A Perspective Change In Reality

I attend church every Sunday.  And I killed a person.

Never would I deny that I killed him, I confess to killing him, admit it with every fiber of being I possess.   It had to happen, I wanted it to happen.  Looking at him continuously day after day, my murderous thoughts controlled me and I wanted it to happen.  Honestly, nothing in the world could I have longed for more than to be the one singly responsible for distinguishing that bastard man’s stenchful breathing.

I attend church every Sunday, believe it is wrong to disrespect one’s parents.  And I killed a person.

Nothing is missing without him.  I enjoyed destroying him. Hovered over him as he slept I did, the children dreaming in their room.  Should’ve made him suffer, but I’m thrilled it was me who has done this.  I killed him myself.  I’ve no pain or remorseful feelings toward this man, no shame or guilt at what I have done. I was conscious of what I was doing, I took pleasure in killing him.

I attend church every Sunday, enjoy a glass of wine with dinner after.  And I killed a person.

Always so charming and giving compliments easily.  Never could manage to be on time, but who is anymore?  He was quite intelligent. Excellent at being social and maintaining friendships, but hardly sincere or close with any.  Always calm.  And I enjoyed killing him.

I attend church every Sunday with my son and daughter.  And I killed their father.

One could know this man for a lifetime and not know his true desires, so perfectly normal and charming.  Doing perfectly normal things.  Except he wasn’t normal.  His obsessions.

I’ve no empathy toward this man, he was an abusive narcissist.  We were his personal marionettes and he was our manipulator.  His little puppets temporarily used and discarded. Perhaps I was not the object of his abuse, but I felt it all the same. Just as I felt his obsessions.  His obsessions with children.

He deserved what I did, killing him.  Every time I would feel the emotions, the mental and sexual damages he’d bring back with him, his body drenched in the other’s suffering.  A married man with children of his own doing these things, what should I have done?  It is not going to happen again, no more obsessions.

Only 8 years old the last boy.  And two sons of his own.  It was a crime what I’ve done, but it was an acceptable crime.  I didn’t want him to be imprisoned, have the right to a judge.  I wanted to kill him.  His obsessions.

They’ll be happy now.  Maybe I was a coward, but I’m ready whatever will come.  It was my wrong doing, but now they are happy.  No more suffering, no more obsessions.