Death intrigued me. Watching as she writed in mortal agony, crawling slowly into the shadows leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Death amused me, it turned me on. I liked to watch them beg, to plead. I enjoyed it when they offered anything for just a few more seconds of precious life. Life they had mocked in the first place. Life they had been so willing to give up. Life I was more than willing to relieve them of. They were the type who preached about death, whined about how good it would be if they died. Yet when the moment came, they wanted to stay, wanted to do anything to claim back just one more minute of their wasted days. I didn't feel pity as I watched her die, clutching her wounds. Howling in pain like an animal waiting to be shot. It made me happy because I knew I was fulfilling her dreams, allowing her to die and not by her own hand. Maybe in her final moments, she'd thank me.

The girl I was watching was about my own age. The usual type, depressive, suicidal. More than a willing victim to death's embrace. She'd attempted suicide so many times that it had became a running joke. Her life had been saved in every way possible, yet still she had wanted to die. She wasn't content that her loved ones were desperate to keep her alive, her only thought was that death would cure everything. That in death she would be happy. She lusted after death like no other I had ever met, she wanted it so bad that it hurt. It had hurt me to see her like that, desperate to end it all yet so incompetant that she couldn't manage it. I had felt the need to help her, if only to make sure for once that she'd actually suceed in dying. This pertual I'm going to commit suicide then surviving business was really getting me down. Her murder was a favour to society.

I didn't really feel anything as I killed her, normally I at least feel a bit of heat. But this was clinical. It was an act of charity. Charity not necessarily towards her, but more towards the world. I wasn't sure how much more the world could take of her existance, and mainly her failed attempts to end it. I made her suffer though. Death means nothing if they are allowed to pass peacefully, they deserve to suffer. Suffer because she made everyone else suffer. She wanted to use pills, in fact she had many times, the stomach pump became a close friend after awhile. Something to be done every sunday morning after a Saturday night depressive hour. She'd tried knives as well, but felt queasy at the sight of blood. I had used knives too, oblivious to her screams, I'd just kept slashing. Fuck it. Death would silence her in time.

The cuts had been fatal, none of my usual knife play. Perversions kept at bay, I just cut her where she would bleed the most then moved away. Leaving her to wail, holding her wounds as if she could stop the flow of blood from her veins. It had been a tiring effort, I finally understood why she kept screwing up suicide. It had all been a facade, maybe she had thought suicide was the in thing. Whatever her views, it hadn't been serious. Until now. If there is one thing I'm serious about, it's death. I believe it should be final and not something to be taken lightly. I also didn't believe in second chances, she'd had more than her second chance. She'd bled her way into hundreds of second chances, however, now I was glad to bear witness to her demise. It was closure of sorts, burning her corpse to make sure she was finally gone. I could never stand a half hearted effort. It was all or nothing. I never settled for nothing.

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