain when fueled with that animal instinct of self-preservation. He becomes superhuman. He’s a beast who is no longer just a job, but now a meal. The fight is what I feed on. It is what fuels me. Seeing the desperation. At some point, I just fell in love with that look. Terror. All-consuming terror.
I don’t know when I fell for this career path-which is what I like to call it. I know I sure as Hell wasn’t born this way. No. Very few are. And to say that you are is f*****g cop out. Then, there are those damned determinists who would say that it’s all my past experiences and psychological bullshit that made me this way. Once again, I’d have to disagree. I made a choice to go down this path. I killed once, a long time ago. He screamed as he drew his last breath. He screamed so loud. Not like the terrified scream of the horror movie victim. No. No actor could ever remake that scream. And I liked it.
I’m not crazy or insane. I don’t like hearing and seeing people perish in the same way as Hannibal or some s**t like that. It’s just-It’s the way that you may enjoy working on a computer, so you became a computer technician. Or someone liked math, so they became an accountant. I just liked it enough, to where I could do it for a living. Yes. It pays the bills, but it’s more than that. I enjoy my line of work. It’s as simple as that.
And the work pays well. I live amongst the stars and their head shrinks. I’ve even had to get rid of a few of each.
But no one will ever know it was me. I live like a star. I act like one. I’ve the money, the clothes, the cars. And I never leave a trace. There is never a bit of me left behind.
It’s not as though I live two lives unless you consider the midlife-crisised man, who is fine at work, but comes home and beats his kids, to have two lives. Although for me, it might be the opposite.
I even have friends here. They are stars, too. They love me. I’m funny. I’m nice. And I’m great when you get me drunk. They have no idea what I do for a living, but if they did know, well, I’d have to kill them.
And I haven’t had to kill someone that close to me for at least a couple months. I usually like to keep it that way.
But I’ll do what I have to do. I have a boss, just like you do. I have a paycheck, just like you do. I even have a desk with a computer at it. I just don’t have business cards. Regardless, I am the best of the best. I took down my competition. Quite literally.
And I am what I am.
It’s my job.
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