It was the first time I killed a man.
Terrifying at first, but the longer it took, the more pleasurable it became. Warm trickles smoothed gently over his face, slowly at first, then gushing, like a violent river vanquishing its prey.
This brought an eerie sense of satisfaction as I feel hands growing cold, his body going limp in absolute surrender. His lips part with a sudden gasp: unable to speak, forbidden to comprehend. Eyes glazed, he reaches for me with limbs that have forsaken, his strength taken by this heavy blow.
I walk away consumed with alternating sensations of guilt and terror – with the unmistakable glimmer of happiness that easily engulfed the two. I dare not look back, dare not witness the destruction I have caused; the horror I have so often imagined, but repressed. And yet, here it is.
It is here.
“Why are you leaving me?” he asked, his pain tugging at my chest.
I wanted to say more, to give reasons – make him ashamed of everything he did not do. I chose, instead, to save my breath and tell him the only thing I have ever known to be true.
“I never loved you.”