To All I have Murdered

I have a vivid photographic memory my mind has been dealt with for too long. Most would think this a precious gift, however to me, it's a curse, similar to salt rubbed into a bloody gunshot wound. Why? All things considered, I'm an enemy of many among the living. Alright, a serial killer if you will. I detest this definition. Be that as it may, I'm not a sociopath or a mentally ill person by any means. I have a heart and live in the dark presence that surrounds all of us. It's another curse that exacerbates the first; the memory thing. I recall each murder in intense detail, where I was, and how I finished their lives. Some don't see it coming, and others give death a chase. My heart beats for their underdog victory, but it never unfolds well. I end it as quickly as possible. I wonder, Did they all sense death knocking at the door? I get perhaps an average of four hours rest each night; if that. I regularly see them when I close my eyes. I remember each clear part of their brutal deaths in my vivid nightmares. Sometimes, I long for suffocating in an ocean of their carcasses; bodies of every one of those I butchered over the years. In another one, I climb up and lay on a pyramid of dead bodies; corpses I've piled up meticulously with their blood utilised for mortar. I don't know how much longer I can go on living this life. This exact instant, I'm perched in a armchair with a cup of tea and the telly on to BBCś Planet Earth; the sturdy weight of a loaded firearm in my left hand; a Glock. I am imagining placing it in my mouth, directing it to the back of my head, and gradually crushing the trigger. Bang! Furthermore, for the life of me, I can't think of a justifiable reason not to do it. It would put me out of my misery, prevent me from killing once more, and give me the 'enormous rest and peace' that I beyond any doubt could ever truly utilise. I'm so worn out. Tired from the absence of rest, tired of life, tired of remembering, tired of taking any more lives. How many have I executed? To be frank, I lost tally years back. I've murdered men, women, bloody hell, I've even done in children. Obviously, I'm not cruel. I execute them fast and discard the bodies into the cool profundities of water. It's a proficient method for disposing of them, and it's the way my better half needs it to be done. We have a ritual, you see. I killed them all for her. "Darling! There's another spider in the kitchen! Come here and kill it, will you! It would be brilliant if you could also flush it down the loo, love." That is her right now, begging me to commit another murder. I need to go now.