I Have Killed

It’s not that I wanted to. No one really wants to be a murderer, especially not the way I did it today. You see, I called in sick to work because I really just couldn’t bear the thought of going in today, it being such a crappy job and all, so I had to justify my staying home by doing something. And that something was killing.

I know some of you might be surprised that I would do this (muchless confess to it), but I have to admit, that the following defintion from The American Heretic’s Dictionary does fit me:

That’s me to a “T,” I must admit. I doubt if any of my neighbors know my name. I certainly don’t know any of theirs. But lest you think I’m a total psychopath, I suffered as well, while I did the killing. Don’t believe what you see in the movies and TV, a hatchet is not an easy way to kill. I thought it would be, it was a new hatchet, blade sharp and shiney, but no, it was an arduous task, made more difficult by the fact that I foolishly didn’t wear any gloves, and now I’ve got blisters on my hand and I’m utterly exhausted.

Had I done this a year or two ago, it would have been much easier for me. I was still working in the warehouse, my hands were calloused, and my victims would have been younger. Though, I suppose that last part really doesn’t matter as none of them had hit the full flower of their youth when I cut them down.

I didn’t even know their names, or if all of them were related (though I think that a couple of them must have been), and shortly after the killing began, I lost track of how many of them there were, and I couldn’t tell afterwards as I gathered up their mangled body parts how many of them I had killed.

My victims did have it coming to them, however. They stood just outside of my bathroom window, and if I left the blinds open, I could see them out there, staring at me, everytime I took a piss. I knew that sooner or later, they would try to come in and that I couldn’t allow.

So I killed them. I took my hatchet and I hacked away at them. What a horrible experience! I thought that it would be easy and merciful. Just a quick blow or two at some vital area and it’d all be over with. If only that’s how it went!

I selected my first victim carefully. I figured that she’d be the easiest to kill, being the smallest of the group. I crept up beside her, grabbed her with my left hand so she couldn’t get away, and swung the hatchet with my right.

Whack! I stopped and stared. The wound was a small one, not deep at all, and certainly not life threatening. I swung again. This time the wound was slightly larger, but still not fatal. I then commenced to swinging the hatchet as rapidly as I could. With each blow, parts of her flesh would fly out and strike me, and the wound would grow, but still she would not die.

I stopped, and panted, trying to catch my breath and let my arm recover. I wished that I owned an axe, perhaps then things would go easier for me. I thought about stopping and going to the store and picking up an axe, but dismissed that thought from my mind. I can’t just leave her lying here, someone’s liable to stumble over her in this state and that would be very bad indeed.

Taking a deep breath, I commenced to swing the hatchet again. Finally, I felt her flesh part deeply under the blows and cleave away! It was done! I dragged her body to the side and commenced to butcher who I presume was her sister. Thankfully, she didn’t notice what was going on, or if she did, she was too frightened to cry out.

I’ll spare you the details of the rest of my killing spree, save to say that they all went about the same as the first. This one was a little easier, that one a little harder. You try and tell yourself that you’re doing the right thing. That it’s the only humane thing to do. You’re a surgeon, not a murderer, but deep down you don’t really believe that. Deep down you know that you’re a cold blooded killer.

There was a moment, during all of this, after I’d killed most of them, and I was going around looking for any that I might have missed, when the neighbor’s dog barked, and I thought surely they would come out and see me standing there with the hatchet in my hands, bodies stacked high around me like so much kindling. But no, they just yelled for the dog to be quiet and I went on about my business of killing the remaining stragglers and dragging their bodies off.

It’s a shame, really. As I don’t think much good is going to come from their deaths at all. I mean, I’ll no longer have to worry about them staring at me when I take a piss, but their lives, and their deaths have all been wasted. If they had been older, then its possible that more could have been made of their deaths. A table, or some other type of furniture, perhaps. Or if I had a fireplace, I could have chopped them up in smaller pieces and let them season over the summer and burn them for warmpth during the winter.

All I could do with them, since they were such small trees, is drag them to the curb and hope the city truck with the wood chipper comes by and gets them tomorrow.

(smiles, eyes darting to the side. Hand surreptiously moves to the telephone and dials the police.)

Killing plant life doesn’t make you a murderer. It only makes you a mur-diddly-urdler.

You realize, don’t you, that it’s not that easy? They’ll be back.

{{{{{{tree}}}}}} :smiley: :smiley: :smiley: :smiley: :rolleyes: