Memoires of a killer

I stare into unblinking eyes. A look of sheer terror forever etched into his features. I can't help but grin at the irony of the situation.
He was sent to hunt me, to bring me in, but little did he know that the hunter was really the hunted. I had thought better of them, didn't expect them to send such an amateur after me. Perhaps the next one they send will be better, I think hopefully. There was no sport in this one.
I casually toss the severed head to the side and set off. It's time to pay someone a visit.

The guards never even see me coming. The night is mine and mine alone. The first one's head explodes in a shower of blood, brains and bone. The shock causes the second to hesitate for an instant, which is all I need. I step out of the shadows, and grin my toothy grin at him. His gaze falls on my sharpened teeth, and I see a stain spreading in his slacks. He drops to his knees, sobbing, praying to his god for salvation. Tonight, there is no god, no salvation. Only me.

My serrated knife slices through his stomach like a hot knife through butter. He tries to scream in agony, but no more than a dull grunt escapes his mouth. His tongue lies next to him on the ground, one of the first parts he lost. I don't want him bleeding out and dying on me before I've had my fun, so I cauterized the wound after a few seconds of letting him drown in his own blood. The fear rolls off him in palpable waves. I bask in it, let it fill the void inside of me. I was made for this.
I peel back the ragged edges of his stomach to reveal the organs hidden inside. Behind him, 2 hooks are awaiting their charge. The pain, dread and bloodloss have dulled my plaything to the point of concession. Resignation in his fate has set in, he knows he's already dead. I lower the first of the hooks, the chain rattling. He tries to see what I'm planning, but his eyes are no more than a bloody pulpy mess inside their sockets. They were the first to go. Perhaps I take blind fear too literally, I muse to myself.

I release his left hand from its bond, my strong fingers clasping his arm halfway between his wrist and elbow. My right hand brings the hook closer while I jerk his arm up with my left hand. The sudden motion causes his intestines to spill out of the gaping wound. With the slightest grunt of effort, I ram the sharp hook through his flesh, slipping it soundly between his radius and his ulna. A spasm courses through his body from the pain, noticeably weaker than before I started my little project. I'll have to work fast if I want to get any pleasure from it.
I grab the second hook, undo his right arm of it's ties and quickly, deftly slip the point into the flesh, again passing the radius. My malevolence gets the better of me and I scrape past the ulna, elliciting another spasm. A small trickle of blood runs down his arms, the left already reaching his chest.
I walk to a lever hidden in darkness, flip it. The chains start tightening, withdrawing to the ceiling. Slowly, my charge is lifted up by the flesh of his arms. As the full weight of his body leaves the chair and comes to rest on the hooks, I hear the satisfying sound of tearing skin. The hooks stop their journey through his flesh when they hit bone.
I move back to the thing that was once a trusted lieutenant of Vorn's, kick the chair away. After a few moments of exultation, watching the mangled form of Dave Greeley be slowly suspended against the wall, intestines fully tumbling out of their erstwhile home, I move to a nearby table to pick up my next instrument of torture. I point it at the slightly twitching form of mister Greeley, and push down.
With a flash and a mechanical whirring, a picture is made. I chuckle to myself, 'I've found my christmas card for this year'

The road to hell is paved with good intentions

Such a tired and worn out cliche.
'The road to hell is paved with good intentions'... Guess what, it's more true than I ever before realised.
Over the last few months I've been getting to know an amazing girl. Slowly but surely we've been getting closer, opening up more to eachother. Each night I'd spend 4 hours talking to her on skype, only stopping when I realised I had work in 3 hours.
She was on my mind morning day and night. I woke up thinking of her, I worked with her in my mind's eye and she was my last thought before sleep took me into blissful nothingness. I had done it again, I had fallen for someone. This in and of itself is not so rare for me, despite being at times seemingly cold, heartless and calculating I lead my life primarily based on my emotions.

