Psycho Killer… Qu’est-ce que c’est?

How does one have courage when they fear life itself? How does one have hope when everything they’ve ever believed in has died? How does one keep living when they’re already dead?

Living each day like a zombie isn’t fun. Waking up, groaning, moaning, wandering aimlessly… That’s all I do. I am a zombie. I’m the living dead.

But I’m not!

I don’t even understand myself… I hardly expect anyone else to.

I have good days, but they’re overpowered by the bad. I have days when I feel alive. And those days are the days when I have courage and I feel hopeful. If I didn’t have those days, I probably wouldn’t still be around. I have yet to determine if my good days are a good or a bad thing.

Right now, I think they’re a bad thing. I want to be dead! I hate life, but who on this site doesn’t? It’s not just that I hate life, though. Nope.. That’s not it. Lately I’ve come to realise something: I love death. I am obsessed with it. Everyday I imagine at least twenty different deaths, not always just my own. I fear my mind is taking me into an inescapable darkness. I’m fascinated with death. I’m curious. I want to know what it feels like to take a life. I used to dream about sneaking into the kitchen past midnight, opening the knife drawer and getting the butchers knife. I used to dream about running my hands along the blade, feeling the power within it. And that’s where the dream splits.

Option 1:
I take the blade, press it against my own neck. The cold metal merely exciting  me. Knowing that I hold the power. Knowing that it’s my choice…

Option 2:
I leave the kitchen, knife in hand. I enter the rooms of each of my sleeping family members… and I kill them. A stab to the heart here, a slit of the throat there… It really wouldn’t have been all that difficult even for my tiny self.

But ever since then, I’ve fantasized not only about my own death, but about killing those around me.

I fear that I am a killer.

But who will be my victim?