Confessions of a Madman

Chapter Four: A Genesis of Slaughter

Drinking was a rather precarious task, if anything. It involved a metal straw, and supervision. Couldn't have me poke an eye out or pierce my tongue with the drinking implements, after all. 

Then again, that wouldn't necessarily be my fault. It was dark most of the time, looking down was quite difficult, and the edges on that thing were sharp. Annoyingly so, in fact. It would be unavoidable to scrape my mouth's roof every time I went for another sip. 

Nevertheless, I had water. My thirst was quenched. For that, at least, I was grateful. The Admiral had ordered the drink, alongside one of his own - a steaming cup of coffee. "The past." I stated, grammatically in certainty, yet intoned in reluctance. "Where to begin?" I asked musingly, yet the question felt so rhetorical that it almost warranted no answer. 

In reply, the Admiral continued his steely stare. Exceedingly cold, I repeated in my head. Brittle, perhaps. Like glass. No, ice. Like pig iron. Failed steel. Or steel that was once sharp, yet dulled and became useless. No, not useless - just different, perhaps. 

"Ah, my first kill. It was exhilarating. Although one might say the same for other initiating events, I do believe there isn't anything in the world that can provide a thrill quite like that special moment in which you first remove a man's soul from this world. What do you say, Admiral? Did you enjoy your first kill? Do you remember it? Bah, of course you do." I paused, and looked. He made no comments, and moved his cup to his lips to sip, his eyes constantly fixated at an unseen point - no, not me, they went through me, like any good interrogator's eyes should. It was as if he was trying to convey him investigating my very flesh as I went on about my history. And to what matter is it - he's been assigned to ask and listen, yet he poses no purpose other than curiosity and interest. What could one possibly wish to know from a dead man who's biggest secrets have been lain bare? I knew, of course, what he wanted - but I wasn't going to give it to him - at least not without a little bit of fun. 

So I continued. "Many things in life are exciting when they happen for the first time, don't you think? Even if you may have been too young to witness it, imagine the excitement of your first steps, the excitement surrounding your first word, the excitement you felt on your first trip. Your first fight, your first kiss, your first woman... So many things in life to look forward to for the first time. 

"But nothing is quite like the first kill. Did yours scream? Were you in combat? In a war? Was it an act of passion, or duty?" I tried my best to lean in as I asked: "Did you relish in his death?"

After a moment of silence, he answered. "Don't forget who asks the questions here. Who was your first kill?"  

"I didn't know him very well." I admitted, leaning back again. "He was in my way, and I had to get rid of him. A classic moment of kill-or-be-killed. Truth be told, I didn't feel very good afterwards, but the moment - oh, that moment was worth anything. With each blow, his head gave way just a little bit more - each blow sent a spray of warm red towards me." To be honest, I did enjoy killing. But it wasn't the violence I relished, nor the blood or the screaming. It was the finality. When faced with death, you show your true colors - whoever you are. And I enjoyed seeing truth in people, even if I had to find it in they flayed veins. 

The Admiral spoke up again. "When was this? How did you come to cross paths with him?"

"Some fifteen years ago." I replied. "I was born here, in the city, a son to a well-to-do couple, until my parents died when I was a boy yet. My uncle took me in for a good year or so - I can't tell why. Maybe it was because I was his brother's son, maybe it was because he secretly loved my mother - or maybe I am being presumptuously cynical, and he did in fact love me. Then again, at a certain point he couldn't take the grief, and tried to kill me for some strange reason. The man fancied his drink a bit too much, perhaps. Maybe I reminded him too much of her. I saved myself, but the remorse of his attempted murder drove him to suicide.