I Kill Killers

by S.T. Ashman

If a man as evil as Hitler could unearth the slightest bit of love within the depths of his icy, rotten heart—even if it was for animals—then perhaps, one day, I might be able to do the same.

To this form of art, I owed my life. My existence. It had liberated me from mental institutions and endless therapy sessions. And every single time I touched those piano keys, even if my only emotion was gratitude, I vowed never to forget.

“We humans have gravitated toward darkness since the beginning of our existence,” I remarked, closing the phone with a strong snap. “We are too afraid to admit what we truly are. People pretend it’s the lack of humanity that is responsible for the atrocities we’re capable of when, in fact, humanity is the root of it.”

A red drop of blood on a white canvas, hiding in plain sight for the whole world to see. A serial killer of serial killers.

Kill the killer. Make the world a better place. I just also happen to think it’s an awful lot of power for one person to be the judge and executioner.”

“You and I are not the same. You kill people. I…I kill killers.”

“Whether I’m a monster or just the villain who kills them. One you can work with. The other you need to kill.”

I felt pain. I embraced the beautiful feeling, appreciating its intensity. I loved the way it burned, the fact that I could feel it at all.