I am a murderer.

I am a murderer.

I kill them all in the same fashion, by putting a knife deep into their hearts, twisting the blade and hearing the melody of their screams. I only stop in dead silence.

I hang their corpses in the doorway of my bedroom, tied to the ceilings in vines. The thorns cut deep into their bodies; into their arms, their throats, their eyes.

Their blood drips on me everyday. I take no notice of it when it happens, but I know I am stained red with what I've done to other people. Others see me as a blood-soaked girl, because I am covered head to toe with this thick red liquid.

I've given up on cleaning myself. I resort to pretending that I am clean, that this blood all over me is an illusion created by the souls of the people I've killed.

The few who have tried to wipe the blood from me ended up the same way as my victims. What was just an act of kindness brought them to their death instead.

I find solace in putting a knife into kind hearts, hearing their screams of pain and agony, listening to how they put their trust in me to put my weapon down.

I'm blissfully aware that what I've done to others drips on me everyday, and the smell lingers around me. I let that scent float around me as a warning; the few who stubbornly come over do not have the right to blame me, for I have signs all over me to stay away.

I am a murderer.