Young Writers Society

Setting: 1930s, London.

Picking up the pieces of my scattered life, putting them in a big black bag of evidence. I have passed all the good stages: the anticipation, the excitement, the tingling I get all over my body where I can feel everything. Then the glory. But that is over now. It’s faded away to numbness, despair, agony. People were not made to kill.

This time, it was a man. An old one. I had thought his age would make this better, that I could justify it. He was so near the end of his life, I had just taken away the hours in a hospital bed before the hours in a coffin. This could have worked when I was younger, and better at denying my guilt. Now I am older, and the guilt can never go away.

You are wondering why I do it. Why do I need to kill, need to live a life in the shadows? Why not marry, settle down, have some children? I start to shake in rage just to think about it. I can't help it. When I'm angry or afraid, I lash out. You might call me a psychopath. A murderer. A freak. I am always afraid, always angry. It just takes over, and in a moment, another victim. Another life.

I fall to my knees over the fabric bag. My heart aches and I shake all over, sobbing silently. I hear a noise beside me, the soft fall of small feet. I jerk to attention, whipping my head back to see where it came from. I little girl, no more than eight, stands opposite me. Her face is tear-streaked, but curiosity has overcome whatever little fear had caused those tears.

“Sir, are you alright?” she asks in a high, innocent voice. I look at her, not answering. She peers down at the bag. I look down with her. It’s too late. One of my little mistakes has cost this child her life. A bloodied hand sticks out of the bag. I look back up at the small girl, whose face has turned ashen. She starts to shake but doesn’t budge as I draw nearer.

“Please don’t hurt me. I’ve lost my Mummy but I know she is looking for me.” I don’t want to do this. But maybe I’m not killing, maybe I’m just saving. This girl has her whole miserable life in front of her. Why don’t I just save her the pain?

“Sir, please.” Her voice shakes, and for the first time she starts to back up, to turn, to run. I catch her within seconds, pinning her down, turning her over. My knife is in my shaking hand, positioned just above her heart. Her eyes look at me, and she trembles in fear. Her voice starts to rise to a scream as I pull up the knife. Her large blue eyes pierce into what heart I have left. I know those eyes- I've seen them before. My mother had the same ones. My mother... my first kill. And then I cut her screams off.

Night has come. I am still sitting over the body of the girl. So young, so very young. I don’t even know her name. In the darkened alley, the stench of the man has filled my nostrils, and I know it’s time to move, to dispose of the evidence. I walk down my usual path to the river, the safest place I know to get rid of anything that you need to rid yourself of forever. The current will take the sack, dragging it downstream to be found by a horrified townsman or either to end up in the sea.

My boots fall heavily and slowly. This is unusual. Every other time, I have been in a hurry to get them out of my sight. This is different. I already know, this time, something else is coming. Reaching the edge, I hoist the sack up over the banister. Then, purposefully, carefully, I step up onto the thin surface myself. I prepare for a kill. My final kill. This time, I know I won’t feel any guilt. And if I could, down there in Hell, I’d know the world would be glad to be rid of me. Thinking of the little girl, the girl like my mother, I know I can't go on. I can't be this anymore. I tip my weight forward. A kill. My final kill.

Three, two, one.

Splash.