Murder.
Heavy word, isn't it? Heavy, weighty word. You're a murderer: that accusation won't ever get old as long as people are still around. It wasn't something I'd really ever considered until I thought about murdering someone myself.
It was late at night, and the prick was drinking his scotch again.
I'd watched him before, like this. His house was large, and I knew my way inside it well enough by now. I knew how to get around, knew how to not get caught, knew how to not leave a trace or make noise or give myself away. He didn't know, of course. He'd never know.
I made sure of that.
I never thought about it until murdering someone myself-- how heavy a knife is in your hands, when it's trembling. I've spent so much time staring at him, gaining the confidence to take the final step and do it. It wasn't like he wouldn't deserve it, either.
After what he'd done, he was lucky to get off with this. It was a kindness.
Kidnapping him and torturing him would fit my desires more clearly, but I didn't want to lose myself in my sadism. The job had to be quick and clean. He was the type to drag something out, and I didn't want to be like him. Disgusting. Might as well be lower than an insect if I was going to sink so low to his level.
It'd be quick, though it wouldn't be painless. He would suffer, just not eternally, not endlessly, like he'd made her suffer. There lied the difference: I wasn't a monster like he was.
I took my time, as I did every night that I came over here.
I never tried to rush it. I wanted to get him at the perfect time-- the absolute best time. I wanted those few moments of suffering that he'd experience before he died of blood loss or suffocation from choking on his own blood to be exquisite.
He deserved nothing less.
I eased my way around the hallway and peeked at him through the other door. I was silent. I never made a sound or alerted him to my presence. I only had one question on my mind, sitting there on the hardwood floors, grasping the long blade in my hand.
Would tonight be the night?
My bloodlust was at an all time high. I could feel it racing, surging in my veins.
As always, The Dilemma popped back up.
I was so sure of myself, so certain that the man deserved to die, but this-- this thing, nagging at me, harping away, insisting that I listen-- it was infuriating to even sit there and try to endure it. I never managed to. I always quit early and ran away in the light of the early morning, after watching him sleep for hours.
It would be so easy to just slit his throat while he lay there, in bed. While he lay there in bed, in his silk sheets and laced pillows. It was unbelievable. There he was, sitting there, enjoying his scotch, and she was-- destroyed, distraught.
Inconsolable.
I grit my teeth and my muscles tensed.
Now! Now was the time! Now, I could strike. I could finally finish it.
But does he really deserve to be killed?
It asked the question from somewhere deep inside of me. The Dilemma, oh, here it came, now. Right at the moment of truth. At the moment of truth that I could, silently, slip up behind him and let his alcohol pour all over the hardwood floor while I slit his throat.