The best way to describe my general mentality, at least regarding matters of the heart, is leap before you look.
Don't think, don't fret, don't worry, just close your eyes and run in headfirst. See where you land. Oddly enough, so far this mindset has led to me remaining single since my first and last relationship. Odd.

Anyway, on to the topic at hand: I fell for her. I'd never met her, all I ever saw of her was 1 picture which was at best unclear. I fell for her, based on her. Based on who she was, her personality, her flaws and her strong points, her spirit. I don't think I've ever felt more closer to any single person. She reminded me of myself in so many ways, and as I got to know her she proved she was every bit as amazing as I expected her to be, and more.

Despite all her strife, her troubles, her pain, she kept going. She had grown up more than most 'adults' I know in a relatively short lifetime. This was someone who had learned from falling and standing back up. This was someone who had been forced to 'grow up' by her environment, and carried her burden in stride without a complaint. This was someone I could admire, this was someone who would not let herself be stopped by anything less than Armageddon.

I always considered myself a good person. Coarse, blunt, anything but subtle, but in the end a good guy. How mistaken I was. This is what the title refers to:
In my contact with her, I had nothing but the very best of intentions. I never lied, I comforted her when she needed it, I joked with her when she needed her mood brightened, I thought I acted in her best interest, even going so far as to ignore my own benefits in favour of hers. I thought I could make her see that I was in fact not 'just like everyone else'. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was anything but 'just like everyone else'.

More the fool am I. I ended up hurting not only her but another girl as well, I did exactly what she feared I would do. I turned out being, in fact, just like everyone else.

For all my good intentions, for all my vain and idle thoughts of myself, I ended up exactly nowhere.
I'd hurt 2 people I care about, I lost every last bit of respect they had for me, I lost them completely.
All my good intentions led to, was bringing myself another step closer to my own personal hell. In all honesty, after the slightest bit of introspection, I can't say anything other than that I deserve it. Let me burn in the fires of my own failure, knowing that for all my chestthumping about how good a person I am, I am nothing better than anyone else. Worse than that, worse than anything that could ever happen to me, I let her down. I disappointed her, I got her hopes up and then crushed them in one single motion.
I hurt her worse than what I would wish upon the vilest of vile.
If I could, I would take her pain for myself. I would suffer in her place. These are hollow words though, because I can't make her pain mine. The best I can do, is prevent any further harm to her.
I can disappear out of her life. The loss of this amazing girl, this kindred spirit, this soulmate shall be my hell.

Is it better to have loved and lost?

It's been well over a year and a half now since we broke up. While I'm still certain it was better for the both of us, especially at the time and in the circumstances, I also still miss her. I still think of her every day. I know her faults, the reason we broke up. I know it was far from sunshine and rainbows, as it feels now. But still, the feeling persists that she was the one. To this day I still question the wisdom in breaking up, despite knowing it was for the better.

Alot of emphasis on knowing, as you can see. Why? Simple, because knowing does not equal feeling. What I feel is, I let the love of my life slip through my hands due to my personal problems. I feel that the other women I've dated since then cannot hold a candle to her. I feel that without her, I'm not complete.
I've even found myself subconciously sabotaging every single attempt at dating another woman.
So, what's the problem you might think? If your feelings are so very strong, go after her. Surely a stupid romantic gesture, proof that I've changed my ways, that I've gotten better, older, wiser and more mature will sway her heart and remind her of why she fell for me in the first place.

The problem is, she's moved on. Quite clearly. Her life has led her down a very different path, one where there is no room for me.
What we had, it is gone and will not come back. Young love, rushed into living together combined with personal issues and extra strain from lack of income broke us. I can't get her back. I would give both my arms gladly to have her back, but it is not to be.

So, it is clear what I have to do. I have to move on as well. I have to let it be, accept that it's gone and won't come back.
The problem however, is that I can't move on. I've tried, over the last 1.5 years. I've tried forgetting her, which was impossible. I saw her face everywhere, I heard her laugh, her silly jokes, I felt the love which she showed me.
So instead, I tried to replace her, to emulate her. I dated a few women, some which were just clearly not for me, some which I could learn to love but those I sabotaged before I got there. After my latest debacle, I've gotten to thinking. Thinking which has led to this. Typing out my thoughts to organize it for myself, to make sense of it.

