THE FIRST

At one time I used to think all I could ever feel is
despair.
I lounged so badly for anything else... so much so that I
started hurting myself.
I didn't cut myself just to see how much it bleeds; I didn't
ram my head against the wall just to see how much it
hurts... I killed people. The people I was supposed to
love...

It started with my sister. Well if to be precise, half
sister. She was much older than I was - 7 years or so was...
Not particularly smart, not particularly pretty, not
particularly successful, but she was my sister, and killing
her didn't make me feel a thing.

I was nine when I first thought about killing someone.
Already vegetarian of my own accord, she seemed as good a
victim as any other did.

She broke her long giraffe-like neck falling down the
stairs. This being my first time, I eagerly anticipated a
big impressive pool of tinkering maroon-red blood but she
only bled some off her mouth. I remember how anticlimactic
it seemed.
A distinct sound of degaussing she made, exhaling the last
of her breath. It was like a sigh of release, a great burden
lifted.

My mother was of course shocked. When she heard the rumbling
of the fall, she came running out of the kitchen, cigarette
in her hand. She started screaming the moment she saw her
daughter lying on the ground.

Of course, I hid as soon as I heard her lumpy footsteps make
their way closer to the staircase from across the kitchen.
Befitting a child my age, I could never face my parents
after having done something wrong, and though I wasn't
completely certain of it at the time, I remember having the
distinct feeling what I did was wrong.

The funeral was lovely. I have this image burned into my
mind of how elegant my father looked. He wore a black
tuxedo, and what I'm sure was a clip-on tie. My half
sister's father on the other hand seemed much out of his
element. It left me baffled, as normally, it was the other
way around.

Making our way back to the house of my half sister's father,
I realized he must be my next victim. If only to make he's
child-like crying sobbing noise come to a stop.

It was hard pulling that off. Being Jewish, sitting Shibaa,
he constantly had company around him. How was I supposed to
make it look like an accident with so many witnesses around?
Nevertheless, being the talent I am, I of course figured out
a way, and he's death wasn't quiet as pretty.

I think it was at that point I decided what I was doing
wasn't so wrong.
God kills I remember thinking, why not we?

THE SECOND

It took quite some time for me to make out my next potential
target.
I decided it must be someone more dominant in my life.
Someone who's losing would force me to feel... the family
dog.

Rufus was always happy to see me, and made sure to keep me
company whenever possible. Being the only eyewitness, he
didn't even turn me in for the murder of my half-sister,
even though he seemed to be just as affectionate to her. I
distinctly remember wondering if he would have been as loyal
to her if it had been the other way around. However, that
wouldn't be possible to begin with, so I nipped that line of
thought in the bud.

It seemed best to make Rufus's murder as gruesome as
possible. Both to avoid suspicion and to try to extract
whatever drop of feeling only possible.

So I made ready. I collected the necessary tools for the
endeavor I was to undertake, I assured my victim, and I will
have all the privacy needed to conduct our little ritual.

When my mother anxiously asked me where I'm going out so
late, I told her I want to find Rufus - no matter what it
takes, and after a daylong searching herself, she was
honestly too tired to argue my point. I then left the house
and headed to my secret hiding place. Every child has one,
mine was just... a little more elaborate.

Instead of some bush to hide under or some tree house in
plain view, I had a quarry I dug out. It wasn't very
impressive but it held the required essentials - water, a
regenerating self-sufficient power source, anti radiation
medicine and of course, candy. Well, I was 11 at the time
and it seemed like a pretty reasonable and balanced
diet-choice.

It was a hefty 3 miles journey getting to my secret layer,
and on bike, that drive took a very long time. Fortunately,
Rufus was in very good shape and was able to keep up right
behind me on our long trip there. Silly smurk splattered
'cross he's face, happy as always and completely unaware of
the unavoidable fate at hand, he quietly followed me to the
scene of the crime.

He was already hanging there when I arrived this time, just
where I left him. Tying he's paws to the quarry walls. He
never looked so human.
Head dangling back and forth and to the sides, eyes weary,
gazing aimlessly at the twinkling lights of civilization far
off... he was actually happy to see me. Already forgetting
it was I who hung him there in the first place.... that it
was I who punctured all those miniature holes throughout
he's body to slowly drain his blood out.

Dangling he's hairy little tail from side to side I knew it
had to go. I have to burn it. That tail that I used to hide
under when I was a puppy even smaller than him was
beautiful. It was always so puffy, clean, white and long. It
was perfect. It had to be burned.

The shrieks he made as the flame caught along he's body were
earth shattering. I'm convinced any one of the tens of
joggers who walk above my quarry every night could have
heard that horrible sound. I'm also convinced none of them
felt anything for it. Same as I didn't. And why should
they?

The smell came right away. It filled the quarry very fast
and was unbearable. The nauseating scent of burnt hair and
flesh almost got the best of me. It wasn't at all the smell
of chicken as I thought it would be.

The shrieks didn't die out so fast, and neither did Rufus.
I forced myself to look. Watch every moment of my dog... my
companion of 10 years, exhumed by flames of my own doing. I
looked him in the eyes as he begged me for mercy, as he kept
hoping for me to save him, as he tried escaping he's
gruesome fate. But to no end... I felt nothing.

The same empty void inside me, telling me I have no humanly
bonds to break, no love to betray and no hope for whatever
connection with another living being.
The same empty void inside me that I always thought I was
inside of...

THE LAST

There was nothing left. No one left to kill. No more
supposed bonds to break. No more hearts for me to tear
apart...
I killed my family, my friends, my guardians, and random
specimens of my race - the ones I was supposed to be
compassionate of... if nothing else. I killed children,
widows, whatever it was I could find, living, or
otherwise...
It then came down to me.

I was already 19 at the time I finally decided I had nothing
left.
Nothing else to try, nothing left to kill... nothing left to
help me feel...
So I cut myself for the first time.
Small cuts at first, to try to feel personal pain... it was
nothing. Not even the smallest fragment of what was required
to shock me out of the void I born too. It was nothing close
to what was required to shock that void of feeling out of my
heart.
Chopping off toes was excruciating, but I remember thinking
that 'excruciating' isn't really a feeling... it's much more
like an experience. Some rite of passage I had to undertake
on my way to achieve this goal... to obtain the one thing
that will make a human out of me - real feeling.

I watched as the blood gushed out and then I finally felt
something. I felt dizzy. I lost too much blood and realized
it's going to be over too soon.
I think it was then that I finally felt something real, but
it was not the, and it wasn't the sight of my own blood
pouring out by the gallons... It was the sensation of miss.


It was at that point that I truly found meaning. In my
search for feelings, I was too busy thinking I cannot feel.
In my search for sensations, I was too busy planning my next
attempts! In my quest for humanity, I lost any mortal form I
might have had...

As I faded away it hit me... it wasn't a void I was in and
had in me, but denial.