Yes, I killed a man

Yes, I killed a man.  I didn’t do it in self defense nor did I do it out of revenge.  I’ve always been curios to know how it feels to kill, to feel the heart beating fast with fear, then slowing with each breath until it finally beats its last beat.  I always imagined it would feel powerful, god-like, to take the life of another human.  To kill an animal feels natural, a survival instinct.  To kill another human being, a mammal whose heart beats like mine, who fears as I do, is the closest you’ll ever get to death without dying on your own.  I think all of us have that curiosity inside of us.  We all think about death.  Some think they want it, some fear it, but the one thing we have in common is that we do not know anything about it.  But we want to.

He was no one to me.  Just a transient I had seen in my neighborhood, no one special, and no one who would be missed.  He was a shy man, untrusting of others.  I had to work to earn his trust through buying him meals and giving him blankets.  I was the perfect citizen helping out a poor soul who was down on his luck.  I didn’t talk to him much; I really didn’t want to get to know him.  I just needed him to trust me so that I could get close to him.  I would mildly flirt with him and make him believe that I really wanted to help him.  I didn’t want him to see it coming; I wanted to see the surprise and fear on his face.  I wanted to experience the emotions he was going through by looking into his eyes as I took his life from him.  I was hungry for it.

The night came when I was ready for him.  He was sober, just as I wanted, and hungry.  I came with some food for him and sat with him while he ate it.  After he was finished eating I moved over and sat next to him.  He looked at me a bit apprehensively but he soon relaxed.  This was his trusted friend after all.  I asked him if he would like something do drink, to which he predictably replied yes to.  I got up to go into the corner store to buy some drinks and when I returned I sat down behind him and handed him his drink.  He twisted off the top, took a long swig, and when he was just about to turn to thank me, I thrust a filet knife deep into his abdomen.  His eyes opened wide in shock.  He started to back away but the knife was still embedded deep within him.  He just stared at me with his large brown eyes, with a look of wonder.  He spoke only one word to me, why.  I didn’t answer him, I simply told him to sit still, I was going to remove the knife.  I removed the knife slowly and carefully, inflicting much more pain than if I had pulled it out quickly.  He slumped over, hands to his stomach, fingers turning red and glistening.  I told him to give me his hand, and that if he did not I would stab him again.  He held out his hand for me and I took it in my own.  Caressing his hand as a lover might, I pushed the knife deep into his wrist, about halfway down his forearm, and pulled it towards his palm.  At this he cried out.  I shushed him and told him to lean against me.  I whispered into his ear that I was doing him a favor.  I was still his friend, I didn’t want to see him suffer any more.  He cried, silent tears fell down his cheeks and blended with the blood that was now pulsing from his wrist.  It seemed forever that I held him, his life leaking out onto the pavement under the bridge he called home.  I had one hand on his throat so that I could feel his pulse.  He stopped moving, became limp, and grew cold long before his heart finally gave its last thump.  When I was sure he was dead, I picked up my knife and walked back to my house.

There was never any story about it in the paper, no one really cares when a homeless man dies.  Not unless it’s unusually brutal.  Serial killers never hunt vagrants.  I think about that man often. Whenever I feel weak or vulnerable he helps me remember that I am strong.  I have what it takes to kill.  Thinking of that day also reminds me how easy it is to die, and I value my life that much more than the average person, I think.  I have not killed since, nor do I have any desire to.  My curiosity has been satisfied and no one but me will ever know.  No one but me ever needs to know.

842 words