Source: Kyle Johnson on Unsplash

It's funny how people don't care about what they have. Once it's gone, it's gone. When I looked back at the path I've walked, all that's left were bloodied tombstones posing as milestones. 'How many?' I thought. 'How many more do I have to kill before it ends?'

Revenge is like a drug. Once consumed, it slowly eats you up inside out. I can't remember the last time I checked the mirror. I'm afraid to see a monster looking back at me, or at least a corpse. That is the problem with murder. Once you have killed someone, you'll become less than a person; something changes, something inside you breaks. I'm not sure if I can look at myself without vomiting, but I still can't escape reality. Revenge is a wine that enchants even the brewer. There's neither me nor revenge; we are both the same. We're like two mating snakes, twisting and turning, strung around each other. And, in all my heart, it feels good. Don't get me wrong; I hate myself but, I'm in love with revenge.

There's a certain edge in using knives. They give a certain satisfaction that bullets can never replicate. It must be because of the feeling you get when stabbing someone, the sensation of moving one's hands, moving one's joints. The impulse you get when the knife stabs into flesh, the recoil of hitting the ribs, the sound of ribs cracking under pressure; the solemn feeling of life; ending at one's fingertips. The intense warmth of fresh blood slowly cools down into a thick soup. The scent of blood in the air that tickles one's nostrils and the muffled screams with a gag in the mouth. The moment when you can witness the life leave through the windows being eyes. Yes, knives are the best. They give you satisfaction. They assure you that the victim has suffered. They allow you to witness your revenge in close range.

I pulled the cotton gloves up my sleeves. White-cotton gloves. Once I've done the deed, these will bloom scarlet and dry purple. These are the thirteenth pair. Twelve pairs of purple gloves were kept in my secret locker, well preserved in polythene bags. Murder is an art form. It is a play with the actors being the victim and the killer. Tonight's co-actor for my drama is someone special. It is that devil.

He is the one who raped Brenda and choked her. She was just fourteen. What did the child ever do? My heart was pained, no it shattered, but I couldn't cry. Instead, I smiled, thinking of the sweet wine to drink tonight. The artist inside me hummed.

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