The Mark

To kill another person is considered the ultimate crime against life. It has been universally outlawed and condemned by every society and religion in history. Those who take life are feared or despised, unless they have the blessing of a government or deity, of course. Unless, as the ex-Nazis claimed after the war, they were just following orders. Then the responsibility is passed up to a higher power and your opinion of that power determines your opinion of the murder. Many killers throughout history have utilized this tactic, claiming they were under the orders of God or a demon. I do not claim such a foolish notion. I am under no orders and am not compelled by any outside force or authority. Then why do I kill, you may ask? Do I receive some sexual thrill, a burst of power? Am I getting revenge for some wrong I believe justifies my actions? The answer is no. I am not compelled by lust or wrath to commit murder, neither am I compelled by pride or envy. I do not believe myself to be above or separate from the common man and I do not believe myself to be beneath them; that I must dominate them because I believe I am owed something by society or humanity. I do not kill out of greed, as money means nothing to me and I receive nothing of physical value from it. I do not kill out of gluttony, out of some compulsive need to collect and "keep" my victims. I do not kill out of sloth, out of convenience or as a way of avoiding some reality or eventuality. Again the question posed to me, why do I kill? Before you can understand the "why", you must first understand the "how", the "who", the "what", and the "where".

Murder is a commitment, something irrevokable. If you paint one picture, you are not considered a painter from then on. If you plant one seed, you are not considered a garndener. But one murder labels you a murderer forever. If one accepts this commitment, it is necessary to study and practice this art. Death occurs in the brain. When the brain cannot communicate with the body, the organs shut down and atrophy begins. Depriving the brain of oxygen results in cell death within 3-7 minutes. The most efficient way to kill a human being is to sever the spinal column just below the skull. This results in instantaneous loss of bodily functions such as heart beat and breathing. Exsanguination, or bleeding out, is another way to initiate brain death. This must be executed by severing one of the large arteries or veins found in the human body. The closer to the heart this opening is made, the faster exsanguination takes place. The largest vessels in the body can be found in the neck, the thighs, and around the heart. The average adult has about 5 liters of blood in their system but will go into shock after losing only 1 liter, causing dizziness, pale complexion, and anxiety. After losing 1/3 of the blood in their body, the typical adult begins experiencing cardiac arrhythmia due to the drop in blood pressure. If executed properly, brain death should occur in 10-30 seconds depending on the size and physical health of the person. One thing I've learned is that an artery, when severed, depending on the size and pressure of the blood, can sometimes spasm and close itself temporarily, extending the life expectancy of the person. A stab to the heart, while seeming to be a sure thing, is actually more likely to cause adrenal overload, giving the person a burst of energy to either retaliate or escape, as well as a tightening of the muscle walls, closing the wound temporarily. The number os ways a human life can be extingished is truly infinite. With so many ways to be killed, it is unusual anyone lives at all. These are things I have learned by trial and error and by extensive study of the human anatomy. I take the slaughter of people as a serious practice, much like a butcher or a soldier or an artist. I have dedicated my life to the practice of ending life, so the "how" is something I take very seriously.

As difficult as it may be to accept, my childhood was a happy one. My parents were fine people and I was not molested or abused by anyone in my life. I did not set fires, torture small animals, or have a problem with bed wetting as a child. I grew up as anyone does. I graduated high school, went to college, got a job with a respectable company, and owned a nice car, a decent apartment, and a classy wardrobe. But, like anyone else, I was unhappy with my life. I felt as though I was working endlessly for a purpose that wasn't my own, for the benefit of people I didn't really know. I tried to fill my life with things, furniture, entertainment, and hobbies; but nothing seemed to matter. I did everything I was supposed to do. I purchased items from my consumer age demographic, I saved money and invested in the stock market, I paid my taxes and cleaned my apartment, and I watched the TV shows and movies I was expected to watch. I worked 9 to 5 all week, drank alcohol while watching professional sports all weekend, and maintained my personal hygiene. I did everything society tells us we need to do in order to be happy, but I wasn't.

As a child I remember watching commercials for toys and getting so excited; knowing that getting that toy would change everything if I had it. Until I got it. It would be fun for a day or so, then I would lose interest and it would end up in a closet. What seemed like something which would fulfill your every need in those advertisements, always turned out to just be stuff in the end. The promise of it never matched the reality and as I got older and fell for the trick again and again, I realized I had been promised something that didn't exist and I began to have the same doubts about every promise my parents or society had made me. The careers children dream of have the same shining perfection those toy commercials had, a glittering generality that showed none of the work and pure luck it took to achieve and maintain those careers. Music promised us that love was some overwhelming, all consuming euphoria which had no equal; something which, when experienced, would make every other need in life diminish. Movies and TV promised us that life was dramatic and exciting; that honesty and goodness always won over selfishness and evil, that no matter how bad things got everything worked itself out in the end. All of these bright and shining promises fill our world, pulling us in every direction. They claim to entertain us or offer goods and services while they drive us crazy with lust and expectation. Promises created by the indifferent, sold by the immoral to the utterly overwhelmed.

