The Lonely Killer 19

The walls felt like they were breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

But it wasn’t the walls.

It was me.

Sitting in the dark, staring at nothing, but seeing everything.

His face. His words. His eyes—still open, lifeless, burned into the back of my mind.

"You’re slipping."

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to tear my skin off, peel it away, just to stop feeling.

But I didn’t.

I just sat there.

The hunger was still there, but it wasn’t sharp anymore.

It was dull. Heavy.

Like swallowing stones instead of knives.

Why didn’t he stop me?

I kept asking, over and over, like the question itself was a punishment.

Maybe he thought I could be saved.

Saved?

I laughed—soft at first, then louder, until it echoed off the empty walls.

But it wasn’t funny.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard.

He thought there was something left to save.

But I proved him wrong.

I Put a knife in his chest to prove him wrong.

And now…

I’m not sure if I was right.

I stood up, pacing, the floorboards creaking under my steps.

I needed to do something.

Anything.

So I left.

Out into the city, where life kept moving like nothing had happened.

People laughed, talked, lived—completely unaware that I was walking among them, soaked in invisible blood.

I found myself in front of a mirror in some rundown restroom.

I stared at my reflection.

I didn’t recognize the person looking back.

Not a monster. Not a man. Just… nothing.

I punched the mirror, shattering it into pieces.

But the cracks didn’t fix me.

I was still there.

Still broken.

And for the first time…

I wasn’t sure I could put myself back together.

THANK-YOU

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