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Passions

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I know that I’m sick. But I also know that I cannot change it. I try to oppress the passions, but they always arise. And I always like it. So this is my confession. You know, Ben Franklin was wrong. There are three certain things in life. We know that everyone will die. We know that governments will always tax. And soon, we all will know that Saul Markins is never coming back.

Part of why I confess is plain guilt. Saul was a nice guy, really. We weren’t that close, but I knew that he was friendly. Innocent, sweet, not one who likes to disagree. But because of that, can you really blame me for killing him? I mean, if I have to kill, I want to do it easily. And he was by far my easiest yet.

I guess he went hiking with me because I was nice to him. He knew that I was… quirky, let’s say. Of course, he didn’t know of this side of me. But he could tell that I had some demons. He should’ve run from me, distanced himself. He had the chance, and no one could’ve blamed him. But he stuck around, trying to help. It was his nature; he couldn’t help it. But neither could I.

We took on a rock scramble that day. Nothing too high, nothing too hard. Just steep enough that one slip would do it. I tried to avoid talking. It just makes it harder. But we did chat a bit, and I wished that he were more rude. He went on about this team winning against the other team. I was very quiet, though. I get very nervous beforehand.

At the peak, we were probably a thousand feet up, give or take. I felt dizzy with anticipation. It was the same weird mix between fear and raw elation. It didn’t make much sense that I was nervous, I guess. This was, after all, my sixth time. But right before each one, part of me wanted to fight it. Part of me knew that it was wrong. Yet I always did it anyway. They always fell and I always enjoyed it.

I did it when he was near the edge. I took a large rock and threw it at him. But something happened. Mentally, physically, I don’t know. Either way, the rock went off course and hit his arm. He turned around and stared at me. We were both stunned. He seemed unwilling to accept such an unexpected scenario, but he sighed. He knew.

I tried to apologize but he just ran. He tried to get past me but I dove and grabbed his leg. He brought the other heel back and smashed my nose, but I didn’t let go. I pulled back quickly and he fell. My vision went blurry with the pain from his kick but I couldn’t give up. I brought my leg back to strike and kicked his head. He moved less.

I dragged him over to the ledge. His head was bloody from the kick and the fall. He pleaded with me and started to swear. No use. I took pleasure in casting the writhing pest over the rocks. I watched it as it fell farther, hitting sandy rocks and leaving them red. It disappeared under some trees and that was that.

My breath heavy, I looked over the beautiful landscape that my art was now a part of. I knew that I had to leave though. Quickly. I jumped from rock to rock. My hands were painted red, and my face was still bleeding heavily. My nose was most likely broken. And yet this was still the easiest time that I’d had.

I didn’t look at the body as I jumped over it. It had landed on an obscure path, but it would be discovered pretty quickly. I tried not to think about it as I went to my car. As I opened the car door, I felt the world start to cave in around me again. This too happened every time. The guilt was setting in, combined with shock. I sat in the front seat with my hands on the wheel, breathing hard. I heard a shriek from my cracked window and knew the time had come.

I made certain not to speed home. If a policeman found me now I would never be able to explain my bloody hands, my broken nose, my guilty conscience. I was saved from a panic attack by not seeing any police cars, but I couldn’t escape myself once I arrived home.

After I shut the door I ran to the shower and washed off the evidence. My hands shook and refused to stop. I couldn’t catch my breath. I kept seeing his face after I hit him in the arm. Then his mutilated face, disguised by the blunt touch of the mountainside. Though my hands shook and my thoughts yelled at me, part of myself loved the memory of his broken body plastered to the Earth’s floor.

What is wrong with me? The police are coming as I write this. I know I should hide. The sane part of me is split between running from a painful indictment and accepting my responsibility for six murders. I have feuded with myself for years, trying to become either completely sane or insane. Just so that I can have peace of mind with one or the other. Now, I am coming clean on this slip of paper. I am letting my sane self take over, forcing myself into responsibility.

I confess here to the murders of Saul Markins, Acer Fields, Mitsie Allana, and the three others of whom I did not know by name. My right hand is currently chained to a pipe in order to force my sanity. I chuckle a little at the irony there. It almost makes me happy. Now, we wait for the fingerprints, or a confession from someone, a witness, anything. Finally, I am sane.




(You still have time to run)


They still haven’t come, but I am doing the right thing.


(Take off the handcuff and leave. It isn’t worth it)


Shut up. This is what I deserve. I killed them.


(They were pathetic. And you can’t help it. You wanted them to die and you loved doing it. Set yourself free and go do it again)


No. This is what I deserve.


I felt my left hand reaching for the knife.


(They won’t catch you. You’ll be free to do what you want. And you know what you want)


I want to be held responsible. I want the punishment. I need it.


The left hand grasped the handle. My sane side tried to control it but failed. The passions were taking over.


Please, stop. No! I need to turn myself in. Please…




The police show up to the blue house to question the suspect. Inside, they find a severed hand cuffed to a pipe with dried blood. The suspect is gone by now. The lead officer picks up a paper dotted with blood. No, not just dotted. Certain words were bolded with it. They read:


“The passions always win. They will strike again. I am happy. Sane.”



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