I've come to a conclusion. It's not a conclusion I like, or one I see have any future. That does not change that it is the only possible conclusion.

I want her back. Still. Until either that happens, or I figure out how to get rid of this feeling, I will remain alone.

Why men are savages

My uncle recently turned 60. To celebrate, we had a big party in a café, on the top floor. The ground level was open to regular customers.
Upon leaving for home, I was called out by an intoxicated student. His choice of subject was my coat, irrelevant ofcourse. Let's dissect why he chose to call me out.

In order to properly study this behaviour, we have to look at human beings as nothing more than animals. We are driven by urges, urges which are present in us today through natural selection. The urges and nature we showcase are present because these are proven effective for procreation. In this case, simple alpha male supremacy.
This certain student must have felt that I was a threat to his superiority, or that I was a target for him to prove his superiority.
By calling me out, he could show his alpha male status, thereby placing himself in a more positive position towards females.

My reaction, while seemingly savage and uncivilized, is natural. I wanted to rise to his challenge. I instinctively wanted to meet his challenge, to showcase that I was in fact superior to him.
By calling me out, he issued a challenge for supremacy.

In this case, I was stopped from confronting him by my company. Female company. Her natural urges were to protect her progeny, her cohort. I had already assumed the position as clear alpha male towards her, a simple challenge by a random student would not change my status. Therefore, her urge to stop me from meeting his challenge is logical, it is correct.

However, as I am not female, but male, my reaction differed. I had to meet his challenge. Not doing so, would be a sign of me forfeiting my position as alpha male to him. It would mean he would win, I would acknowledge him as the victor. This is something that no man can willingly do.
By rising to the challenge, we as men receive the chance to show our supremacy, in order to safeguard our progeny. This is our way of following natural selection. Humans who would willingly accept another as superior are genetically inferior to those who seek supremacy, and would cease to exist following the laws of natural selection. Therefore, my urge to confront him is natural, it iscorrect.

Upon being halted by my companion, I endeavoured to explain to her my reasons for needing to confront this challenge. This entry into my blog is a written attempt at putting into place these urges, these needs.

Simply put: Both the student's and my own actions are perfect showcases of alpha male behaviour. The challenger sought to establish himself as alpha, I sought to prove my status as alpha.
I wanted to walk up to him and confront him, intimidate him into backing down from his challenge. This, in an attempt to reestablish myself as the alpha.
Had he not backed down, it is clear it would have led towards (threats of) violence.
My awareness of these facts allowed me to back down, against my instincts.

I am still aware of the challenge coursing through me as I write this. I can still feel the shame of, forcibly, backing down and declaring him superior.
This simple act, which seems so commonplace and uncivilized, is so essential to human survival. This singular case is proof positive of humans being subject to urges and instincts brought to us by natural selection. Once more, a creature that backs down from a challenge is a creature that does not procreate, therefore is 'inferior'. These creatures will die out, and the challengers will remain.
This is why men are forced to act like 'savages' when challenged by strangers. It is why we are here today, what will determine whether we procreate or not.

When it rains, it pours

I found an old WIP story-entry I had forgotten about, figured I might as well throw it up here for some feedback, see if it's worth finishing up. Yes, no update for 2 months and then two stories in a single night, quite a change I know!
This is currently untitled, names and titles are still likely to change, but the storyline itself should be pretty solid as is.
Enjoy!

