I confess. I did it.
But I didn’t want to. No, not at first. It was the voices, the voices. The voices never stopped calling to me day after day, hour after hour, second after second. They told me to do it. So I did.
My family, my dear family. They will never understand how difficult it was for me to have this smile plastered on my face while I imagined the screams of those damned by me, damned by my pursuits.
I tried to hide it at first. I was careful about leaving traces of my sad wish for self-destruction. But it was hard. I think at some point, my parents started to notice my restless hands and tired eyes. They were worried, and often asked me to go with them instead, maybe partake in their feasts, in their parlor games, in their church.
But it was too late. I enjoyed replaying in my mind the horror in my victims’ faces again and again… and again.
When the ones who loved me realized what I was doing, they tried to stop me. Reason with me, as if a craving like mine can be reasoned with.
So I moved out. Left them. It was easier to write their story when I was no longer made witness to the strangers lured into the house, the sacrifices made in the dead of the night, the unnecessary animal-like screaming that disrupted me when I placed my pen to paper. Just me, my thoughts and my reality, not the sad excuse of a cult my family tried to force on me.
I confess. I did it. I wrote their story and showed the world their barbarity. I do not regret it, not after they drained the innocents of their tears and stained my family’s name with blood forever. And I would do it again, even if it meant cursing my soul with gnawing hatred and tired absolution for words I could never retract.
The voices, however, never stopped calling.
Image source: deviantart.com/luna-kitsune-blu/art/No-Mouth-Must-Scream-141475440