I needed so much...love

I wanted warmth, care, affection

But I realised

There’s no one

Who can give it to me

But myself.

~ kaur

I was in the shower when it occurred to me.

I should kill someone.

I was scrubbing myself clean and when the water dripped onto the floor, I saw a flash of a past life where someone died. Or maybe it was a movie. Or maybe it was all orchestrated in my head.

Was I fantasizing over something forever and not really realizing it was real? And possible?

Why was I in the shower?

I looked down to see the blood go down the drain.

Oh wait. I did kill someone.

I should start recording this stuff so I actually remember what happened.

I examine my fingernails and realize I should have done a better job. I go underneath the shower head again and dig under my fingernails again, blood red seeping out.

How many times do I have to kill to remember I killed?

I finish up and go to the bound journal on my cluttered desk. Paperclips are sticking out the side of the page as I find the dog ear I marked for myself.

It reads,

“Hello,

You’ll forget again so I’m reminding you.

You killed someone today.

It doesn’t matter who. It doesn’t matter how.

It’s done.

No matter what anyone says, you’re innocent.

You are completely innocent.

INNOCENT

YOU ARE INNOCE-“

The pen scribbles of the page then and the writing is undecipherable.

I sit down on the bed and it creaks loudly. I trace over the writing and its many indentations. This person was very angry.

I was very angry.

I was this person.

The room around me is cluttered. I wonder where the murder weapon is. How did I do it?

Did I strangle him or her? Was it stabbing? Did I make this person suffer? Was it in an alley way? Was this person young? Old? Was I wearing a mask? Where are my clothes?

I suddenly stop.

Where are my clothes?

I turn to the laundry bag and I start rummaging through it furiously. Flinging clothes left and right as I search through them.

I pick out a plaid shirt from the bag, covered red. I shakily lift it to my nose and smell it.

The odor of paint is strong and tickles my nose. I raise my head to the white canvas painted red. There’s paint on the floor and paint tracks of my footsteps to the bathroom.

Did I kill someone today?

My journal says I did. So I must have.

But did I?

I pick up the canvas and throw it in the trash. It’s useless for painting now anyways. The red has seeped in and drenched it.

What did I want to paint? The canvas must have been out for some reason. I pick up the journal again and flip through it to find red paint on one of the pages. There is undecipherable writing again and then one word written with what appears to be a finger.

“Innocent”

I close it shut. I put it back in its hiding place, wedged between the bookshelf and the bed. Past me was careless, leaving it out in the open.

This book convicts me of so many murders. Murders I don’t even remember.

I grab my phone on the look for my next victim. How do I find my victims, you ask?

Yes, I know you’re there. Snooping through my life. You don’t like me. I killed so many people. “He’s pretending” is what you’re now thinking. No, I can’t read your mind. I can just predict what you’re going to say. It takes practice.

I am not evil. You may already have your preconceived notions about me so I don’t want to waste my time trying to convince you otherwise. I am just stating what I believe. You’ll see.

I scroll through my phone and click on the fire icon. A face appears on my screen, the light glaring in the dimly lit room. His name, appears at the bottom and below that the description written is “crazy for chipotle yooooo”. I swipe left. Another face appears, with a wide smile. I swipe left again. A popup startles me. I matched with someone. I realize I swiped right. I guess this person is going to be my new victim.

I click on her profile and look below the name.

Now, you’ll see my process. You see, unlike other killers, I don’t discriminate. Any age is fine and any gender is fine. And when things don’t go according to plan, I just go with the flow. I’m completely harmless you see? I didn’t suddenly get angry and throw my phone against the wall. Though I really wanted too. I really really wanted too.

I shake my head and observe the location. Pretty close by. Perfect, I think. Maybe this time I’ll be able to remember it. If I did remember, would I stop killing? I don’t know. And to be honest, it doesn’t even matter.

I start texting her. She replies with a

“youre superrrrrrrrrr cute”

She’s obviously drunk. I look at her profile again. Under description it says “sophomore year is gonna be litttttt” with a fire emoji. No one will miss her.

