He didn’t enjoy killing, or even violence in general; it disgusted him. It was something the world could do without entirely, and he wished more than anything that he could escape it. He knew, however, as we all know, one cannot escape violence in a world that lives for death. He didn’t want, in any part of him, to kill another human being. Of course, that did not mean for even a second, that he wasn’t going to do it.
               Purpose; generally, this is accepted as the one thing every human wants and needs. In our society, and our world, no person wishes to be seen as nothing, or negligible. People always do what they do for a reason; they are driven by purpose. This time, though, there would be no purpose, no answer to the “why?”. The act would defy general understanding, crashing reason into a metaphorical sea of confusion. He had no reason to do this; no reason at all. The choice was not his, though his hand would not be forced. This death he did not want, and would not enjoy, would accomplish nothing; would reject the notion of purpose.
              The power to take life; half way to omnipotence. A strength few want, and fewer make use of, though all possess. The death would be of someone with no more power than him. No advantage other than that of the knife, and the understanding of imminent, unchanging fate. These were his weapons, his tools, and neither did he willingly accept. He would not like it, he would not choose it, he would not stop it, and he would not get caught.
             The steel chills his palm, as he lays the flat of the blade in his hand. His other disgustingly caresses the wood of the handle. The knife; one half knowledge, one half death. His hands did not lie, and he knew the fate he held. He would hold it until the task was done, never sooner letting it go. His grip tight, his knuckles white, as if his blood rejected the hand that would spill another’s crimson life. The mirror in front of him reflected his face and the blade. He could not hide from himself, or the ever-growing puddles within his sunken sockets. He could not hide from what would happen. The mirror did not lie.
              A tell-tale squeak from aged hinges; the cry of the banshee. He glimpsed the figure as a blurred reflection in the unyielding mirror. Five seconds, only to disappear into his coffin, shutting the door, and securing the faulty lock. A glimpse of a faceless form, a glimpse at the teary-eyed face, a glimpse at the forceful steel blade. He feels no hunger for this, though others will surely believe this of him. No one tells him to do this, and no one wants him to do this. There is nothing saying that this has to happen. Here he goes.
              Turn, kick! The door, like lightning, strikes the inner wall with a resounding Boom! He looks straight into the face of his victim; a face that is frozen in fear, that silently demands understanding. A face that gets nothing. Eyes of fear look on eyes of tears, and disgust, a glimpse at a blade, and a look at a unhidden face. Too quick for struggle, this imposing figure that plunges solid metal through soft flesh to drown in blood, sees as any of us would see. Plunge, plunge, plunge. This is evil; this is what hate looks like. No one would believe otherwise. For his victim to die in confusion, is more than death. As he slumps into final blackness, the sound of the killer, passing his stomach into the new vacancy of the toilet.
               A look in the mirror. He can let the knife go now, and he does in ecstasy. He too is glad the task is over, gone into past that is still too fresh. He will not wash his hands; nothing is his choice, and nothing is what he wants. He has taken a life, and no one knows why; there is no “why” this time. He didn’t enjoy killing, or even violence in general; that didn’t mean for even a second that he wasn’t going to do it.