cyrnel

I broke their necks. They died. Twitching, clinging, then letting go. They are quiet now, while my soul boils.

It only gets worse. In years past I would boast of being unaffected. Of being accustomed to violent death. But that would be a lie. It was never easy. The only familiarity is with the growing nightmare. I want to vomit. For hours. Anything that might expel the feeling from my head. Make the images go away. Images of life ending at my hand. Of the eyes.

But the bodies will be discovered. That would be untidy. I need to act. Like an automaton I take the cooling corpses outside. Conceal and dispose. Put them in a safe place. I work quickly, efficiently, as if in a well-rehearsed scene. Avoiding attention but without appearing suspicious. I close the door with finality against pleas for help they could never voice. Finally it's over. The act completed.

Now to cover my tracks. Go over my story one last time. One last time. With luck this will end without incident, just as all my previous killings. But whatever happens now those mice will never leave prizes in my garage again.

Mousetraps are gross.

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There are a vast number of people who are uninformed and heavily propagandized, but fundamentally decent. The propaganda that inundates them is effective when unchallenged, but much of it goes only skin deep. If they can be brought to raise questions and apply their decent instincts and basic intelligence, many people quickly escape the confines of the doctrinal system and are willing to do something to help others who are really suffering and oppressed." -Manufacturing Consent: Noam Chomsky and the Media, p. 195