The room seemed frozen in time. The oppressive silence hung heavy, draping everything like a thick fog. I had done it again. I had killed someone. And, as always, that feeling crept in, the one I despise but can never seem to escape.
I wouldn't describe it as guilt—at least not in the way others might understand it. I don't regret what I've done. I don't regret driving the knife into her, ending her life. On the contrary, it was deliberate, justified by the rules I've imposed on myself. Yet, despite that certainty, there's always something that comes afterward—a void, a kind of absolute silence that defies description. It's as though the echo of what just happened lingers in the air, reverberating inside me, unable to dissipate.
It's strange because, when I'm with someone, even someone like Sarah, there's a presence in the air, an energy that fills the space. Words, gestures, glances—even shared silences have weight. But now, in this moment, it's all gone. Where there was once a living, breathing person—someone who felt, thought, and wanted—there is now only a motionless body, a cold shell. The transformation is overwhelming. It's as if the room itself has been trapped in eternal pause, time halting to watch, punishing me with its stillness.
This feeling, in a way, resembles an addiction. It's akin to what I've read about drug addicts or alcoholics. In the moment of consumption, in the act itself, there's a fleeting relief, a justification to keep going. But afterward, when the effect fades, the unbearable weight sets in. That misery, that emptiness, that haunting question of why they did it again—even knowing they will inevitably do it again.
That's how I feel now. The crushing loneliness envelops me, as though the entire world has shrunk down to this room, this moment. It's a solitude that cuts deep, that constricts. And no matter how hard I try, I can't fully comprehend it. I don't know if it's sadness because I can't identify it as such. It's not fear or regret either. It's more like a muted echo, a vibration that lingers in the air, impossible to silence.
For a moment, I allow myself to stay there, staring at Sarah's corpse. Her body lies still, her pale skin drained of color. The contrast is disconcerting: just minutes ago, she was alive. She was breathing, speaking, screaming, crying… and now, she's nothing more than an inert object, a fragment of what she was. That stark transformation is what haunts me most. To go from the company of a living, vibrant person to the coldness of a corpse is a brutal reminder of what I've done—but also of who I am.
I've been here before, many times, yet it's always just as unbearable. It's ironic because I do this searching for something—a truth, a purity I believe is hidden beneath people's masks. And yet, every time I finish, I feel further from finding what I'm looking for.
I wonder why I keep doing it. Not because I want to stop, but because I don't fully understand what I hope to achieve. Perhaps it's a way to fill the void, but instead of soothing it, it only seems to grow larger. With every person I leave behind, the echo of their voices, their last breaths, gets trapped in this invisible space I carry with me.
The irony is that, for a few brief moments after the act, I feel something. That feeling I despise—the void, the silence that consumes me—is the only instance where I allow myself to feel anything resembling emotion. But I don't know what it is. Is it a reminder of my humanity? Or is it just a mechanism in my mind, forcing me to remember what I've lost, what I can never regain?
All I know is that feeling is hateful. I loathe every second of this introspection that seems to suffocate me. It's in this state of vulnerability that I most clearly see my own hatred for emotions, for the way they strip me of the control I value so highly. I want to flee from this sensation, erase it from my mind. But I also know it's part of the process. It's the price I pay for what I do.
As I dwell on all this, I realize the room remains exactly as it was. The metallic scent of blood hangs in the air, mingling with the oppressive silence. I look down at my hands, still stained with blood, and feel the weight of what I've just done. But there's no horror in me, no disgust. Only the pressing need to act.
Breaking free of the thoughts that had ensnared me, I glance around. The scene is a chaotic mess of blood—my hands, the bed, the floor. It's all stained with the remnants of what just occurred. The first step is clear: I need to clean myself.
I head to the bathroom without hesitation. As I step inside and catch my reflection in the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. My body is streaked with dark crimson, from my hands to my torso. Even my face, normally impassive, looks ghostly, with dried blood tracing lines around my eyes and mouth. I turn on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away the deep red that clings to my skin.
For a few moments, I close my eyes, letting the sound of the water drown out the silence in my mind. It's a fleeting reprieve. But as always, the void finds its way back. I open my eyes, watching the bloodstained water swirl down the drain, disappearing into nothingness.
Once clean, I dry myself methodically, treating it like a ritual to regain control. I dress in fresh clothes, pull on latex gloves, and return to the bedroom with a single purpose: to clean the mess. The need for cleanliness consumes me, an almost compulsive drive. It's not just about removing the blood—it's about restoring order, erasing every trace that could remind me of what just happened.
First, I turn to Sarah's body. Her lifeless eyes seem to stare at me, hollow and vacant. Using towels, I press them against her wounds to stem the blood flow, ensuring she won't stain anything further. With a care that seems misplaced for a corpse, I wrap her in a black tarp I'd prepared earlier. Once she's secure, I lay her on the floor.
Next, I strip the bed. The sheets are soaked through with blood, a grotesque testament to what happened mere moments ago. I fold them carefully to avoid spilling any residual blood and place them in the bathroom's laundry basket. I'll deal with them later. For now, I replace them with fresh sheets, tucking them neatly and smoothing out every wrinkle until the bed looks untouched.
Then comes the floor. The pool of blood has begun to dry, leaving dark stains that could become permanent if I don't act quickly. I mix bleach with hot water and meticulously scrub the floor, inch by inch. I take my time, ensuring every trace is gone, leaving the surface spotless.
When the cleaning is done, I inspect every corner of the room, checking for splatters on the walls or furniture. Everything must be perfect.
But there's still one last task before I dispose of Sarah's body. It's a ritual I perform with each of my victims—a personal mark, my signature. From a drawer, I retrieve one of the handmade leather masks I keep. To me, these masks symbolize the false personas people wear in life, the lies they use to hide their true selves. Stitching the mask onto their faces is my way of unmasking them, even in death.
I select a simple mask with defined features and carefully place it over Sarah's face. Using a needle and thread, I begin sewing it in place. My movements are precise, ensuring I don't damage her features too much. Each stitch feels deliberate, like sealing the final chapter of her story.
Just as I'm about to finish, the air shifts. A sound breaks the silence—a knock at the door.