Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I was killing again. The urge was too great; I couldn't stop. I carried them all the way here, coming back to the place I knew so well, and with my pants around my ankles, I began throwing them into the water. It was murky, a cloudy brown, but it was still clear enough for me to see them hit the bottom. I hated their smell; they made me sick, my children disgusted me. When I was done, they would be gone forever. Nobody would miss them. I was the only one who loved them. They had no place here, so I disposed of them, brushing them aside like so many homeless. I felt like the mayor, pretending to care about them as I had them destroyed, sending them on a mass migration to some far off land. I didn't care, as long as I didn't have to deal with them. I wanted them gone. I wanted to hurl. I had a sudden urge to take a picture, to show people the magnitude of my crimes. I was done. But it would never end. Soon, I would be back, ready to murder more innocents, just as they entered the world. I pulled up my pants and flushed.
Posted by David (Wm.) Murray at 2:19 PM