Hey guys! Got another writing prompt post for you. I should really do these more often. I need someone to prod me to do them. Any volunteers? No? Didn’t think so. I did this prompt the other night. I came across it on Reddit. I’ve tweaked the write here it and there but it’s mostly what I typed freely. Here it is. Enjoy!
“Before I write this, I must warn you, I am not a good person”
Before I write this, I must warn you, I am not a good person. I have done some terrible things in my life. Things that would get me named a monster. Problem is I am addicted. I am addicted to the thrill of doing awful things. I just love ripping the joy out of someone’s life. This is done in many ways of course. What I do affects a lot of people. The feeling is quite euphoric. Nothing else compares to it. Believe me, I have tried. I don’t know what compelled me to write you this letter. It’s not like me. I have never expressed my feelings to anyone. I have always kept them secret. They are buried deep down inside the pit of my stomach. I feel safer that way. Emotionally stable. It allows me to do what I do. Sorry, I never told you what that was. I kill people. Actually no, I don’t kill them, I release them. I set them free to the afterlife. These are people that don’t belong in this world. They have an odour on them that poisons everything around them. I can smell them from a mile away. You know I don’t even know how many I have killed. I used to keep a record of them. I would take a picture moments before their last breath. I would also record them using a digital recorder. The problem though it just took up a lot of time. The obsession to kill became so intense I couldn’t keep up with the records. It started off one a day. But it wasn’t long before it was two a day, and then 3.
But when I stopped recording it. I realised I was always wasting my time. I found a new pleasure. I found comfort in knowing I was the last person they would see alive. Not their family. Not their friends. Me. I get to witness their last breath. A picture couldn’t replicate that feeling. But a memory can. And it does. Each kill has their own special place in my head. I thought about getting an apprentice. Because it is getting to the point where no matter how many people I kill. It’s not enough. I need more. I want more. This apprentice can do the kidnapping for me. I would teach them how to smell them. And how to lure them in. It would take a while. But as well having help, I would be passing on my legacy. I want this to carry on way beyond my own death. Which could be anytime really. I’m dying. Slowly but definitely surely. Brain tumour. There’s nothing that can be done. But I’m happy about that. I don’t want help from anyone. And I sure as hell don’t want to stop killing. I’m an artist after all. These kills are my masterpieces. They are put on display in ways you could never imagine. My dream is to eventually open a museum. To have my work on show for the world to see. I think that would make you proud of me. Or maybe not. You never cared for me. I was hoping something would have changed by now. But I think I’m just holding my breath for nothing. You’re the reason why all of this started. You were my first victim. So for that I owe you some degree of gratitude. I have become a new man because of you. But it’s a shame you will never know that.
This was a bad idea. Shit. I’m such an idiot. I don’t actually care what you think.
Sorry Mum. But I’m not sorry.