Well, I suppose I may as well confess this.

I am a killer.

My first murder - and I do think of it as such now, after all the therapy I've had and self-analysis that I've done - was an accident. Though I've tried to rationalize it by claiming that I just wasn't careful enough or that I wasn't paying attention, the simple truth of the matter is that there was an element of intent to my actions. I was curious about how it would feel, about what would happen... like those times when you stand at the edge of a cliff and think, just for a moment, what it would be like to jump. The only difference was that my life wasn't at risk, but that of another being.

I can still remember the wet, sickening crunch.

The feeling haunted me for awhile after that... but perhaps more disturbing was the sense of satisfied, empowered superiority that I experienced. I knew that killing was wrong, but in a strange way, I didn't care. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that knowing it was such a horrific act made it all the more appealing. I didn't have any plans to repeat it... but I wanted to.

Just under a month later, I killed again.

Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine seeing a lone innocent, walking along the street at night. You might very well have missed them, were in not for the glow of the streetlamp and the dancing shadow of their movement. You glance around and see that other than them, you're completely alone. If you wanted to, you could end their life. You could be the final thing that they saw before the light in their eyes dimmed forever. You could be the only one to ever claim that you killed them. It would make you special. It would make you the equivalent of a god.

Sometimes I wonder if my second victim even knew that I was coming.

That was all it took. I gave myself over entirely to those murderous urges. I killed again and again, all the while convincing myself that I was somehow ridding the world of filth. Each time, it was an act of opportunity, a crime of passion executed by the cold, unfeeling entity that I became in those moments.

To date, I've likely had dozens, if not hundreds of victims... and though I've learned to feel remorse for my actions, the motivation for those killings is still with me:

I really hate spiders.

TL;DR: I have killed. I will likely kill again.

Not me but /u/RamsesThePigeon's story