Committing Murder

I’ve done it before, once.

It was back in 2017, sometime in September.

Before you call the cops or question my sanity, allow me to clarify what I mean by murder.

I’m taking the term straight out of Diary of an Oxygen Thief, a book written by a recovering alcoholic who documented the murders he’s committed on his way to sobriety – and all the way after.

Mind you, in these murders, the blade is abstract. Though the cause isn’t, the pain is very much physical. I prefer calling it murder rather than the term ‘broken heart’, for the cliche seemed to simplify the agony that one’s soul experience when air is knocked out of them in one single moment when you see in their eyes their world crumbling down – and they never expect it.

And it was legal.

It was legal to inflict that much pain, to give someone the power to crush someone to a point of weeks, months, and even years or an eternity of self-depreciation.

But I think justice was done because I don’t think I ever really recovered from it. Murder does that to you, I suppose. It leaves a permanent mark both on you and the victim, except you get to come out of it with self-control and choice, while the other doesn’t.

Serves me right.

You see, I waited until the very last minute to do it. I took my time, enjoyed every minute of it. Some parts of it gave me a sense of sinful joy that I never tasted before, and I grew an addiction for it. I imagined thousands of different ways to do it, to drive the knife in.

I decided to do it publicly. In front of everyone, we both knew, in the eyes of those who watched it unfold. Most were clueless, their big saucer eyes full of shock. My friends had known, had seen me play around and even tried to put a stop to it, but I was convincing.

(I think I lost my mind and slipped on the edge of doom I hadn’t realized loomed over the vast field of grass I was dancing on)

What’s better was this: my victim sought me for recovery and it lasted for another year, before I drove the in blade deeper and cut their heartstring for good.

I had the nerve to apologize repeatedly, and I think I always meant it. But I came back with the same intention to hurt, again and again, for the rush of burning elation never failed to lure me in when the right chance presents itself.

I put a stop to it after a year, when they finally sobered up and detached themselves from my manipulative treatment and I realized I was in as much pain as I was causing. One day it became clear to them how toxic I was, and I lost all ways to reach them.

Then, the guilt came to me, and it stayed with me for a while. It ate me up, so much so that I grew desperate one day and wished to put an end to it. So I used any means I could to seek them, and they had recovered enough to give me a chance to beg on my knees for forgiveness when they were ready to pick up my calls.

Though their eyes were clear and I was able to see the invisible wall that they built up to guard themselves against my claws, I think something about me was able to penetrate through their defense, enough for them to want to listen. They let me grovel, and while that did not ameliorate what happened, it lifted the guilt a little.

Still, it will never change the fact that I did it.

I suppose my writing of this is an attempt to make sense of what happened through my eyes, a good three years later. My storytelling of this tale had drastically changed to how I would have told it then when I was the “victim” who left to find what I deserve.

(All lies. I never deserved even a minuscule of their time)

I see that now, and have accepted the crimes I’ve committed.

If they’re reading this, I only hope they can find the happiness they deserve, and I only wish they’ve risen back from beneath the ashes where I left them to burn.

Here’s to them.