MURDER AND LOVE: A KILLER'S GUIDE

"It's over?" I whispered to myself as I stood over his body drenched in his blood. My hands, slick with his blood, trembled—not with fear, but with something I couldn't name. I'd waited so long, dreamed so vividly of this moment, but now that it was here…nothing. No joy. No relief. Just silence, thicker than the darkness in the warehouse. The thrill and excitement I felt were all gone, as I thought the light left his eyes.

The room was silent now, the soft drip of blood hitting the floor echoed around. I crouched down and pressed my finger on his neck. No pulse. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and stood up. I had expected it to last longer. The need, the hunger I felt over the years, the fantasy, I didn't expect it to be gone so soon.

Everything came rushing back. Realization. I had to get out of here before I got caught. I quickly gathered my things. This kill had been my only plan for the year, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in jail.

First, I had to clean my instruments. The knife was the easiest to clean, with one swipe and a dip in bleach. I wrapped it in plastic and tucked it into the bag on the table. The rest were difficult to clean, but I had to hurry.

Then I had to take care of him.

Dragging him was harder than I thought. Deadweight, I thought, and almost laughed at the irony. It's been an hour now after he died, and he feels heavier than ever.

 I gripped his arms, trying not to gag at the wet sound his body made as I dragged him off the chair and onto the tarp I'd laid out earlier. The blood made it worse. My shoe slipped, and I almost fell flat on my face.

"Seriously?" I muttered, catching myself. My voice echoed around the empty room.

I was able to get his body onto the plastic. I wrapped it around him to reduce the blood as I dragged him. My hands ached as I pulled him towards the car, but I couldn't stop now. I got to the car which I had parked outside not far from the warehouse, I couldn't help but look at his face—twisted in agony--he was gone, the man who hurt me, left me scarred for life, gave me this hunger for hatred….was gone.

 I tried feeling happy, maybe relief, anything that made the years of planning worth it, but nothing. I was just lost and confused. I wanted this, but why don't I feel satisfied? Why do I feel the need to hurt more people? I opened the trunk and heaved him in with one final push. It took everything in me not to slam the trunk shut too loudly. The last thing I needed was someone nearby to hear.

It was a quick and quiet drive to the cemetery. I stared closely at the rearview mirror, even though I knew he wasn't going anywhere. Every bump in the road made me flinch, but I forced myself to focus.

 Dad's workplace loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette cutting through the darkness. I pulled into the lot, parking in the far corner where the security cameras couldn't see. I'd been here a hundred times before, but never like this. The building wasn't empty; it never was. Night shifts were routine, especially for my dad. I'd planned for this. I knew he'd be busy with his rounds, and the noise of the furnace would drown out anything I did.

I popped the trunk and reached for the tarp. It was heavier now, or maybe I was just more tired. My arms screamed in protest as I dragged him toward the side entrance, every step echoing in the quiet.

The crematorium's furnace room was warm, the kind of heat that seeped into your bones and made you sweat before you even realized it. The air smelled faintly of ash and metal, a sharp contrast to the sickly sweet stench of blood.

I'd brought everything I needed: fuel, gloves, and even a change of clothes. The furnace roared to life with a press of a button.

I worked quickly, and methodically. The tarp unraveled with a snap, revealing his lifeless form. I didn't let myself look at his face as I hoisted him into the furnace. It was better that way—cleaner, simpler.

The fire consumed his body, each pop and crackle reminded me of the horror I'd done. The smell was the worst part, a nauseating mix of burning flesh and hair that clung to my nostrils no matter how hard I tried to block it out. I couldn't go in to get the mask as I wasn't supposed to be there.

I waited a while for the body to simmer in the fire. I grabbed the new diary I bought from the store earlier. I wanted to get the black ones but they were out. The only option left was a bright pink diary with a unicorn on the covers. It looked ridiculous, childish, maybe even perfect. I grabbed it anyway, it's not like anyone would find it but if they did it had the perfect disguise.

The diary felt strange in my hands, its pink leatherette covers were soft yet tacky to the touch. The unicorn was embossed, with a mane that shimmered in iridescent hues, and the word "Dream BIG" was scrawled across the top in loopy silver script. It didn't suit me, but maybe that was the point.

I opened the diary, flipping past the first page that read "This diary belongs to:". I skipped the line for a name—I didn't need one.

The pen felt heavy in my hand as I pressed it to the paper. For a moment, I just stared at the blank page, the words swirling in my head but refusing to take shape. Then, finally, they poured out.

MAY 15TH, 2024

DEAR DIARY,

I don't know how I feel. I don't feel scared, sad, frightened, or even the excitement I felt a few hours ago. I think I'm broken, or I know I am broken.

I had been planning this for the past year, I left my thrill for killing animals---just squirrels though, or raccoons for this. I usually take them to our garage and mutilate them.

That was the only way to suppress my emotions, not the jolly ones, but the evil ones that lurk within me. The urge, the impulse, I couldn't control it and now it has consumed me because I have taken a human life. Not that I care about who I killed, but what the effect has on me, and how bad my impulses might turn out.

During the kill, there was clarity—a sharpness I don't feel any other time. Like the world made sense for once. Afterward, it was quiet. Too quiet. I thought the silence would bring me peace, but it only left space for the cravings to return.

Will I do it again? Probably. No, definitely. The question isn't if—it's when. And who. It'll have to be someone like him, someone who deserves it. Otherwise, what's the point?

This pink diary doesn't match me. Maybe that's why I like it. It's the opposite of what I am, and that makes it easier to spill everything onto these pages. No one would ever guess that the girl with the glittery unicorn book is the same one who burns bodies in her father's furnace.

Maybe I should name the diary. Something ironic, like "Justice." Or maybe I should leave it blank, like the name on the first page. Blank feels right. Blank feels safe.

I closed the diary with a snap, the sound startling in the stillness of the room. The unicorn's smug little face stared back at me, almost mocking. I shoved it deep into my bag and closed it. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

The body had turned into ashes by the time I had switched off the incinerator. My eyes lingered on them, I caressed the warm ash over my hands, I reached for the vial in my pocket and poured a drop of it into the vial.

A strange sense of control washed over me as I poured the liquid into the vial, the sound of it splashing faint but deliberate. It was like reclaiming something stolen from me that night. That thought clung to me, bittersweet and jagged.

Is this what I wanted? I couldn't tell. The urge wasn't just about power—it was about taking back what I lost. The strength I didn't have that night. The voice I couldn't use. Every drop in that vial felt like a fragment of me, slowly piecing itself back together, even as it hurt.

I gathered the last of the ash and carefully poured it into a soft cloth I'd picked up from the store earlier. I tied it tightly and slipped it into the hidden compartment I'd crafted for my peculiar treasures. A graveyard of my secrets lay there, each one resting undisturbed. I shoved the cloth between the others, ensuring it was nestled securely. Dad never bothered to look in there—he had no reason to—and that made it safe.

I took a deep breath and confidently approached the small room at the far end of the crematorium. The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a modest yet inviting space. Despite its cracked walls, the room radiated warmth and comfort, infused with the soothing scent of lavender. In the corner, an old bed stood ready, its quilted sheets perfectly tucked in, like a reliable companion waiting to welcome me.

I spread my arms and let myself fall onto the bed, the mattress creaking under my weight. For a moment, I stared at the ceiling, my mind whirling with thoughts I didn't want to acknowledge. I replayed the incident that happened tonight over and over again. My eyelids grew heavier, the weight of the night pulling me into its depths. Slowly, the light in the room dimmed as my eyes surrendered to sleep.

But just before the darkness claimed me, a single thought surfaced, sharp and undeniable:

Who's next?