Dear Diary,
From time to time, a question forms in front of me. I do not want to confront it because I know that I either lose or am naive to fight it. It is a question that completes me, the definition itself.
In my dreams, the parasites crawling through my nerves and that drenched in my blood, peek out from the cavities in my brain and shout - "Why do you kill?"
And the answer seems to make you go through rabbit holes and their burrows. But you are not a rabbit. At some point, you run out of air. You choke on your saliva until the pressure bursts your tiny blood vessels and lets blood out. The flesh-eating rabbits from those burrows feed on you for days and wait for their next victim with cold red eyes and white fur. Convincing theories and abstract conventions flow through my head. But do they suffice the actual reason? I do not know.
Those dead things in the woods and the moist ground may feel that they died for nothing. They might talk among them to do the same to me someday. Cut my ears while I plead them to leave me, at which point the squirrel starts slicing my tongue off, the dog plucking the toes from my feet whilst the chameleons stick their tongues to my eyes to gouge them out. I die a slow and painful death.
After all, I made them suffer, Pricking their teeth, needling eyes, skinning, rubbing them against sandpaper and salting wounds, puncturing their lungs. Whoa, there have been worse.
I was lost deep in those thoughts. Almost like I was in those thoughts for aeons. Dormant but alive, hibernating in those thoughts and waking to hunt again.
It was then that I felt something rounding onto my legs. I reflexed almost immediately.
They call it a snake. It had no legs, yet it slid on the ground. Maybe it flies. The creature stuck its tongue out frequently in the order as if it was probing for something. The black eyes had no reflections in them. Maybe it eats light to survive. The scales are terrifying. You can feel them as if it is already slithering on your skin. And it hisses as if it is whispering ancient languages into my ears. All of this happens as it lies on the ground and as it stares into my empty eyes.
A few seconds felt like a brief moment in time.
The snake started gaining pace in the other direction after a while.
Maybe it was not looking for me. Or it wants to report to Satan about my encounter. I did not like either.
Its glance had no fear, no regret, remorse.
Its utter ignorance towards me was inexcusable.
And no matter from what depths of hell you crept out, it is not what you should do, not with me.
The being that self-worth itself more than me should not be alive.
I grabbed by its tail and started smashing into the large rock beside all of it happening as its tail wound unto my wrists. Its fangs broke into pieces. And its blood carved an imprint on the rock. Bash and bash and bash.
The creature had naive physiology deviating from my earlier observations. Maybe it is what happens to everything when they die.
Naive and cold.
I further slit its jaws and extended that cut down the length of the tail to further confirm it.
I felt it then, looking at this lifeless creature that - Each day that I kill, I am searching for the source of life.
Dissecting and tearing bones and muscles only to find that it is already dead as I am within me. Things that are lively disgust me. I envy them. They are the negation of me, who is alive but dead inside. And I tear them to know what differs me from them. And as I approach the truth, they die. My experimentation goes in vain. It might be why I started.
Recently, I might be feeling entertained by it. I smile sometimes. Blood, squashed eyeballs, fluids of unknown origins of an organism all feel great in my hands.
Maybe they are the sustenance that I crave.
This may not be an appropriate conclusion, yet I am glad that I faced it. Both the snake and the question.
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