After you grow up, money becomes the all-consuming promise. Money provides stimulation to the lustful, control to the wrathful, value to the greedy, security to the gluttonous, status to the proud, confidence to the envious, and excuses to the slothful. Money solves small problems by creating big problems. My parents had money, though they never considered themselves among "the rich". The promise of "the rich" was another glittering dream society loves to dangle in front of you. People turn on each other for it, step on each other for it, spend their lives climbing toward it, yet it always remains just beyond you. Always on the other side of the fence, one house over. My parents would have been considered rich by most people, but they only considered other people rich. They had nice things, but never enjoyed them. Their house had to be maintained and unblemished or the market value would drop. Growing up, we each stayed in our own corners, leaving the rest of the space untouched. My parents both owned nice cars but never drove, since each use would drive the odometer up and the value down. Everything they'd worked so hard to acquire had to remain behind protective glass, untouched and unloved. Love, I had learned, was about ownership and maintaining one's property value. A man does this by maintaining his financial value. A woman does this by maintaining her aesthetic value.

So then what drove me to kill? My parents, for reasons I can't imagine, had decided to throw caution to the wind and actually went out for a drive in one of their cars. It was during this unusual drive they were struck and killed by a semi-truck whose driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. With both of my parents gone, I stood to inherit their massive fortune. I found myself thrust into the fabled realm of "the rich". It felt like a surreal dream with the pain of my parent's death juxtaposed with sudden wealth and attention. I found myself with everything society promised I wanted; free time, attention, friends, lovers, and most importantly money. Everyone treated me differently. Family and friends seemed to appear from nowhere, wanting to offer condolences and be a part of my life. Women who had ignored me now fawned over me and performed any depraved act of pleasure I could want. People did favors for me, gave me advice, had time for me, listened to me, and like a child watching a television commercial, I thought it was genuine. I never suspected there was a secret sales pitch hidden inside every one, like a hook hidden within a worm. Once their promises were accepted, the façade would drop and I would have to escape the hook or be pulled in by it. The "friends" would casually drop hints at financial troubles or an idea for a business. The "lovers" would begin to ask about commitments and tell stories about the lavish gifts of previous lovers. With every "gift" and "favor" they offered me, they were secretly paying for a future gift or favor from me. The phone calls from businesses and companies never ceased. Offers of opportunity and special deals, of free gifts and vacations. I was surrounded by it, through the mail, on the phone, knocking at the door. It was as though some rancid pheromone had covered me and now attracted endless swarms of opportunists. The worst of it all had been the knowledge that I hadn't earned this money and had no more right to it than they did, a point which they didn't hesitate to bring up.

I became reclusive. I began spending just to be rid of the money. I had become buried in valuables. Like my parents, I bought cars I never drove, added rooms to the family home I never entered, TVs and entertainment systems left to sit in their packaging or set up, unplugged and dead, like a trophy on a shelf for an achievement I never earned. I hated money when I didn't have enough, but now having more than enough made me hate it even more. I felt the pointlessness of all our pursuits and sufferings on a deeper level then. Having enough money made me realize it was only colored paper or numbers in a system, something so small and meaningless was what made people betray their principles and grind each other into dust. Inspiration came with a special offer from a casino in town. Here was a chance to throw it all away, not for a useless trinket but for the chance to win. As much as I hated money, I still somehow believed more money might actually make things better. With nothing to lose and everything to gain, I entered the house of gambling.

Once inside I was treated as a king returning to his kingdom. I knew the routine by this point but my desperation made me weak and I believed it again. I gambled. I lost money and made money, got free drinks and food, I had a crowd cheering me on. I felt alive again for the first time since my parents died. I was being built up and placed on a pedestal and like a fool I didn't see the foundation sat upon a pillar as thin as a pencil. I climbed it willingly, never looking down, until it started to fall. The losses grew and the winnings shrank and I clung desperately to the hope that I could get it all back. Nothing existed but the cards, the dice, and the money. My wagers became higher, hoping to win back a larger portion, but in the end only lost more. I felt numb as I sat at the table, staring at the empty space where my chips had been. I had lost everything, worse than everything, I was in debt. I didn't even feel it when the men grabbed me and hauled me to the curb, a king dethroned and discarded. Like a tube of paste, they squeezed me dry and tossed away what remained. I walked in a daze, lost inside myself. All promises broken, all hope lost. Everything I could ever love would either discard me or be taken away. Anything I might create or build would eventually become worthless. No matter how I tried to distract myself with entertainment or relationships or careers, everything would come back to zero. I saw the world as it was, a spinning ball in the dark, covered in moss and within that moss lived cities and countries of mites and parasites who believed they understood life and why they existed. They could only keep piling misery upon misery, collect paper scraps and call it wealth, procreate and call it love, poison themselves and call it indulgence, cannibalize each other and call it progress, collecting and piling stuff and never having enough. No matter how much they steal, rape, and kill, they'll always have to get up and do it again the next day. Life wasn't a downward spiral; it was an endless recurrence of misery and distraction.

