The Inner Man

The man within my inner soul can kill a man completely, to annihilate of his supreme beatitude. Mostly mentally I can rid of that man, the man that I kill cannot pause my doings, all that I, only could I pause myself. Black roses present my pride, the ravens enjoy the voices and direful poems I remark and produce. Mentally and physically do I dismember the men who loathed me and had done wrong to me. Those men treated me like a European foreigner. The blood resembles a flower applied with a traumatic stain and a stain which no good can conquer and which no good man can rut off with the most simplest of bleaching utensils nor either the cleansing blazon. I viewed the world once as a wonderful and non-tragic area where tranquility only lie, but once my guardians abandoned me to live alone within the pitiful streets of New York my mind were of no more aspersion, the accuracy then transformed my despondency and my thoughts over what the land was once when my mind were a imbecilic ruin. My mind now fully caressed the truth over the world. The pitiful and callous life one man or woman must take within these parts. The city was a jumbled mess, an area where most of the coloured immigrants came to roam about by day, and the inebriated men which wondered carelessly with their female tramps and they would both laugh and chuckle at the sight of pure rape and the sight of the multiple smashing of the bottles full of their liquid wickedness. I viewed in terror and in abundant antipathy. I assumed their wrath must never be struck within those streets ever again for that's when I have decided to abate those of their selfishness and of their vile abhorrence. Of course at first my mind wasn't sure if murder would be the solution for although those men would have had a wicked vitae then if I were to kill one of those men either their violent blood would seep within my pride or either I would sin against my prideful intelligence. As one must kill a man, one must be swift upon doing so, and to subside wits as well. One must correlate much like a murderous outsider. My first couple of victims would cease to wait before I sharpen the tips of my antiquated knives and my various amounts of gunpowder to go along with the natural weapons of the acrid humanity.
Only at night can I annihilate my foes and to witness them as appalling animals which have adapted from the forever hells of the underground areas of inner earth and inner soul. In every man there is one Machiavellian soul which betrays the outside man, but the inner man which would be that Machiavellian man would do anything to retreat of that animal's wickedness. It were for their own good. On that night I carried my weapons within a cheap burlap sack and my knives attached to my belt handles, their weak chimes acclimatized my mind to anticipate over the very foresight over accurate or negative murder. I slid within an arbitrary window, my keen slender body made up for those days of consuming food. My body very circumspectly and slowly crawled upon the wooden floors to view a very antique room. The bed blanketed a body, asleep within his hallucinations of slumber, I assumed the man asleep would be dumbfounded yet fearful once he found himself either shot, culled, or asphyxiated and he would then climb the stairs to the god he praises. My luck increased for the man did no such movements, even the congential breathing I could not hear nor view for the room were very nebulous and somehow fearful to my own mind. Nearer I approached the bed and the man still attempted no sudden movements at all. At this point I were gratefully fearful for I did not view the man to breath nor could I hear the man breathing at all, I felt my mind, astray of vision and little sense for I thought murder to be anticipated and yet direful but for now I viewed murder as greatly strange and suddenly less arousing. I have finally reached the bed, my arms outward to begin the process, the person still have caused no movement, and my have neared the body. Nearer, and nearer, and nearer. My body attached perspiration and have breathed upon the body's cheek. I saw an eye glimpse, my nerves paused for a moments request. The person did not scream nor noticed that I were to be stalking the bed, the person slowly reached a glass of water and then had dropped the glass when that person had finally noticed and gasped from what I have done. The body lay before me and blood stained the curtains of that room. The world stopped and my emotions grew terribly sore. For I have finally achieved my goal. I had murdered---.

Reviews

[Rogue]

Is this to remain a short story then? Or is it the first part of something larger?

You write much in the style of the demented Irishman (Stoker). :)
I enjoyed this piece, it was very reminiscent of much older literary pieces. And the language was familiar and comfortable to me.
A great job creating a slight uneasiness in the beginning and slowly building that tension through the piece. :)