I have a photographic memory. Most would think this is a blessing, but to me, it's a curse, like salt scrubbed into a wound down to the bone.
Why? Well, I'm a killer of many. OK, a serial killer; I hate that definition. But I'm not a sociopath or a psychopath; I have a conscience. It's another curse that compounds the first one, the memory thing. I remember every kill in acute detail, where I was, and how I ended their life.
I get maybe an average of four hours sleep per night. I often see them when I close my eyes. I relive every vivid aspect of their deaths in my nightmares. Sometimes, I dream of drowning in a sea of corpses, corpses of all those I slaughtered. Another, I find myself standing atop a pyramid of dead bodies, bodies I've piled up painstakingly, one after another, their blood used for mortar. I don't know how much longer I can go on.
This very moment, I'm sitting on an overly padded couch, the hefty weight of a loaded gun in my right hand, a black Glock. I am visualizing putting it in my mouth, pointing it toward the back of my head, and slowly squeezing the trigger. And, for the life of me, I can't think of a good reason not to. It would put me out of my misery, stop me from killing again, and give me the 'big sleep' I sure could use. I'm so tired. Tired from lack of sleep, tired of life, tired of taking lives.
How many have I killed? To tell you the truth, I lost count years ago. I've killed males, females, Hell... even children. Now, I'm not sadistic. I kill them quick and dispose of the bodies into the cold depths of the water. It's an efficient way of getting rid of them, and it's the way my wife wants it done.
I kill for my wife.
"Harold! There's another spider in the kitchen! Come here and kill it, please... and don't forget to flush it down the toilet."
That's my wife, calling on me to commit another murder. I have to go now.
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