Written Accurately

Chapter 1

The keyboard clicked under my fingers as I wrote down the scene. Every detail of it from the blood stains on the clothes to the knife that was being held in the hand on the killer. All the details I could think of from the scene. The scene I created. Recalling my memories and typing it down just as quick as I remembered them. The clacking of the keys the only sound, more like the most dominant sound. Other than the sound of the air that came from the electric fan and my steady breathing it was silent.
The knife dug into the lady's body. Pure red blood coming out steady from the newly formed wound. That wasn't enough. No. I twisted the knife side to side deepening the wound. Widening the wound. Swiftly I take the knife back.
Bringing it up to the light of the full moon I saw the glisten of the light reflected from the metal. Blood slowly dripped from the blade. A small smile unknowingly formed on my face.
I didn't know why I did it. Maybe I do . . . Curiosity. I wanted to know how it actually works. How to write it . . Accurately. I didn't know why I did. I only knew I want more. More of that sensation. The sensation of excitement. The kind of excitement you couldn't get from a haunted house or rollercoaster.
The sound of the painful, ear bleeding scream that came from the lady that day rung in my ears. Could I even call it 'that day' when it happened two days before. Sure. That day unlike others in stories was not 'fateful' in any sense. Maybe the fateful part came from the murder.
I only noticed that I was smiling as I write this scene is when I actually got to the murder. I already wrote everything before the murder. I had it all planned out. However, I couldn't write the murder scene. I didn't want to be inaccurate. It made me go crazy, not being able to write anything, because I couldn't find sources that came from murderers. It made me eventually find myself in front of a dead body of a young lady in her mid twenties. That murder. That murder I committed. I unknowingly followed the plans to my own story.
Picking up my cup of coffee to drink, I noticed there was no more coffee in there. Putting it down I glanced at the time on the bottom right corner of the screen. The time; it hit 1AM. Yawning, I decided to just sleep. Sleep. That's something I didn't get that night.
—
I turned on the TV with a click.
A well mannered, put together lady was sitting in her seat with papers in her hand, staring straight at the camera with a serious expression.
"Reporting in from *** News, young lady, Angelina, a reported missing person case, has been found to be a murder."
With a small laugh, I said to myself, "So, Angelina was her name."
She was a lady I had randomly crossed on the street. An innocent person, I almost feel bad. Almost. She was of average height with shoulder-length, curly brown hair. Her skin was an olive color, she was beautiful, but that did nothing to add to my non-existent guilt. Nothing.
The TV cut to another scene in front of a house showing a distressed person. It was clear he was crying beforehand.
An interview this early in the morning, I felt bad for the guy. Even after all I had done, this is what I felt bad for. Not a sense of guilt trickled in my veins for anything I've done, and this is what I felt bad for. Funny.
"She was such an amazing person, always coming home late, but taking care of the kids nonetheless. Angelina immediately went to find a job after finding out I had health issues that wouldn't let me work. She was so sweet, kind, and caring to the kids and rarely got mad at them."
"Have the kids found out?"
"They're too young to comprehend the concept of death, a pair of three-year-olds."
"And friends and family members?"
"I told them as soon as I found out, she had many close friends and even after leaving home she was close to her family."
The TV cut back to the other reporter, opening with a nod, "That was Angelina's husband, Sammy. We are very sorry to the family and friends for their loss. We wish them the best."
I never would have thought she was married, nevermind having two kids, but still, nothing. Nothing of a trickle of guilt fell on me. None of those tears got to me and nothing of her so called kind personality.
Personalities. They're so useless nowadays, they"re worth nothing.
Personality, by definition means:
"The combination of characteristics or qualities that form an individual's distinctive character."
That makes me want to laugh. They're just qualities added together. Qualities given to them by others that influenced them. With every trait comes thousands . . . millions . . . (?) of other people with the same trait. With 7.7 billion people on this earth, I doubt personalities are an "individual's distinctive character", so many people and they want me to believe everyone has a different combination? Funny.
No one- and I mean no one -is completely unique, and it's ridiculous for me to hear. No one can convince me otherwise that there is someone else on this earth with the same mindset, and call me an immoral person if you want, 'cause that just proves you're like any other person who tells me the same.
That's why I don't feel any guilt. Because even with one less person in this world from my hands, there will be another person like them somewhere else.
I don't care, I really don't, and a few words won't make me change my mind.
'Cause here I am after all this time with the same mindset after years.
—
Word Count: 1003