When I stabbed him, I didn’t know he was going to die. I know that sounds plainly stupid, but I murdered him for reasons best known to me. Murdered? That sounds too subtle for what I did; I massacred him, I stabbed every living part of his body and it still surprises me that I could do that to the same person I would have laid down my life for.
I stood for several minutes, holding the knife I used to butcher a living soul like myself but instead of me feeling guilty, I felt fulfilled and really wanted to stab him all over again, making him feel the sharp yet gradual pain he inflicted on me. I walked slowly towards the door, still holding the knife firm in my hands but a gun pointing at me made me loose my grip and I dropped the knife, covered in fear. I walked into the van without fear or regret and a major part of me was beginning to feel I had lost my senses. The torture room made me know I haven’t, because it was there I was conscious of the unforgivable crime I had committed and I knew I was going to die but it didn’t matter, or maybe it did. The execution room brought back the feeling of anger and I wished again that I had actually stabbed him all over like I wanted to but I kept asking myself if my justification was right.
With tears filled in my eyes, I looked at him with the knife still held firmly and his pleading eyes still searching mine, lost in explanations and apologies. I looked straight into his eyes and realized nothing could stop me from loving him, yet, I dropped the knife and said to him; “I hate you” as I ran out of the house. Still running with tears flowing uncontrollably from my eyes, I found myself feeling how much I love him despite all.
About what he did, my mouth is too heavy to speak of it but it was worth me letting him go, if not killing him.