I stand in front of the carnage I just inflicted on five men for touching my angel, and I wish I was a good man. I wish I could say I felt any semblance of guilt, or remorse, or hell, even nothing. I’d take feeling numb over loving the taste of death. But what I feel when I kill can only be described as relief. Relief that the monster inside me has been fed and will recede back into his decrepit cave until he’s hungry again, and that’s when I’ll kill next.
