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Sheila

I turned the corner, slowly and yet not hesitant. I had to work with purpose, swallowing the fear and the guilt, for it’s not everyday that you kill somebody and it’s certainly not everyday that you get away with it. The unease filled my entire body, from the pit of my stomach up, but I guess that’s why they call it swallowing your emotions.

Sheila was beautiful, perhaps even more so now that she could no longer open her mouth to provide a means of escape for the foul stench that was her words. Fouler still was the matter with which her person was composed, perhaps echoed by her words but certainly not bested by them. Why, for all thoughts of justification, can I not shake the sense that what I did was wrong? I was more intelligent, kinder and more soft spoken than she, surely I was more fit to decide who should live and who should die.

Damn guilt and damn society, if it weren’t for the latter we wouldn’t have the former and if it weren’t for the former then murder would be easy, but these thoughts are too distracting. They seek to pry me from the task at hand. Although Sheila lived alone I was unaware of how long I could remain in the house without intrusion. The neighboring homes were lightly sprinkled about the countryside, the closest of which being much to far for Sheila’s scream to have raised any suspicion.

I had time to work, but I mustn’t let that put me at ease. Tools were a necessity now, but just where did that lanky, snake of a woman keep them? Did she even have any? Kitchen knives obviously, but they would be no substitute for the leverage offered by a shovel. Of course I was mostly preoccupied with musings of disfigurement, popping off the head and removing the hands and feet in hopes of making the body less identifiable.

The light filtering in through the window that had remained still for so long on the stained, once white but now yellowing, walls began to stir before it danced about the room. I looked to the window, but there was no telling of exactly what was influencing the light’s path. By the hand of what conductor was being led the music to which the light danced?

I returned to Sheila’s limp body, caressing it with the toothed edge of a serrated kitchen knife. Letting the weight of the blade do most of my work I gently marred and tore through her skin as if it were butter. Such smoothness in something so barbaric pleased me, I likened it to how I would cut my steak at the dinner table in much the same way. In many ways it was the same, but this rush, the feeling of committing an act so evil, was unlike anything I had ever even imagined experiencing.

I cut and cut and still the light danced, for what was surely hours but felt like mere seconds. I had found my way into my own little world, isolated, tucked somewhere in the folds of the fabric of the universe, existing alongside and unbeknownst to all the others. My feelings of separation intensified. I was very much unlike the rest of the world, no one would understand this feeling as I would.

The rush was very much a part of the guilt, I fed my own self-destructive demons. My thoughts entered a vicious cycle as I considered both how terrible I was for feeling so good doing such a horrible thing, and how good I felt for being such a terrible person. I hated myself, but oh how I loved to hate.

Then it was over, almost as seamlessly as it always was. I had worked, body independent of mind, to mutilate sheila unconsciously while consciously reveling and writhing in the flaming fury of the emotions that were welling up inside of me. It felt so good to be bad.

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