Without much effort at all, I found myself at my knees beside a body oozing a deep red, pooling around and tricking beneath me, anywhere it could reach, after the splatters splashed my face. Her innards had camouflaged me into a piece of her remains. The weapon had fallen from my hands long ago, but I could still feel its echoes vibrating through me. Somewhere, something clicked. I had only stayed in place and bent myself before the scene to feel as the clicks reverberated through my entirety. One led to another, and another, like rippling, circling dominoes.
All that anger, all those horror films, all those books and studies and anthologies of serial killers filling my library. Of course all the signs didn’t always point to me, to this bloody mess, but I had always been confused. Now I understood.
After a lifetime of resenting a childhood littered with animal abuse, being awarded countless times for my outstanding kindness, avoiding knives and always leaving people with a hug, I found myself once again beside a corpse I created. I was a born-again murderer.