Of course, I’m not judging her for her lifestyle. “You’re not one to judge are you?” is what you’re thinking. But you’re lying. Because you’re judging as well. You’re looking at her profile picture and thinking “she’s a ditzy blonde”. But you won’t say it out loud. You will never say it out loud. Only I will. I’m considered rude and egotistic because I have the courage to say what everyone else is thinking. So don’t judge me for judging her. Never judge me.

I look down at the phone again and there’s 2 more notifications.

“Heyyyyyyyy youre like rihgt here.”

“commeeee oevrrrr”

“********************

****************

*************”

I didn’t blur that out for you. I just don’t remember. It just registers and I go there. But even I don’t know what that place is. “You’re lying” you think again. My condition is unique. And for that reason, I believe I’m innocent. Who knows if I even committed these crimes? Random disappearances happen all the time. I could be innocent. No, I am innocent.

I shrug on my jacket and open the door. My journal is still wedged in between the bookshelf and the bed. The red canvas lies lopsided in the trash can. There’s a messy pile of clothes by the laundry bag. There’s red acrylic paint on the floor with footprint marks. I’ll need to clean that soon. What did I want to paint?

I lock the door and place the keys in my right pocket, remembering the time I panicked outside of my house. Never again. I am prepared this time. Pain courses through my body and I look down at my stomach. There’s no wound there and the memory of my injury fades away.

I clutch my keys for comfort and walk down the stairs, into the snow covered landscape.

Title: I'd kill for a date

Genre: Fiction

Author name: S (psedonym for now)

Age range: Young adult (18-22)

Word count: 1167 in this excerpt

Why my project is a good fit: I think a lot of people are looking into understanding serial killers and the reason why they do what they do. In this book however, it talks about the fact that, anyone around you could be that person and it's the very fact that they're a person with emotions and empathy that scares people. This tries to look into that aspect by talking from the view of the killer and the deep psychological issues that a person has to lead them to this state.

The hook/synopsis: This serial killer uses a dating app to kill people. However, when he's unable to kill a person as he is restricted physically, he starts to develop feeling for this nameless faceless person. Does he fall in love and change his ways, or proceeds to have the same intentions as before?

Target audience: Young adult- adult

Bio: I am a college student currently studying design and I like to do creative writing by the side. I used to be a student reporter for a while and I now I mostly poetry and some short stories.

Platform:N/A

Education: Bachelor in Industrial arts and design practices (currently)

Experience:I am unpublished in fiction. I have written articles as a journalist for an online magazine as student reporter.

Personality/writing style: I tend to write dark fiction. However, I am trying to expand my genre to romance and uplifting/hopeful type of writing.

Hobbies: I like to play the piano and I also like to read a lot. I'm learning how to code and i'm finding that fun.

Hometown: India

Once upon a time a girl named Jacey was born.

She was kind, but too shy to reach out.

When her parents died, leaving her with a horrible man, Scurge, she was devistated and more alone than ever.

However, an older boy, Jason, saw her scars and decided to talk to her. They became friends, even when Jacey went into foster care. He resembled stability, and, eventaully, love.

They married and lived happily ever after.

I don’t want to move.

Everything is chaotic enough. My sister’s bed is piled with rumpled blankets and her shelf is overflowing with toys. The floor is covered in dirty clothes, trash, and dirt. It makes me feel squirmy just thinking about it. So, not only is my entire life falling into disarray, my room is too, and packing isn’t making anything better. Along with the physical squelch of my stomach as I crunch down on whatever is laying on the floor, is the feeling of nausea when you’re about to fall. The idea of moving feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, that when I peer over, the only thing I can see are the tiny white dots of clouds down below. When I look to the future I feel like I’m taking a jump into the unknown, and everyone is trying to tell me it will be just fine. At least my cat is here to comfort me. I’m going to miss listening to my friend laugh as we talk under the cozy pink-flowered comforter.

May 30th, 2020

Note: I recently found this journal entry from May 30th, 2018 and thought it would be interesting to post it today, exactly two years later. I only changed minor spelling and grammatical errors to make it easier to read. For context, I was just about to move to a new state, far away from the home I had lived in for over 14 years. I thought it was interesting, and I hope you did to. :)

The space where you used to be is empty. The other half of the bed no longer cradles your sleeping form. When I stumble into the kitchen early in the morning, it is too quiet. I miss when you stood, yawning, by the coffee machine and I would hold you in my arms and whisper, “I love you.”

