MicroHorror

I killed a girl when I was twelve. It was an accident, that first one. She just made me so angry. I only wanted to talk to her. Sit by her and talk to her. It was lunch time at school. There was an open seat next to her. She couldn’t be nice, she had to humiliate me in front of everyone.

But it wasn’t her fault, really. She didn’t know what I was, didn’t know what I was capable of. I didn’t know then. They found her in her bed the next day. She had simply stopped breathing. I didn’t know it was me at the time. It wasn’t until much later that I made the connection.

Sometimes they go peacefully like she did. Sometimes not. The guys that beat me up in ninth grade weren’t that lucky. Their bodies were a bloody pile of mush when they found them. It took a long time to sort out which parts belonged to which kid. They should have left me alone.

It’s not like I enjoy it, though. I hate it. I hate it. Someone gets me angry enough and they just die. Sometimes quietly, sometimes violently. A guy cut me off in traffic one time and died almost instantly from a heart attack. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but for one second I was so angry at him, and he didn’t have a chance.

If you don’t believe me, I’ll understand. I have a hard time with it myself. How can a person kill someone just by getting angry at them? I wish I had that answer, but I don’t. I don’t know.

If you want real proof you could ask my girlfriend, if it wasn’t too late. Brain aneurysm. It was a stupid argument and I lost my temper. God, I really hate myse