MicroHorror

The smell of fear is the real pleasure in taking an innocent’s life.

But ever since the woman I killed who had depression, but not fear, my chemicals have become mixed up.

I had to use the razor wire, all her body parts; all the blood; all the arterial blood. The innocent’s blood all depressed and cold. My brain, all wrong and all mixed and all broken.

All the others I have to smell every fucking night, all the ones who had fear, but not depression. All the prayers and all the tears, but not acceptance.

I think I’ve become depressed, but not fearful. Mortality seems but a footstep away, and I feel pleased.