I have so many memories of you. I remember when you would grab a blanket and drag me outside so we could look at the stars. I always said it was cliche, but now I miss how you would ecstatically point out constellations. Remember when you stayed up all night with me and watched all the Star Wars movies, even though you hate Star Wars? Remember when we tried to adopt a pet from the rescue, but you couldn’t decide, so you convinced me to volunteer there with you?

Remember when... all I have are remember when’s. Small memories I’ve hidden away and tucked into corners of my mind. I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts. Even these words cannot reach you. I am writing to no one. To nothing.

Why? Why did you leave? Why wasn’t my love enough for you to stay? I know you were hurting and broken inside, but you didn’t have to die. I should have kept you safe. I should have been there when you-I can’t even write the words. Yesterday, I went to the bridge where you stood all alone. I looked down into the rushing river and I think I understood. I understood because my only hope is that someday, someday, I will be with you again.

Note: This was inspired by “It’s ok” by Tom Rosenthal.

Comfort is the perfect name for one that will not fully define themselves. It could be rumoured that Ease is an easy-going man with possessions to spare and ready nuggets of wisdom to impart and Pleasure is a wildly pleasurable woman with little needs and living in the abundance of her fulfilled wants. My experience with Contentment was...neither?

I touched Contentment once, if memory serves me right. It was more of a graze, honestly. I don’t think she felt it but it electrified me and set all my hairs on edge. She feels like energy and rest simultaneously. A conundrum at least! She was warm to the touch and reminded me of the joy of a warm meal and bed waiting at home. And just like that she was gone and I returned for my... meal and bed?

I have glimpsed her time and again. Close enough to see but not touch. Our movement is like a dance in a crowded room, like a walk on the busiest streets and I’m always bumped into before I can reach her. Yet, I keep striving! I could tell her anywhere now. We’ve had so many of these encounters to miss her. She looks like a dream that vanishes at the break of dawn, like that photo that takes you by surprise at how well it comes out and you just have to show it to everyone. But she has the steady encouraging eyes that have me thinking of... family?

I find my way by her voice. It sounds like wind chimes when a breeze rushes past, so clear, so strong. And constantly fleeting! Like a call to the wild only the trained can discern. But when the wind calms down she sounds increasingly like heartwarming conversation, mixed with learning and appreciation, with a stranger or a...friend?

Her scent is intoxicating. You could follow it to your grave. She is an album of scents like the burst in a flower garden after the rain. It is hard to pick out what smells best; the soil, the flowers or the air itself so you busk in it all. You recall all the smells you've walked through that left an impact on you and the one that lingers is the one that smells just like home. Cooking and baking. Breezy kitchens and stuffy bedrooms. Sweaty healthy bodies and growth. And you follow her...home?

And when you kiss Contentment, you will know she tastes like ice-cold water on a sun-scotched day, bland but refreshing and all the drink you need. The cold hits your insides and grants you clearer vision. She tastes so common place that you wonder what all the striving was about when she was always so... close?

Dew seeps through the girl’s socks as she tiptoes across a vacant field,

the first rays of dawn sending rainbows dancing over her pale legs.

The air has an earthy sweetness to it and as she fills her lungs time seems to slow.

She spins lazily through the wildflowers, watching as her nightgown spirals around her like the wings of songbirds as they flit overhead.

She knows this moment is stolen,

a fragment of time that was not hers to take,

but feels no remorse.

Sometimes one must be a little bit selfish.

The lightning struck me while I was walking home from work. I never thought lightning could actually strike people. I thought it was just a trope seen on television and movies. But there I was, lying sprawled on the side of the road, steam rising from my body. It didn't kill me, as I had expected lightning would, but rather knocked me out for a while. My life had been in a rut as of recently, so I had prayed for something to restart it. This was not what I had in mind.