A muck covered trooper burst into the dank cellar of an old café, where his comrades were holed up. “They’re coming! We need to leave, now!”
Immediately the room erupted in an explosion of movement, shouting and packing of what sparse supplies were left. Veterans barked orders, men grabbed food and ammunition, and rifles were slung across shoulders. Marcus, who was the closest thing to a commander they had, quickly packed up the charts he had been studying.
He took hold of the man who had burst in and said to him: “I need numbers and an ETA, now!”
“Marcus… sir…”
“Dammit man, spit it out already. There’s nothing we can do about it now!”
“Our forward relay counted at least 15. He spotted them 2 miles from here, coming straight for us. I expect them here in 5 minutes, tops.”
Marcus digested the information with a pained look on his face. He didn’t need this, not now. He had been so close. A day more, perhaps two and he would have found it!
“The relay?” He asked the trooper.
“Dead, sir. They passed straight over his position, he couldn’t have survived.”
“Perfect… Just what we needed.”
Marcus looked at the bustle and raised his voice: “Alright men, listen up! We’ve got 5 minutes before they hit us and John here says there were 15 incoming, so don’t even think about putting up a fight. We’re leaving, now. Everything that’s not vital, we leave behind.
I want everyone outside and moving in 30 seconds!”
“What about me sir?” John asked.
“Grab your rifle and ammunition, take all the supplies you can carry and don’t forget your transmitter. We might still have a use for that thing if we can salvage another one.”

The men were quickly pouring out of the cellar, taking up positions behind debris to cover their comrade’s exodus from what had been their home and base of operations for weeks now.
They had been relatively safe here. Only one Locust had come anywhere near their hideout, but that was still considered one too many by most of the men.
Marcus had heard their complaints and fears, but refused to move to a safer location. He needed to remain here, he knew that here he could find a key, a solution, an answer.

No one remembers what the Locust are or where they came from. Most of the population was wiped out several generations ago. Ever since, what little men remained focused on staying alive and out of their hands. They weren’t concerned with history.
Scattered scraps of information could be found about the Locust if you knew where to look and were lucky, although it was mostly unintelligible gibberish. Marcus had found something better. He said he had found a way to stop them. He said he had found their weakness.

Suffering from writer's blog

Such a funny play on words really requires no extra explanation, but as I like pointing out the obvious:
I'll be adding some of my writing to this blog, as writing is something I enjoy doing and I feel having an audience can never hurt. First addition will be a short bit I wrote a few months ago. Without further ado;

Here I stand

Here I stand, my hands wrapped around her neck.
How it ever came to this, I have no idea. All I know is this beautiful creature I once loved and adored now hangs limp and lifeless in my embrace.
All I want to do is scream and shout, to cry until I can’t cry anymore, to lie down and die…
But I can’t. I feel myself letting her slip.
Her soulless form drops to the floor, a crumpled heap of flesh. My being cries out in pain, but my voice resounds throughout the room, a mocking laugh filling my ears. I hear someone, something, speaking in my voice.
“How does it feel? How does it feel to know you are responsible for her death? Does it hurt? Does it fill you with despair, knowing she is gone and will never return?”
I try to reply, but my voice won’t heed my commands.
“Weakling! I am in control now… And I have plans for you yet.”
Then, darkness.

I wake up to find myself in a small, white room. The walls are padded. Above my head is a large fluorescent lamp, moulded into the ceiling. The light hurts my eyes.
A voice, seemingly out of nowhere: “Ah, you’re awake, excellent excellent! We were starting to get worried about you!”
I try to speak, but my voice fails me, resulting in nothing more than a rasping cough escaping my throat.
“Now now, do be careful! We wouldn’t want you hurting yourself, no we wouldn’t!
You see… we have plans for you yet.”

I wake up to find myself seeking cover behind a pillar inside the remains of a building I can’t recognize. Someone appears to be shouting at me, but I can’t make out his words.
His face contorts as a blade pierces him from behind. The force with which the blade was rammed through his guts sends a spray of blood showering my face. I find myself being strangely devoid of emotion as I see the life drain from his face.
His body slumps to the ground, and I see the… thing… behind the blade. Its insectoid face seems to look at me inquisitively, then turns malignant. It charges at me, chirping something that somehow feels familiar to me. Before it impales me on its blade, my body sidesteps the attack. My arms shoot out and grab the creature by its shoulders. I am aware of the muscles throughout my body tensing as I use the creature’s charge against it, sending it spiraling into a pile of debris. The creature impacts the debris with a telling crunch. A trickle of greenish fluid that can only be blood oozes out from the debris. I’m left wondering what just happened to me, when I suddenly black out again.