I was standing on the railing of a bridge when I came back out of myself. Standing on the edge of oblivion. It was so dark, the river below was just a black, starless strip of emptiness. One step and I'd be gone. One step away from being just an object, one more piece of litter on the river bank. One step and I'd never have to go to work again. One step and I'd never have to smile, or talk on the phone or keep in touch with anyone again. One step and I'd never have to do my taxes, or clean my house, or pretend I was anything anymore. Something deep inside hoped a hand would reach out and stop me. A cop maybe, or just a Samaritan. Someone to pull me back and say, "Don't do it. You have everything to live for. Things aren't as bad as you think. We're all scared too. Please, come back." Then a hand did touch me. Someone was tapping me, trying to get my attention. I turned and there was a disheveled man looking up at me through a face full of stringy beard and eyes that were red and sunken. He was asking me to give him my wallet, before I jumped, would I just give him my wallet and the coat too? Maybe my shoes as well? I only stared at him, stocked by the absurdity of the moment. Then I laughed. I laughed hard and long, so hard it might have been sobs to anyone who heard it. He was getting angry now. He tried to reason with me, said I wouldn't need that stuff when I was dead and he could really use it, come on. I just laughed, tears running down my face, warm and wet. That was when he pulled the knife. The laughter left me and all was silent again. Again I stood at the edge, looking at the knife and into his furious, bleary eyes. That was when I saw it, when I saw myself in him. The desperation, the hopelessness, the endless struggle of his life. In that moment I understood him, and I understood myself. In that moment I loved him, and I loved myself. In that moment I freed him, and I freed myself. I grabbed the knife from his hand and pushed it into his throat. The blood was warm on my hand and his eyes went wide and alert. I grabbed him, pulling him into a hug, and I held him as he shuddered and choked, I held him until he went still, until he was gone.

I had crossed a threshold that night. I had come to that place to end my own life and be free but instead I gave that end and that freedom to another. It truly is better to give than to receive. I had taken away this man's pain, his struggle. I never believed in a life beyond death, but non-existence was better than a pointless existence. This, I discovered, could be my purpose. I could be an agent of freedom, granting people an end to their suffering and toil. I felt more alive than ever before. I was alive, and I had a reason to exist. I took the man's knife and I cut the first mark into my arm. The first life. The first of many. A record of my deeds. After that night I began my studies. I went to slaughter houses and watched them work. I attended medical classes and dissections. I visited mortuaries and autopsies. I learned everything I could about the human anatomy and its weaknesses. For the first time I began training my body. I stopped poisoning myself with sugars, fats, and chemicals. I studied the martial arts and learned killing techniques and proper killing form. Murder has always been unacceptable throughout history and yet there is a wealth of studies and information on its proper execution stretching back for millennia. As I studied, I also began killing.

I found I do not have a preference as to who I kill. Race, sex, age, class, religion, these things don't concern me. I do avoid killing children, not because I have any sympathy for them, you understand, I simply don't believe they can appreciate the gift I am giving them. Children are still innocent and unaware of life's pointless crawl so they would not appreciate being free of it. Why not kill the homeless or prostitutes as so many other killers have? Those killers were merely opportunists targeting society's cast off refuse. In my eyes, these despots are the same human waste as any productive and healthy member of society. The rich struggle with the pointless march of existence just as the poor do. We are all equal in the futility of our reality. I've come to people in their homes, found them in the streets, waited for them in their cars. I find them in hospitals, outside their support groups, and underneath bridges. I've killed policemen and criminals, the beautiful and the hideous, the kind and the vicious, the holy and the impure. For each one, a mark, a tally. My body keeps count of my progress. My only worry is how to continue when I no longer have space to keep my record.

Now you ask, why? Why do I kill? Why have I dedicated myself to taking the lives of others? Don't I realize every life is sacred and special? To you I ask, what is the purpose of life? I believe the purpose of life is to end. I have been incarcerated, yet my work continues. So long as there is human life within my grasp I will snuff it out. They chain me down and lock me in boxes, trying to drain my strength and resolve. I've learned isometric exercises and meditation techniques to maintain my body and mind. And every time they open the box expecting to find a broken man they find instead a coiled snake, waiting to strike. They believe I am insane, that I may be cured. They believe my killing others is cruel but their "cure" is to make me return to the endless cycle of distraction and despair they themselves are trapped in. A fate worse than death, as they say. No. The only cure for me is the cure I offer to you; death. That day will come and I admit I will feel regret, but not for the lives I've taken, rather for the lives I wouldn't have the opportunity to end. The question then isn't "why do I kill?" The question is, why not let me kill? Why not let me kill you?