How could I just kill a man?

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It was the first time I’d killed a man.

Logically it wasn’t any harder than killing a dog, the physics and physiology differ but the principles are the same. You plan the method of death, account for size and weight, and follow the plan step by step.

It’s terrifyingly simple, terrifyingly easy. I can see why serial killers continue to kill again and again and again. After all everyone likes to improve, to do something better the next time, and soon it is a compulsion. A tweak here, a change of tactic there and maybe the perfect murder will happen next time.

Not that you’d know a perfect murder when it happened, I don’t think. The perfect murder needs investigated, tested, prodded and poked to see if there were any tiny mistakes. It’s therefore obvious that the perfect murder must include flaws, to lure in the curious, to silently beg for the attention of a questioning eye, someone to check your work, someone to sheriff and enable the investigation.

A shiny gold star for perfect work.

But this was my first time, I knew it wouldn’t be perfect.

Choosing the victim was took some time. The first list of candidates came easily, enemies and rivals, loathed and hated in equal measure, but that wouldn’t really serve much of a purpose. Enemies have a purpose, they keep you sharp and focused, without them there is nothing to focus on, plans would float off into ambiguity.

I was sure of one thing, it wouldn’t be anyone I didn’t have some connection with. Killing a random man is too easy and would likely lead me to ill-discipline. I wouldn’t care as much and the incentive to do things properly would fall away and leave a shoddy death. I’m better than that. I want more for myself.

A mercy killing perhaps? No. This isn’t a charitable act. I am not playing God here.

In the end the choice presented itself to me readily. An acquaintance but someone of no real value to me. No threat, just another man who flitted in and out of my life.

With the choice made the plan was put into action. It had to be carefully, patiently, executed – ohhh what an interesting choice of word, but this was no execution. It was an act simple and true, the taking of a life. Murder.

Motive? Why would I need a motive? Why do you get out of bed everyday? Why do you decide to wear that t-shirt, or those shoes? Motive is over rated and entirely concocted by psychologists who wish to feel clever.

Everything went well I think. In the end I achieved what I set out to do. He died. I killed him. I stood over his body, looking down as he breathed his last breath and felt a small elation, not just the adrenalin rush I had expected but a wonderful moment of triumph.

I had done it. I had killed a man.

I’m not sure if I’ll kill again.


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