“Wake up, number 12.”
My eyes open, and the glare of the fluorescent lamp greets me again. I squint in a feeble attempt to get used to the brightness.
“How good of you to join us, number 12”
The voice sounds sarcastic, irritated. I feel as though this is not the same voice I heard before, but I’m not sure. Before I can gather my thoughts, the voice resounds through my padded chamber again: “So far you’re somewhat disappointing, number 12. I believe it is time for you to prove your worth.”
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can utter a sound darkness overcomes me yet again.

I awake at a table. 3 faces look at me, expectantly. I see plates with loaves of bread on them, glasses of orange juice. I look down and find myself holding a newspaper. For some reason I can’t make out the words. A woman’s voice reaches my ears: “Well?”
The sound of her voice seems to break my spell, and I ask: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
A small smile crosses her face as she calls me a scatterbrain. I can’t help but grin sheepishly as I remember how she’s called me that ever since we first met, 15 years ago.
“I asked if you wanted another cup of coffee before you go out to work.”
“Coffee? Oh, yes, coffee, please.”
She pours me a cup of coffee. I suddenly get a feeling of deja-vu as the smell of the coffee reaches me. It feels as though my blood turns to ice where I sit as terror grasps me.
“Are you feeling alright dear?” She asks me.
“….run…” I whisper as I suddenly remember why I feel so scared.
She looks at me, fear and wonder trading places on that beautiful face of hers.
The 2 children sitting at the table ask her what’s wrong with daddy.
She doesn’t reply, her eyes locked to mine.
She sees what I see, what is about to happen.
The children pick up on the feeling of dread between the two of us, and start sobbing softly.
I hear her hiss for them to run, now, to go next door to uncle Jim and aunty Elly.
Between sobs the eldest says they don’t want to, they want to stay with us, but she yells at them to go, now!
Crying, he grabs his younger sister’s hand and runs out the door.
I slowly get up from my seat. She mirrors my action, moving slowly and deliberately.
She asks me what’s wrong, but my voice refuses to work.
I throw the table out of the way with both hands. She winces as it crashes violently into the porcelain closet containing the heirlooms given to her by her mother.
I feel myself slowly striding towards her. She just stands there, paralysed in fear. I want to scream at her to run, to flee while she still can, but I’m no longer in control.
My arms rise up. I see my hands surround her thin, swanlike neck. She lets out a muffled sob as my grip tightens. Inside my head, I’m crying along with her, as I find myself slowly squeezing the life out of her… yet again.

Seems I've got a secret admirer

I suppose it wasn't a question of íf, rather of when I'd get my first anonymous hate-reply. This is, after all, the internet, where everyone can act like a tough guy, sitting safely behind their screens posting as "anonymous". Blogger has a wonderful feature that lets me moderate and even delete replies I don't want to see, but I don't intend to use it.

People who feel the need to spam nonsensical messages filled with cussing and generic verbal abuse tend to fall into two categories:
1, they are insecure, small and unsuccesful people who need to feel good about themselves by dragging others down.
Or 2, baiters. Trying to get an annoyed, perhaps even infuriated response from whoever happens to cross their path. Pretty much everything is fair game to a baiter, and ofcourse the fun is when someone bites and goes off at them. I happen to know this, because I spent some time on a forum as a baiter. So, I'm not going to change the options for posting replies, I'm not going to moderate them and I'm certainly not going to delete any. Any of those actions would mean a baiter gets what he wants. Instead, with this little addition to my blog I acknowledge his presence, and that's where it ends.
Yes, I see you. Yes, I read your comments. No, I don't care.