For the Craft

It was oddly satisfying. The same feeling of knowing a secret that no one else does. Like you have the upperhand but nobody even suspects it, to the point where it becomes humorous. That's how it felt to know that I could decide at any moment to take someone's life. It wasn't about some sort of bloodlust. I didn't have any deep desire to make people suffer either. But it felt so arousing to know that I choose whether they lived or died. I was a f__ing God. With every new person I'd pass, my first thought wasn't about their looks or making out what kind of person they were. My thoughts danced around the image of me backing them into a corner wearing a helpless look across their face. Usually they're too naive to imagine I am decieving them. It is most people's weakness, being so gullible to trust a complete stranger. It's like, as soon as I sense they've let their guard down, it's already far too late for them. The first time I killed was for money. I lost my measly savings trying to turn a profit gambling and ended up pennyless. I spent a night out on the street like a dog shivering in the cold with no where to turn. I came across a man who stepped outside of a seedy bar taking a smoke break. He was visibly aggrivated. My first thought was that it was from the nicotine withdrawls. When he noticed me he asked what I was doing, but it seemed more like a demand that I tell him. After a few hours of talking he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. That was the beginning. I'd thought it would be a lot harder to do before I actually did it. I was a natural. Plus it was the easiest money I've ever made. I had never had anywhere near 50 grand before, and now I have more than enough to retire at 30 three times if it were even possible. But I don't do it for the money anymore. Now it's about the craft. This world is plagued with billions of mindless minions who'll believe practically anything you tell them. The elites have really done a number on these poor underlings. The trick is to make them think you're not only harmless, but have their best interest at heart. This is so that you can justify almost any action you make. If there is any suspicion you can just reassure them that they have something to gain in the end. If you do this they'll let you get away with their own murder. In their lifetime, these people have been conditioned suckers. They take most of the work off my hands. Their lives are already wasted. That's why they're all more useful as my playthings. I'll admit, sometimes it does get tiresome. But once in a while I find a fighter who gives me a challenge. Still, no one has ever prevailed. How could they? A human is only a pawn to a God. No one else could ever get away with the things I have. It's all written down, every last delicious detail, in this little black book that I keep on my shelf with my copy of 1984. No one even suspects a thing. What's interesting about a book on a bookshelf? No one has ever acknowledged it. Hiding in plain sight. It was a satisfaction so odly satisfying. So when I saw Anita's eyes lock on my black book I suddenly felt like all of the air had been siphoned from my lungs. She looked so eager to flip through the pages as she reached for it, obvlivious to the obsceneties it spelled out. If anyone were to read my notes, they would have enough evidence to convict me for every missing person I was responsible for personally slaughtering. But I didn't flinch to stop her. I didn't want to raise her suspicion. But then, as soon as she opened the front cover, I watched to see how she would react. I've obviously never let another soul read my log before. But I was very proud of that little black book. Every action was personally crafted for each individual, and I put the same care into recording the details. She could tell it was a journal, and she quickly realized it was my writing. I saw the connections she was making like she was doing math in her head. I had never seen anyone express so many emotions in only a few moments. Without removing her eyes from the book, I could see her thoughts expanding towards escaping from the corner she backed herself into. She remained admirably calm considering the circumstances. But Regardless I was offended. I felt intense disgust radiating off of her, but she couldn't help but give off the sweet stench of fear and adrenaline. It's true what they say, you really can smell it on people. I was in the middle of basking in it when Anita threw the book towards my head and made a break for the nearest door. The careless way she threw the book caused the pages to fan out and it missed it's mark. I was amused by her attempt at fleeing. She broke down in hysterics, so all I needed to do was pick up the letter opener on my end table and peg her in the nape of her neck. My aim was impeccable. She fell head first down the stairs. It wasn't my most nuanced execution, but I couldn't have even designed anything more magnificent. My only criticism was the mess. She also tore a few pages when she threw the book at me. I have to say, it was worth it to see what someone thought of my work. Maybe next time I'll find someone who's opinion I actually regard.