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is it wrong to kill?

I suppose she had to die. She wasn't very good looking, in the first place, and somebody had to save her from misery in her life. I remember when I first met her. She was thin, frail, and acted like a small child. I was easy to take advantage of her. Love. I don't think I believe in that. I once broke down, and told my father that I could kill somebody and not feel bad. He said that I was not mature enough to understand the value of a human life. He was wrong, because here I sit, 26 years old in my own apartment, with a fresh corpse sitting next to me. Some people might think that was... sick. I don't. I don't feel that it's a normal thing, but I feel completely numb about it. I always wanted to prove to myself, but only one thing kept me from carrying out this nasty deed. I didn't want to be locked up, for the rest of my life, in some stinking jail cell. Whether I admit it or not, I do value freedom. I do have morals. I wouldn't do anything really sick, like fuck a dead body, but the thought is still there. Maybe I am sick. But, I don't think so. I'd like to believe that I'm different than other people, but that's only a fantasy. I'm as normal as the next joe. Everybody has the power in themselves to kill another. I remember sitting somewhere, with a black cat in my arms. I could take it's head, and crush it. I could throw it on the ground with all my might, and stomp it to death. I suppose talking about killing an animal is wrong, because I would never harm an animal. I sometimes value their lives over our own. Not sometimes, all the time.

Things weren't easy for us when we started out. We weren't rich, but my parents were what you would call well-off. Your basic track home, three cars, that sort of thing. I would buy my own car. This is my apartment. I suppose others would feel a sense of acomplishment in having (THEIR OWN) apartment. I don't care, actually. We were lucky to get this one, even though it's a fleatrap. It's home, I never needed much space to live in. I was about to write that she was good sex, which was true, but that would make me look like a terrible bastard. I hold doors open for women, and I enjoy going out to a fancy reastraunt. I take pleasure in small things, like kissing for the first time, owning a pet, buying something new, and on and on. This is one thing that sets me apart from others. It's been said that people don't care anymore, but I tried. Oh god, how I tried. Were they too dumb to understand? So fucking stupid. Females don't understand that they have the power to make and break a guy. Like me. I don't care even more than normal people.

She was quiet, at first, but being around me livened her up. Oh, I expect that you would think I enjoy lurking in the shadows, watching other people, madly laughing to myself, that sort of stereo-typical thing. No. I love being with people. What I love more, is when the people like being with me. I was a social recluse for quite some time, and I can never get enough of people. Maybe this is what drove me to do what I did to her. Maybe not. Society is warped, but I can't blame society for my actions. When I'm tired, I can be very disrespectful. "Fuck off." is mild for me. She didn't like being treated like trash at times, and like a princess at others. She couldn't understand my moods. MOODS. What a strong word, stronger than others. Perhaps it's the fact that I have different personallities at times, or many other different reasons. She yelled a lot, and threatened to leave me. Sometimes I feel like saying go. go home to mother. other times, I face reality and find that I can't find another person like her. That's when I try and patch things up. It usually works, with a gushy "I love you" and we end up making love on the living room floor. I cant stand it when she's CUTE either. Cute things, like teddy bears and angels get on my nerves. Those CUTE saturday morning cartoons make me want to go crazy and kill all of them, and mess the whole fucking thing up. Excuse me, I'm rambling. Sorry. Unicorns and things like that, interest me. They're mythical. Fasicinating things... It's that act that she puts on when she's a little kid, and when I'm tired it makes me want to puke and go crazy ripping everything up all at once. I want to hear dark, dreary music and depressing songs. Not happy songs. The 'y' in the word 'happy' makes the word look happy. Happ. That looks better. Like someone was trying to say 'happy' and their throat was slit in the process.

I could never break bones, because the sound of the (SNAP) bones breaking would drive me insane. It would make me curl up in the corner, until it was safe and the (SNAP) loud noise was gone. I could cut a person. Blood doesn't bother me, like it does some people. I've sat for hours, putting small scars on my chest with this knife I own. I suppose that I'm rambling again, but I'll be strong and not apoligize for it, because then I'd be weak.

She yelled at me, and read me like a book. She saw through my moods. What is the problem? You really want to know, I yelled. I want to fuck your little brains out, I want to rape you and tie you down to the bed and fuck you with all my strength, that's what I want to do. The baseball bat hit her with such force that it surprised me. Blood flew from her mouth, and got on that see-through glass table that we have. It was cheap, she found it at a garage sale. The blood meant something. She seemed stunned. The blood meant that I could break loose, and distroy everything! Everything! Cut loose, footlose, all that fun stuff. I beat her until she died, quickly. I did it quick because I was afraid that I would stop, and try to help her because I felt so sorry for her. She was so stupid and only somewhat attractive that it would be a sin to let her go on living. I didn't want to see her crying again, because she was unhappy with herself. She fucked her life up, and I felt so bad. So, it's better this way. I know it is.

I beat her bad. No bones, just the head. I knew that she was dead. It feels good to scream, loudly. I must have looked like a god, standing in my apartment waving a baseball bat. Like a stone-age man. That's interesting, because maybe I went back to some primal instincts. Who cares, she's dead. Dead! Dead! I shouted that to myself, and I felt nothing. No tears. There was this Phil Collins song playing that went "oh no not this confusion again, not the same mistakes again," and its called "you're taking it all to hard". It's true, I did. So, I sit here, writing this, as I begin to realize what Ive done to her. She was my life, and I've just made a symbol. Her death meant my freedom again. To go out and kill and fuck and be free! Oh the glory of this all, something that people cannot understand.

It's later. I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, and now I'm writing at the table. The room she is in, smells different. Not a usual smell, like you were sleeping in somebody else's bed. You know, a not-at-home smell. I can tell the difference, so can everybody else. I like to be clean, perhaps because people kept bothering me about being dirty! They wouldn't listen. I'd like to take their words and shove them down their throat, but their turn will come someday.

I figure this. People kill themselves, because they have nothing to live for. Nothing. They wasted their lives early, and that affects them later. So, they sit in their place, and look around at all the dirt and filth around them, and they die. Nobody cares for them, that's probably the reason. Maybe. I know how they feel now. I know, I understand, I feel for you. My life is wasted, but her death fixed it.

We kissed. It was limp on her part, but we kissed. It sent goose-bumps through me, and it was like the first time. (it feels like the fiiirst time, it feels like the very fiiirst time) She's dead, and that's sick, so I won't do it anymore. But I want more, so maybe I'll take it. This is the time to ("cast off all garments of fear, replace them with love"), but I won't be replacing them with love, just with freedom and a good feeling. This society wouldn't let me do that otherwise, but I'm going to do it just the same, and not tell anybody. Even if there was somebody who KNEW how I was feeling, and what I did, I would still deny it. It's like a disease, and it's not stoppable. Afterwards, I will feel bad, but right now, I don't care anymore. I will afterwards, but I don't care now. Who gives a fuck?

I should die. I am a sinner, and no church can save me now. What I did was sick, gross, discusting, and I should die for my crimes. If anybody else had done the same thing, I would not hesitate to kill them. But, I am me, and so I am above my laws? No, I should die, and die I will. That almost sounds poetic. I always wanted to be a poet, a singer, a writer, but I didn't have the talent. I could have, but there were people better than me. People with more talent, more ideas, more FEELINGs. Normal people. It's over, maybe somebody will mourn. Who cares. Goodbye.

I found this somewhere on the internet; I didn't write it. The kid who did write it said it's a piece of fiction cause he was bored one day.

Good piece of lit., people say that it sounds like I wrote it. I didn't.