The Man Who Murdered Love ✔ [Completed]

The Man Who Murdered Love

Disclaimer: Not mine, which is probably a good thing seeing how evil my plot bunnies currently are.

Summary: How to start a successful career as a coldblooded killer and how to get out of jail in order to take revenge on those who arrested you.

Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. ~ Isaac Asimov

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In the strict seclusion of his austere prison cell, the man gazed at the sheet of paper in front of him. He had inserted it into the old typewriter over an hour ago and it still stared back at him blankly, its whiteness mocking his inability to write his story down. Not too long ago he used to make a living writing books, but now he just didn't know how and where to start.

Partly the old, rusty typewriter was to blame; he had asked for a laptop instead. He missed the sight of the cursor on the screen, which silently guided him from one word to the next and encouragingly blinked when he stopped typing. But, considering his current situation, he couldn't afford to be picky and would just need to make the best of it if he ever wanted to be a free man again.

The other reason for his writer's block was the fact, that - unlike with all the other books before - this time he wasn't writing to play a game of cat and mouse with his readers. He wouldn't use one of his killings as the basis for his newest bestseller, changing name and gender and personal circumstances of the victim and the details of the crime out of recognition and only retaining the essence of the murder. No fictitious inspector, who was modeled after a very real person, would fail to catch the infamous killer. Today he was determined to write pure non-fiction.

The amount of money he was offered for writing his memoirs was incredibly generous, but easily explainable by the general public's craving for gory details. He wanted to give them what they wanted and he also needed the money to ransom himself. His footmen saw his imprisonment as a chance to gain fast profit and a part of him couldn't blame them for it. It would be hard enough to get him out of jail, so he agreed to their conditions. For now. He would make them suffer the consequences of their greediness later, after he would be done with those who put him behind bars.

Spurred by his thoughts of revenge, he started typing. The sound the device produced with every stroke annoyed him, but he unwaveringly went on until he committed the sentence to paper.

"I came into this world on a mild November day."

He examined the result, tested the words on his tongue. No. Too pathetic. The page with his first try turned into a wadded ball and landed in a corner. His birth had nothing to do with his story. His mother had survived it, so he couldn't even call her his first victim. That he broke his arm when he was five years old was just as irrelevant as his filial aversion to broccoli or the fact that he once had a dog named Trevor.

His actual life and the story everyone was interested in began much later, when he turned into the killing machine. But to convey how he became this person, he would have to begin a little earlier than that. He would have to speak of her, a beautiful woman of only twenty-one who had the honour of being his test object. She was the one who made him realize that his happiness was woven of crimson beads of blood.

Vansh Raisinghania slowly stretched his whole body, loudly cracked his knuckles to accentuate the importance of the moment and then started telling his lurid tale.

"After finishing college, I decided to earn my bread and butter with writing. My first lucrative short story, published almost eighteen years ago, dealt with a kid who found his suicidal father dead in the bathtub. With ardent zeal I described the sudden realization of endless dismay that my protagonist felt and I knew then that death would inevitably be the main topic of all my stories.