The Unspoken Self

The world has gone mad; I truly can no longer bear life—a cruel, unjust, and murderous world.

Today marks the beginning of the third week of October, and life continues to worsen. To preserve what remains of my humanity, I must go out for a walk, see nature, and breathe fresh air.

Every night is filled with the disturbed, prostitutes, lunatics, murderers, and the few righteous. I glance at them with disgust because I live in the same society, but I have no other choice.

As someone who lived through war and fought for my country, I've lost the meaning of my life since then. Returning to a normal, routine life feels the most worthless thing for me.

I also lost my grandmother because of my failed country, which entered a civil war and weakened health resources. I lost a relative due to the war, even though he was a civilian heading home. I am just tired.

But when I see more evil spreading without end while the righteous decrease, I cannot turn a blind eye—I truly cannot.

On my way to the train station, heading home, I bought a ticket, took a seat, and glanced at people because I trusted no one.

Suddenly, a kind young woman in work clothes entered and sat down. Behind her was a disturbed man, talking to himself and staring at her. I became suspicious, and as someone tired of this world, I did not want to see another innocent, good person die.

I approached him to see what he would do. Suddenly, he pulled a small knife. I was forced to intervene because he was about to stab her.

I grabbed him from behind, but he turned and tried to stab me. I caught the hand holding the knife, cutting my palm, but endured the pain.

I took my dagger and, without thinking, stabbed the back of his abdomen beside the spine. I then took out the dagger, and he fell.

At first, a strange feeling overcame me. I cannot describe it in words—just a sort of relief. But it was only for a moment.

I saw the girl unharmed and felt even greater relief. One bad man fell, and another good one lived.

I thought deeply: Isn't this what we are supposed to do? Reduce their numbers to restore the world, even a little, to balance good and evil?

Shortly after, the police came and took me and the girl to the station for questioning. I told the story exactly as it happened, without lying, and she understood that I had helped her, showing immense gratitude. I just smiled and left after the police allowed it.

I returned home, entered the bathroom, washed my face with cold water, and saw my reflection. For the first time, I saw my face alive—not pale or dull, but clean and radiant.

I lay on the bed and still thinking about the incident. I cannot forget that feeling—it is not the pleasure of killing, but the pleasure of saving and doing what I believe in: reducing evil.

Would the world consider me one of them later? I did not care. For the first time in a very long time, I felt a purpose that revived me, a purpose that made me care about the world again

I want to feel that feeling again. I want to eradicate them from this world, from its roots.

I immediately went out without sleeping to the worst-known district of the city, where all sorts of illegal activities are sold. I only bought two daggers and a small pistol.

I did not go home directly. This is the worst district, isn't it? Aren't there many of their kind here? I searched for anyone committing criminal acts to execute them.

I searched for half an hour but found no one. While taking a taxi home, I saw three men with a very young girl of about nine years old in a distant alley.

I hid my face from afar and approached. Recently, there had been cases of child kidnapping; luckily, I found a similar situation.

I went without hesitation. They were only mocking me, and two tried to approach, but I only drew my weapon and fired two shots: one to the chest and one below the eye.

I approached the last one, and I took my dagger out. I saw fear and panic in his eyes, his body trembling. A wave of euphoria washed over me at last; they knew what their victims felt.

I grabbed the dagger by the edge and twisted it, stabbing directly into his lower left abdomen. I left the dagger in him; I saw him moaning and in pain, but I felt great satisfaction. No one saw my expression behind the face cover.

I finally took the dagger out, took the girl, and walked away. Tears fell as I saw her cry. If I had not been there, would she have been kidnapped? Would she have been enslaved and brainwashed?

My anger intensified as I thought about it. I felt I was the only one who could do this. Yes, I am only one person, but I must act, even if I die for it. These are my principles and ethics.

If I let it go, I would return to feelings of nihilism and indifference. I do not want that. I do not want to feel it. I had enough.

She told me about her house, and I took her there, then watched from afar as she entered. The same relief washed over me, and I returned home.

I left no trace, covered my face, and spoke only with the girl, who could not describe my voice. I live far away, so I never saw her again.

I repeated searching and acting countless times, and while crimes spread, I did not care. I do it for the greater good.

And in fact, criminal acts in the city began to decrease, even slightly. I truly feel the success of my mission, even if only a little.

What if I became a symbol of this movement? A symbol of fear and terror from the perspective of the wicked, and a symbol of freedom, rescue, and crime suppression from the perspective of the righteous?

Every passing moment makes me feel more alive, more psychologically at ease. I hear a lot about losing oneself when killing many people, but I never lost myself. I regained much of my humanity with every criminal executed.

One day, I faced a similar problem, worse than before. I saw a girl being harassed in a narrow, dark, long alley. I tried to reach her quickly because she struggled and they had knives. I feared they would stab her.

I tried to reach her as fast as I could, but unfortunately, what I didn't want happened. She was stabbed with a superficial wound through her abdomen. My anger flared, and I drew my weapon. When they approached, I fired the full magazine of my weapon, and all of them died—or so I thought. When I got closer to the girl, I took out my phone and called the ambulance, then tore my clothes to cover her wound without removing the dagger.

Suddenly, I felt a strange sensation, one that reminded me of the war. I lowered my gaze and saw a bullet pass through my chest, exiting the other side. I couldn't breathe. I tried to turn and see; I saw someone lying down pulling out his gun. I drew my other pistol and fired at him, trying to hold myself together while pressing the sides of her wound until the ambulance arrived. When I heard its wailing siren, I felt relieved—I knew there was at least a chance that she hadn't died. I had done everything I could.

I did all I could. I didn't care about my final moments; all I wanted to do, all I wanted to achieve, I did, until my last breath. I have no identity, no one knows me, yet I am satisfied with the life I had lived. I only hope someone continues what I started. My body feels cold, memories flashing rapidly, recalling my friends who died in the war, my parents far away in another country, the faces of the people I saved, and the faces filled with fear and panic of those I killed.I smiled and fell to the ground.