Through the Eyes of a ***er
Death is a Fickle Thing
For several millennia, men and women alike have been killing both humans and animals without any dramas, until laws were put in to prevent this. But to no avail, men still find a way around these and kill to this day. Staying out of the limelight, killing behind the law’s back. Or, for those people who prefer the opposite, will kill and kill again.
They kill for the pleasure, for the enjoyment, for the fun that they get out of it, to see the victim suffer and because of emotions that they may be feeling towards the victim. Just watching the life drain from your victims eyes is highly satisfying- just as pleasing as have sex or being high, you feel elated and strangely overwhelmed. Seeing the colour drain from their usually flustered cheeks, seeing the blood seep from the cuts that you make like a river flow quietly through a country-side and hearing them beg and plead for the mercy that they’ll never receive is gratifying.
It’s highly addictive; killing.
Once you start, you cannot physically stop. After your first kill, you’re hooked with no way out. You slowly being to lose yourself – you start losing your friends and soon your family unless they’re accomplices. Even then, you feel as if they’re using you in this crazy scheme we all call life.
That’s all you’re about; killing.
You spend every waking hour planning your next murder. Scoping out your victim, learning about their weaknesses – if possible – so you can truly frighten them and shortly, you start dreaming about death, either yours or another random person’s. And, soon enough, in your dreams you’ve killed everyone who you hold dear.
But, it’s like an art form. After your first, you soon begin to paint a picture. The victim you choose the weapon you use and even the method of murder that you carry out with, all contributes to the mark that you leave on the world. Each murderer has their own unique style or something which, to someone in the know, identifies them as who they are in a way. Take someone famous like ‘Jack the Ripper’; his style is killing prostitutes and also, he’d slit their throat before moving on to the abdominal cutting.
Mine, however, is to gouge out their eyes before I kill them. Gruesome I know, but it’s nice to have a piece of my victim left. It reminds me of my handy-work.
Luckily for me, no one knows that I am a murderer. Not my friends nor my family, not even the police. How? I am inconspicuous. I leave no traces of me left behind and I spread myself out. I’m always wearing tight-fitting clothes and gloves on my hands with a hairnet on my head. Also, I bleach the fuck out of the murder scene.
It’s not as hard as it looks.
To capture your target and get them to the place without making a scene that’ll draw attention. It requires the most precise attention and dedication. I don’t know how other people can just do it without any planning beforehand whatsoever.
Sometimes, I fucking hate what I do.
It gets really lonely too, I mean. You have no fucking idea at who’s your friend or who really just wants to stick a knife into your jugular and call it a day. You can trust no one. Not even the nice old lady next-door, hell, she could be plotting your fucking murder right now. Your parents could be planning to drop you off to the “pool” when really, what they want to do just put you in a body bag, tie you up and chuck you off a fucking cliff. Hell, your best friend could just be waiting for an excuse to turn you into the police because they suspect you’re behind a local murder that just recently happened.
It’s fucked; killing.
Just fuck, there was this one murder where the damn girl had these really doe looking eyes, which just begged me to untie her and take her back to her house, give her a sponge bath and rub her feet.
There are days where I don’t even know who I am anymore.
As I look to my left there’s a black revolver just sitting on the coffee table. Just taunting me, begging with me to put the end of the barrel to the roof of my mouth and pull the trigger. It would be better off, if I weren’t there. For me, and everyone else in this godforsaken world.
It wouldn’t be overly difficult.
It’s just mustering up the courage to pull the little lever which will, hopefully, lodge a bullet into the base of my skull, thus killing me almost instantly.
I had the cool metal object in my hands, ready to end it all.
I’d dumped all of the bodies with a little note, just for shits and gigs. I opened my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow me to and put the strange tasting gun against the roof of my mouth. My heart rate had spiked considerably and my hands were shaking. I clenched my eyes shut and.
BANG
I should have died then. That bullet should have most definitely killed me.
My eyes fluttered open and I looked around at my unfamiliar surroundings. It was white. White walls, white bedding, white doctors, white floors and a white ceiling, it was honestly overwhelming. That bright flickering fluorescent light doesn’t fucking help the situation. I tried to lift my arm to shield my poor eyes from the light but I soon found out I couldn’t move my arm.
I was bound to the bed like a fucking animal.
My mind immediately went to panic mood. Especially when the doctors came at me with sharp, dangerous looking objects. I tried struggling against the leather straps on my arms and legs, but it was a fruitless attempt. Wherever the fuck I was, I wasn’t about to be leaving on my own terms anytime soon.
