The Murder’s Life | Short-Story | Fiction


Never what? These two words, the worst words for me to start a story! I guess nothing’s worst or better anymore. Damn! Why should I care? I had brutally killed five people, and I had no other explanation than that they hurt me.

I lived a life in pain, and I tried to feel at peace. I did not regret that I accepted my pain, and then, I killed them. It was all!

Now, I’m confined in a place, which would not be liked by anyone I know. My whole life, I tried not to be confined again.

I was confined once, and that confinement not just turned but burned my emotions, and a monster took their place. I have been sentenced by the authorities to spend the rest of my life in a mental institute by helping others not to do what I did.

I had a choice, and I chose this. Death is a paradox, which I wanted to get tangle inside me. I had a death wish because the pains I was holding back were killing me inside, and I desired to stop that.

To begin with, I sat in front of my first examiner, and with the first stare in his eyes, I wanted to cut him into pieces. I wondered what his nerves in a glycerin jar would look, though. I could feel his emotional dominance. He must have lived his life with a simple belief—destroy and gain.

I would not bring what I thought about him. He would eventually reveal himself. I just got to wait. I just got to have patience. For years, I believed that I turned out to be a drug addict like many others in my family. Was it true to believe? I needed to know what different was about me. What strangeness I carried around that I forced others to put behind the walls for years. I trusted those people, and I was murdered. Not once! Don’t dare to tell me I was murdered! I was murdered infinitely.

“Whatever you will tell me will be kept between us. Your emotional abuse rights are still with you. You can leave this interview, in case you feel that you cannot answer my questions. You will be informed about your level of freedom on this basis. Am I clear, Mr. Pandarc?”

“Yes, you are clear,” I assured him that I can be trusted by saying these words, looking straight in his eyes, blinking thrice precisely, and a natural smile at him.

“Do we start now?”


“When did you feel that you wanted to kill someone?”

“I would not say I felt something like that. Once I made a mistake, a mistake of not letting go of my own beliefs for the sake of letting my father’s faith come into me. He tied me up and beat the fucking shit out of me. Till I begged him to stop, and I agreed on whatever he wanted me to agree on. At that time, I felt I was born with pain. I had such great rage inside me that I could have cut my father and regret it for the rest of my life.

Don’t we say Heaven and Hell, for me it is something like these two places? People are the best or the worst. I don’t consider seeing any other life anymore. I can see the darkness lurking in your eyes as I am telling you about me. This is what I have become. I seek the worst in people, and if possible, I use it for them to rise.”

“What’s the reality and the illusion for you? In your previous records, you have mentioned your fascination for death, is what you seek after all?”

“I have murdered five people in such horror, which will haunt you till death. This is fucking my reality! I did not even want to stop when they asked me to stay on four walls again. I enjoyed myself letting go of that violence. It was all for myself! I could have controlled my urges to hurt anyone. This is my illusion. I have lived life in illusions of truth and lie. What could you expect from a person who just asked once to listen? I am not sure why I can feel other’s feelings. I just do, and though I hate it, fuck, I could not stop feeling what others can feel. This makes me human and a different person than others.

All I can say about death is that she saved my life from herself and for the time to come. She showed mercy when none dared to show even their empathy. I was not just fascinated by death. I am walking with her all the time now. Right now, she tells me that I should not kill you because you are a person who can help people as I can.”

Each minute longer there sitting, I had been consuming sickness I ignored all these years. Everything I wanted to keep in the past came back at once and stronger than I could ever felt it. What if I killed them? Have not I been murdered all that time I begged for help? I do not feel sick of anything in this world. It’s just the hypocritic expectations, which scared me. Every day I just kept living for a time to come.

And, this man, in front of me, thinking hard to ask me next, clean-shaved, dark-skinned, thin-haired, black-eyed, and smiling asshole, making me uncomfortable for something I do not have the fucking idea about ever. I wish I would not kill him. I want to be alive for a few years more. And, death is still angry with for taking the contract with life on hand.

“Do you want to kill yourself?”

Now, this motherfucker has asked me that something which I never want to share with a person who does not have respect for his own family. His fingernails are not clean, and he does not even think about what is important for the moment. He works for one reason, and that reason is taking out the darkness of a person and trap it forever. Why not take his own pen and bury that in his throat? It will be painless and clean death’s call for him.

“When I wake up in the morning, the first thought, which comes in my mind is not what I tell others. The thought put a restraint on me, and I keep myself in control. I don’t have anything to hurt anyone. Life is complicated, and I am untangling it for someone I was.”

“Never what! Are you hungry?”

Fuck! He should not have been said this. I am saying this with sincere innocence and honesty that killing him was just complete love of not listening to me again.

Another life’s contractual sentence has been violated. I am alive again! I am seeing someone else again!

–The End–

The Murder’s Life  Short-Story  Fiction

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