26th November, 1988.
Dear diary,
Today, I killed once again. I know that this is a sickening thing to do, but I fear that it is starting to become a habit of mine; at some point I would need to consult a psychiatrist, but I'll think about it if I reach a stage in which I become... unstoppable.
Even though today was just my third kill, it felt like I had been killing for years, as I stabbed the eye of the woman with the knife without even flinching... and with so much of intensity. The woman hadn't seen it coming, for I came out of the blue in front of her and attacked her.
She screamed of course, but I put my hand over her mouth quickly, and all I could hear was a muffled scream before I finally pulled out the knife out of her eye-socket, and let her eye drop down on the road. It felt so... tangible. So... satisfying.
All that blood coming out of her eye-socket... red, dark-crimson blood... coming out like paint falling from a toppled-over can of paint. The life draining out of her... her face becoming pale yellow and her skin becoming ice-cold...
It all felt too good.
But after I killed her, I questioned myself: Do I really have to do this? This woman could have led a whole life ahead if God had other plans for her. Maybe she had a date this night with someone. Maybe she was going to go to some concert or something. Maybe she was planning to go to her favorite place tommorow.
Maybe she had kids. A husband or a wife. Maybe she had a whole family waiting for her back at home.
And this is the problem with me. Whenever I kill someone, there always comes this, "maybe" in between. I want to remove this, "maybe" somehow, but something is wrong with my mind; sympathizing with my victims. Can you believe it? Not in three hells this is going to happen again.
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