The Account of a Murderer

It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Grey, kind of sullen and drab….perfect to plan a little mischief. That’s what I think. I am sitting by the window of my house on the top floor of a tall building, tall enough to make people below look like ants; busy abiding by the norms of the queen. I look down and wonder where my place in this scheme of things is. As I write my story, I really wonder whether or not I am an anomaly?

Hmmm…Maybe it’s just a slow day.

Well anyway, everyone has a right to philosophize and introspect and ask questions which may or may not have the answers. I sit here by the window and wonder about my existence because all these little ant-humans seem very sure about the fact that their lives are important. They believe they are in control of it. Wrong! I am in control of it. I am in control because I can choose from right up here, right this second to end the miserable lives of these “downtrodden”.

I know I am alive for the purpose of taking the gift of life. I am the hand of death, which can strike from anywhere and leave you breathless. Literally. Mind you, I’m good. I’ve never been caught. It maybe because people can’t see the reason why I do what I do and they don’t understand.

People are naïve.

I’m not the one to impart judgement. I am not an angel or a demon. I am just a part of the scenery may be, hiding in plain sight. You see me every day, walking right by you, and you even say hello to me once in a while at the super market but you never seem scared of me. And why would you be? You often think that if one seems harmless then one probably is. What is funny is that every time I have done what I do, I see people scuttle like ants but no one ever seems to just knock on my door. However, this isn’t an autobiography, so you will feel it is missing some element of full disclosure about the methodology and motives, you’re right; it is. But go on and keep reading, anyway.

There was once a girl, she seemed alright, not much different from any normal ant. Nothing important ever happened in her life, she’d just work and go back to the hill. The only interesting thing to happen to her was the last thing that ever happened in her miserable life. So no one really missed her, I suppose. Then one day I met a traveler from a land I did not care enough about to remember the name of. His life had led him to me and I gave him what his tired life wanted, an end.Among my other, for want of a better word, victims was a neighbor. He was the most curious creature, always talking about aliens and life in the galaxy etc. When his ramblings suddenly terminated, people just assumed that he was taken away by those fateful aliens that he so desired to meet. And then there were some more fun people whose souls I scattered across the universe…they all had vivid stories to share and they thought I would be interested!

Too bad…

This grey colorless sky reminds me of the colorless lives that these people lived and I think they needed me to relieve them of their pain. Pain of a worthless existence. What purpose were they fulfilling if I had not met them? At least this way, they helped me fulfill my purpose. Life is not a gift. No. Life is an accident. So is death.

I just reunited someone with their destiny, another one of those purposeless existences. The thing that struck me so oddly was their look. This person somehow knew that I am here to finish what she could no longer continue to bear anyway. She looked at me with the queerest look and asked, “Is it time? I might get bored though, will you follow me?” In the last moments I saw my reflection in those eyes, they were dead before I had even struck the final blow. It looked like she knew where she was headed and since that day I have been wondering what secret was she a part of that I wasn’t? I have been wondering about that since she took her last breath. In those last moments people plead and beg for mercy and I generously comply but she didn’t say anything. Her words have been ringing in my ears.

Will you follow me?

I sit here today on the window sill, not proud but perturbed. I have been in control of these creatures for so long and yet she so effortlessly broke me. Now I feel as if I am one of those pointless existences too? Leading an insignificant life, contemptible, irrelevant, detestable; only a part of the scenery! Did she know it too? Should I follow her, I wonder? I think I will….what could be more perfect? Maybe the ants will gather around to take my pieces…I guess I will never know; and you will never find out since I am the storyteller and these are my last words.

One thought on “The Account of a Murderer

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  1. Reblogged this on Things that matter [to me] and commented:

    This grey colorless sky reminds me of the colorless lives that these people lived and I think they needed me to relieve them of their pain. Pain of a worthless existence. What purpose were they fulfilling if I had not met them? At least this way, they helped me fulfill my purpose. Life is not a gift. No. Life is an accident. So is death.

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