Sleeping is the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Babies do it all the time without even being taught. It’s so easy people even do it by accident, but not me. I suck at sleeping, which sometimes feels more like I suck at being human since I’m so freaking tired all the time. (more…)
I wasn’t ready when I died.
The first illusion death stole from me was that my body is designed to perceive the universe around me. This is incorrect. The primary function of your senses is to stop yourself from experiencing the universe, whose infinite information would otherwise overwhelm and madden you. Eyes that once simplified the world into finite wavelengths of color closed for the last time, and then I saw everything. Ears once deaf to cosmic music sung by the birth of stars, the communal heartbeat of the human race, and the haunting pop of each collapsing universe now concealed them no longer. (more…)
You haven’t felt alive before you’ve killed someone. The symphony in your nerves in that moment will drown out every thrill you’ve ever had. I’ve never seen a color brighter than Mr. Daken’s blood, nor heard a sound truer than the death-rattle rasping from his final breath. And if I go the rest of my life wading through a sea of muted colors and muffled sounds, I will accept it gracefully because I know I have tasted of the forbidden fruit and hate myself for how sweet the juices ran. (more…)
Sammy D taught us that there are three distinct ways to kill someone. The first is a murder of opportunity: the victim is alone on a dark night, or is blackout drunk, or some other circumstantial convenience which makes it the right time to act. Then there is the assassination: the calculated and premeditated kill which we will be training for. Finally there is the murder of passion: when the blood boils too hot and we allow rage or hatred to force our hand. This is the most risky way to kill someone, both physically in the moment and regarding future forensic investigations, and it is strictly forbidden to us. (more…)
My mother cost 10,000 dollars. That’s the standard price for a hit. My father was 25,000 because he was considered an “important person” — at least important enough to demand a formal investigation into his death. From what I’ve heard, the police never found anything besides the single razor blade used to cut each of their throats. Of course I know who did it — I even saw it happen — but I never had the chance to tell anyone before I was taken. (more…)
11:50 PM on New Year’s Eve. The raucous beat of the music is echoed by the pulse in my veins. Iridescent lights lance through the air all around me, and the teaming heat of pressed bodies forces me to swallow great lungfuls of heavy air thick with sweat and cheap perfume. I can’t be the only one who isn’t dancing, but anyone who notices me will immediately recognize that I don’t belong here. Smiles and sneers look the same to me, and all laughter is tainted with condescending jokes at my expense. (more…)