I wondered if I was right to kill him—if I had saved some poor innocent child from his cruelty, or if I was no better than him: a monster capable of performing the most sadistic and vicious acts. Surely there must be something said for my intentions, my yearning to smear him from the world and others like him. Then again, it begs the question: why do I kill? What satisfaction do I derive from taking the life from someone as if I were squeezing the juice from a lemon? Am I a monster because I killed him? Of course, he deserved to die. But then, do I for what I’ve done? Am I no better than him?
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