I am the Grim Reaper, I am the Doom, I am the Nameless One.
I have killed them all. The men to get to the women.
They were just good-looking men I was looking for in the gay chats because I used them to get to the women. To find the women.
To find the women to kill them.
To kill the women to make the sacrifice.
To make the sacrifice so that I could sleep again at night.
Because to receive sleep, the brother of death, I have to kill myself. Over and over again.
It started with a murder, like with Cain and Abel.
It was the same with me. I was the one who killed them. I killed the only person who ever loved me.
Maybe you only kill what you love? Because only then is the murderer a real victim? Just like the other victims were real victims. Who had to die for her.
They were all dead. They were all dead for a long time. I knew it. But everyone else thought they were still alive. But they only lived on the internet. While their corpses lay in their apartments as dried-up cadavers, eaten away by bugs that had sucked up their fluids. So they became mummies. And because mummies don't smell, they weren't discovered and lived on. As the dead. On the internet. In the chats. In the so-called social media. Their digital identity lived much longer than they did.
Because today, those who are digitally alive are alive. Even if, in reality, they have long been dead.
Because it wasn't the victims who were chatting there.
It was me. The close confidants who exchanged messages with their best friend. But in reality, they were talking to me. The parents were not chatting with their daughter but with me, the murderer of their daughter.
When God speaks to you, you will die. That's what it says in the Old Testament. And all those who spoke to me died. They became withered mummies, eaten away by bugs in their rooms, while their digital selves, like a demon in the underworld, wandered through cyberspace without a body.
I saw the depths of the internet that were almost deeper than mine. The hardcore sites where people were cut up with knives, the vore sites where people ate each other, the snuff movies where people were tortured to death on camera. And the Red Room.
And at some point, I met him.
Jason Mason.
Or rather, I met him again.
There is no recognition. There is only recognition.
Because I knew him. I've known him since he shoved his big, stinky cock up my ass when I was a kid.
I found him again. Pretended to be a hustler to get to him. And got my revenge. Smashed his face and then set him on fire. I watched him slowly burn to death. He could only redeem himself. And that's what he did.
Burn in agony or execute yourself.
He did it.
Cut his carotid artery with a samurai sword. I would have liked to have seen it. The blood spurting from the artery and falling hissing onto the fire. Like in a painting.
I would have liked to have seen it. Too gladly. But I left. And I left him alone with the fire, the sword, and death.
The fire before the hellfire.
I listened to his story beforehand.
I made him tell me everything.
I electrified his amalgam seals until he told me everything.
Most people don't tell everything. Most people always hold something back.
He didn't. Eventually, he told me everything.
He told me about Sarah.
Sarah O'Laighin-Rizzoli. The dead wife of Elizabeth Rizzoli, whom he abused several times when she was a girl.
Elizabeth Rizzoli, who had gone to the police to hunt down murderers.
I found him.
I killed him.
Elizabeth only ever went to confession every October 23rd, the anniversary of her wife's death.
You, Elizabeth, were like everyone else.
It's in the Bible, too: a sword will pierce your soul.
That's why I had to burn the truth out of Jason Manson.
He told me. Quite quickly, in fact. A Bunsen burner, no more than a few inches from their flesh, gets people talking fast.
In between screams, sizzling fat dripped onto the floor next to the flame.
He told me he abused and partially killed all those boys and girls.
He told me that death wasn't the end after all.
That he stood by at the funeral.
With the mourners.
And once next to Elizabeth Rizzoli.
He took pictures. To which he masturbated at home. And sometimes, not just at home. Sometimes right at the grave. At night. And sometimes, if he wanted a kick in the middle of the day.
Jason Manson's semen ran down the gravestone of his victims.
He photographed that, too.
Looked at it at home.
And masturbated to it again.
But that wasn't all.
He told me what else he did. What he also did with the dead.
That he ... Came to them again.
That he noticed things.
That you find new openings on corpses, that's what he called it. You can penetrate beyond the usual ... Holes can penetrate because the bodies are different. More amorphous. Softer.
That's what he told me.
But not Elizabeth.
He only told me.
And I told Elizabeth.
And now that I know that very soon the wings of death will take me too to another world, that I will become a ghost or a demon flying disembodied through the void, I will tell her again.
One last time, I will bring Elizabeth a message that will transform her into a new person.
Or destroy her.
The future is a blind mirror.
I will be the light that cuts through the fog.
The scalpel that exposes the truth.
The hammer that breaks the mirrors.
Even if I die, it will not be over.
Even from the grave, I will be heard.
Even without a body, I will be feared.
I am the Grim Reaper; I am the downfall.
I am the Nameless One.
I am already dead. But the chaos continues.