[TRIGGER WARNING: DEATH, VIOLENCE, BLOOD, SUICIDE (implied)]
There are many ways to die, dear reader.
So many complex formulas of destruction…
Hundreds of which we are just beginning to understand.
Death is simply an outlet for creativity,
like writing.
Maybe that’s why I’m writing right now:
to tell you what happened on that dark December night,
when I let my creativity explode into crimson pools of artistry.
~ ~ ~
I could see the moon reflected on the slim, metal object in my hand. The blade was more than a weapon — it was a tool of dark art, waiting to paint the scene I’d imagined so many times. I floated towards the last house on Marjorie Boulevard. I crept through the backyard and gently slid open the back door. Already, I could hear the screams echoing in my mind, feel life’s final hue on my hands, taste the wonderful coppery scent in the air, see the fragile beings falling to the floor. A smile touched my lips. My fantasy was ready for its canvas.
Icy rain slammed down on the earth like daggers, destroying everything in its path. Flowers wilted and trees bowed down to nature’s darkness. I ground my foot down on a rose, watching the petals disintegrate in a bloody mess. Satanic satisfaction spread throughout my blackened heart as I stared at the pink house looming before me. Too colorful…Too innocent…Too full of life. Well, I would fix that soon enough.
Welcome, dear reader, to the first way to die.
~ ~ ~
The room down the hall belonged to a young boy, his precious golden hair matted down from sleep. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell with a soothing pattern. It was nauseating—the harmonious bliss of it all. The soft laughter of a knife echoed in the youthful haven, drugged by peace. My shadow lengthened, responding to the impending swift destruction of the carefully crafted illusion.
Nothing is a better stimulant than imminent death. I could taste the sweet metallicness of blood before I even raised the blade. As if programmed, my limbs moved efficiently, cutting one more insect out of the big picture. Yes, the big picture. The one no one else seemed to see but me.
The white sheets bloomed darkly, a liquid chaos spreading like a requiem in cloth, and I felt a familiar burst of energy rush through my veins. Delicious screams surrounded my being, filling my ears with the melodious nature of desperate terror. Nothing was sweeter than this.
The world tinted crimson, my limbs moving with a rhythm older than reason. The knife was cold, but my hands were colder—each thrust a verse in a hymn only the damned could sing. My mouth moved, chanting nonsense as the slab of meat below me collapsed and gave up struggling. The silence that followed was almost as deafening as the screams—and I revelled in it. I stepped back, laughing.
I was doing the world a favor, really. It didn’t matter that no one else saw it that way. They would understand soon enough.
This was Formula One: the removal of innocence. A necessary subtraction.
~ ~ ~
Why am I telling you this?
You think I do this for pleasure?
No.
Pleasure is for the innocent.
I do this because someone must hold the mirror to the world’s fragile lie
When I am gone, you will see—and you will pick up the blade
Not for joy
For truth.
The world must be purged of the joyful poison
Someone must document the beauty of extinction
And only a select few understand the significance of this duty
The world is brainwashed by happiness
Controlled by the puppeteer of dopamine
No I.
I am a sculptor of final moments
A curator of suffering
My work is an art
And like all arts
There are hundreds of ways to go about it
But this is a guide
A step-by-step instruction manual for beginners
I’ve simplified everything into concise formulas
So without further ado
May I present, dear reader
The second way to die:
But first—you must want it
And you will.
The Roar 