Monologue of a serial killer

It’s a bright summer day, sunlight piercing my vision, and it’s hot enough to melt my ever growing desire

I have done my hard time for seven years:grew beards, grew tender, and grew more in control of my own desires through masturbation. But once, when I was out, the buried thought in my head was released with me—the forbidden fruit that shouldn’t be tasted again. But here it comes; it cannot be resisted, especially when, once it started to grow, it grows more restless than ever. Right now, she is in front of me, and me, like a fatherly figure, staring down upon her:her eyes the color of ocean that I dream to swim in, her cheeks so pale a blow might redden them to my liking, and her hand—oh God, her hand—so soft that I am in strong need to clasp and caress it. But seeing her, a new thought grows in my head, a thought that’s different than the one from seven years ago: it’s sharp, it’s more pleasurable, like the edge of a knife cutting through my train of thought. And the apple just ripens, waiting for the teeth to bite. I am in need of something sharper to do my biting—a thousand pieces that cannot be made whole again will be my surly purpose of the day to come.