“Welcome, Mr Sanders, to your fucking nightmare.”
They kill for the pleasure, for the enjoyment, for the fun that they get out of it, to see the victim suffer and because of emotions that they may be feeling towards the victim. Just watching the life drain from your victims eyes is highly satisfying- just as pleasing as have sex or being high, you feel elated and strangely overwhelmed. Seeing the colour drain from their usually flustered cheeks, seeing the blood seep from the cuts that you make like a river flow quietly through a country-side and hearing them beg and plead for the mercy that they’ll never receive is gratifying.
It’s highly addictive; killing.
Once you start, you cannot physically stop. After your first kill, you’re hooked with no way out. You slowly being to lose yourself – you start losing your friends and soon your family unless they’re accomplices. Even then, you feel as if they’re using you in this crazy scheme we all call life.
That’s all you’re about; killing.
You spend every waking hour planning your next murder. Scoping out your victim, learning about their weaknesses – if possible – so you can truly frighten them and shortly, you start dreaming about death, either yours or another random person’s. And, soon enough, in your dreams you’ve killed everyone who you hold dear.
But, it’s like an art form. After your first, you soon begin to paint a picture. The victim you choose the weapon you use and even the method of murder that you carry out with, all contributes to the mark that you leave on the world. Each murderer has their own unique style or something which, to someone in the know, identifies them as who they are in a way. Take someone famous like ‘Jack the Ripper’; his style is killing prostitutes and also, he’d slit their throat before moving on to the abdominal cutting.
Mine, however, is to gouge out their eyes before I kill them. Gruesome I know, but it’s nice to have a piece of my victim left. It reminds me of my handy-work.
Luckily for me, no one knows that I am a murderer. Not my friends nor my family, not even the police. How? I am inconspicuous. I leave no traces of me left behind and I spread myself out. I’m always wearing tight-fitting clothes and gloves on my hands with a hairnet on my head. Also, I bleach the fuck out of the murder scene.
It’s not as hard as it looks.
To capture your target and get them to the place without making a scene that’ll draw attention. It requires the most precise attention and dedication. I don’t know how other people can just do it without any planning beforehand whatsoever.
Sometimes, I fucking hate what I do.
It gets really lonely too, I mean. You have no fucking idea at who’s your friend or who really just wants to stick a knife into your jugular and call it a day. You can trust no one. Not even the nice old lady next-door, hell, she could be plotting your fucking murder right now. Your parents could be planning to drop you off to the “pool” when really, what they want to do just put you in a body bag, tie you up and chuck you off a fucking cliff. Hell, your best friend could just be waiting for an excuse to turn you into the police because they suspect you’re behind a local murder that just recently happened.
It’s fucked; killing.
Just fuck, there was this one murder where the damn girl had these really doe looking eyes, which just begged me to untie her and take her back to her house, give her a sponge bath and rub her feet.
There are days where I don’t even know who I am anymore.
As I look to my left there’s a black revolver just sitting on the coffee table. Just taunting me, begging with me to put the end of the barrel to the roof of my mouth and pull the trigger. It would be better off, if I weren’t there. For me, and everyone else in this godforsaken world.
It wouldn’t be overly difficult.
It’s just mustering up the courage to pull the little lever which will, hopefully, lodge a bullet into the base of my skull, thus killing me almost instantly.
I had the cool metal object in my hands, ready to end it all.
I’d dumped all of the bodies with a little note, just for shits and gigs. I opened my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow me to and put the strange tasting gun against the roof of my mouth. My heart rate had spiked considerably and my hands were shaking. I clenched my eyes shut and.
BANG
I should have died then. That bullet should have most definitely killed me.
My eyes fluttered open and I looked around at my unfamiliar surroundings. It was white. White walls, white bedding, white doctors, white floors and a white ceiling, it was honestly overwhelming. That bright flickering fluorescent light doesn’t fucking help the situation. I tried to lift my arm to shield my poor eyes from the light but I soon found out I couldn’t move my arm.
I was bound to the bed like a fucking animal.
My mind immediately went to panic mood. Especially when the doctors came at me with sharp, dangerous looking objects. I tried struggling against the leather straps on my arms and legs, but it was a fruitless attempt. Wherever the fuck I was, I wasn’t about to be leaving on my own terms anytime soon.
“Welcome, Mr Sanders, to your fucking nightmare.”