I killed my first man when I was nine. They say you’ll always remember your first, but I can’t remember how it happened. I only know that it did and nothing was quite the same after that day. My mother found out, and she was terrified of me and what I had become. Sometimes I am, too, even now. Most of the time I’m proud.
He was my father. Or rather, he was someone my mother slept with at the time who lived under the same roof I did. He was never a father to me, and he certainly wasn’t a good partner to my mother, but that is neither here nor there now. He did things. He hit her, badly enough for her face to swell up and bruise, and he touched me. So, when I was nine years old, I killed him.
Don’t tell me you’re still wondering why I would go to such extremes! I just told you how he treated us, I had every right to treat him just as badly. If anything, I was kind to him, really. He made my life and my mother’s a living hell every day since he had arrived on our doorstep. We suffered, thanks to him. I knew pain, thanks to him. No, I mean it, I am grateful. Pretty sadistic, huh? I can’t help it, and I understand why you’re confused. That man raped me, the hell am I grateful for? Well, if he hadn’t, I might never have found the courage I needed to become what I am today. Believe it or not, I am proud of what I’ve done. That I killed him. That was a good thing, and I am glad I did it.
He wasn’t the last, however. I killed many more times after him. My mother was terrified of me, her own and only little girl, so eventually she kicked me out. Said she couldn’t live under the same roof as me any more. Me, a killer, her own flesh and blood. I didn’t kill her, however. I could have done, easily, but I didn’t. She was my mother after all, and while that no longer meant anything to her it still meant something to me. He had been a bad person, but my mother was simply naive.
I saw a lot of ugly things living on the streets. I had nowhere else to go, so the streets were my only choice. When you are forced to listen out to every tiny noise around you, you hear things you wouldn’t otherwise, under better circumstances. You see everything that is wrong with this world and the people inhabiting its corrupt corners. There was so much hate around me I wasn’t sure how to cope at first, but then a solution occurred to me. He had been just as corrupt, and I had killed him. Why not kill the others? If it rids the world of all the boogie men then it’s a good thing, right? It’s no longer a crime, it becomes a favour. So that’s what I did. It’s what I still do now, and I wouldn’t change it for a second.
Every Monday morning I will do a focused, brief, 10 minute writing session to start my week creatively and get my creative juices flowing. The little blurbs I’ll write during these sessions won’t be related to my book in any way but rather will just be whatever pops into my head at the time. They’ll be improvisations and not planned ahead of schedule. I won’t edit them hugely apart from spelling mistakes, so what you’ll be reading will be as it came pouring out of my head – nice little insights into what goes on in this mind of mine early in the morning!
For all other 10-Minute shorts, take a look here.