I awoke, at what must have been a few hours later, as the sun had begun to set. My eyes shot open and, groaning, I surged forward, a true frankensteinian creature. It all would’ve looked surreal to passers by. If there were any. I had the unfortunate luck of being hit by lightning on a deserted street. I guess being hit by lightning itself was also unfortunate. I eventually decided that I would probably need to go to hospital. And it was on the way that I saw her.

She was small and young, probably around 16, and she was wearing a light floral summer dress that was drenched in dark blood. She stood at the foot of a grand oak tree, and was looking up at a squirrel perched within its branches, seemingly unbothered by her unusual appearance. I approached cautiously, unsure of whose blood she was covered in.

“Excuse me...are you alright?” I asked timidly. She lowered her head but wouldn't turn to look at me, “...miss?” I reached out and tapped her shoulder but got a shockingly cold current run up my arm, forcing me to jump back abruptly. I swore at the pain of the electricity dancing in my fingertips and looked up to find her staring at me. It wasn’t fear in her eyes, but curiosity. She had a long almond shaped face and petit features, with fierce golden eyes that had white lightning strikes exploding from the iris’, her hair was a smooth deep brown that ran in perfect rivers down past her shoulders and bruises that matched perfectly on each forearm. Her neck had a long cut across the base and a mess of dried blackened blood all down her front. I couldn’t believe that she had survived whatever had happened to her. I heard an engine noise in the distance and turned to see a car approaching us, I waved my arms, flagging down the attention of the driver, who slowed down and looked straight at me with a concerned expression. He was an elderly gentleman with a short salt and pepper beard and kind eyes.

“Ya’ll right there lil’ lady?” he drawled, in his southern accent, only addressing me. Bemused I responded

“Yes I am but i’m not sure what has happened” I responded rather bemused, gesturing towards the girl standing two feet to my left, drenched in blood. The man in the truck looked to the tree for a bit and then back at myself.

“What happ’nd with what?” he asked before leaning out of his truck again to look around further. I realised that he couldn't see the girl. The shock hit me like a punch in the stomach. But I pulled myself together and thought it best to not mention that I was seeing things, unless I wanted to get locked in an institution.

“Nevermind...it doesn’t matter”, waving him off, “sorry for bothering you!” I added lightly.

“No bother, just glad you’re ok. You have a nice day now ma’am” he chuckled to himself. He then began to drive away, his country music blasting as he went. I turned once again to the girl.

“Why couldn’t he see you?” I asked sceptically.

“I think the question should be: why can you see me?” she replied, her voice rough and cracked. She smiled humorlessly and stepped closer to me. I reached out and touched her again, and was met by the same sharp, cold, shock that had accompanied contact with her before. She looked down where I touched her and then back at myself with an eyebrow raised.

“Sorry...I just had to check that you were actually there. You are actually there right?” I feared that the lightning had frazzled my brain, fried it a bit too far.

“Yes and no. See….I’m dead.” she gave little jazz hands along with her revelation and then waited patiently, her face fixed on mine, scanning for a reaction. A bubble rose within my throat and burst out as a monumental laugh that was both unexpected and uncontainable. Once it was out I could seemingly no longer suppress it and I stood bent over laughing maniacally for a few minutes before it began to subside.

“Sorry, I am not laughing at you I promise..it’s just...it’s just that that is ridiculous,” I gasped, flummoxed by the very thought of her being dead yet standing very much alive in front of me.

“Ridiculous might not be the word that I would choose..perhaps shitty, or unfair, or a level of bullshit fuckery unbeknownst to the world?” She grew angrier the more she talked and the slit in her throat seeped when she raised her raspy voice.

“What happened?” I burst out, unable to hold my curiosity any longer.

“It was my dad. I came home one summer evening and went to my room. Then in the middle of the night he crept into my room, slit my throat, and blamed it on an intruder. The police believed his story and he got away with it.” She looked down at her feet blinking tears furiously from her eyes.

“But why? Why would a father do that to his own daughter?” I couldn’t comprehend the very idea of it.

“Because I was the only one who knew his deepest, darkest secret. And now you’re going to help me bring it to the light”. She announced mischievously, looking back up to myself, her eyes glinting with malice.