I have always been alone. I never had friends.
Everyone in my class saw me as a weirdo and avoided me.
Maybe they were right. I used to ignore people too. I didn't like anybody. Everyone was just so boring.
At home, things weren't any better. My mom cooked terrible meals. It was hard to eat them without gagging.
My father died a few months after I was born — and my mom blamed me for his death. She kept bringing random men home every once in a while. It took me years to realize why.
I remember the day I came home early from school and walked into her room without knocking.
There was a fat, tall man lying in her bed. She screamed at me for entering without permission.
After he left, she beat me. I was used to being hit. But that day, she did something different.
She grabbed a knife from the kitchen — and chopped off one of my fingers.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
I nearly passed out. Blood gushed everywhere.
She took me to a local clinic and told the doctor I'd accidentally stuck my hand in a ceiling fan.
It was a dumb excuse. But they believed it.
I began to lose all human emotion. I felt like a robot.
Then one day, a new boy at school started trying to befriend me. Everyone ignored him too.
I wasn't happy about it. I told myself I liked being alone.
But no… that was a lie.
I just got used to being alone. I wanted someone — anyone — to be by my side.
That boy's name was Fahim.
We started helping each other out. I visited his house often. We watched movies together.
I was more alive than I'd ever been.
But it didn't last.
Even though I had someone I could call a friend, it wasn't enough. My depression never left.
Fahim tried to cheer me up. But nothing worked. I couldn't sleep. My heart felt heavy.
Then… my mom fell ill.
We didn't have much money. She got worse every day and refused to go to a hospital.
She started hitting me more often, as if trying to dump all her pain onto me.
I stopped going to school. I didn't want anyone to see the scars.
Food started running out. She couldn't get out of bed.
I thought I should call someone for help.
But I didn't.
I stayed inside. I don't remember much of what happened.
I remember my hands — around her throat.
Tight. Squeezing.
She stopped breathing.
My mom died.
No — I killed her.
The woman who brought me into this world.
What have I done?
Why don't I feel sad?
Why do I feel… relief?
I started laughing. Not because I lost my mind — I was laughing with joy.
That heavy weight in my chest? Gone.
This… this must be what they call happiness.
Hahahahahaha.
A day passed. The body was rotting. The smell drove me crazy.
I thought maybe Fahim would come visit. But no — she had slapped him the last time he came over.
No one was coming.
I didn't want to run. I didn't even want to leave.
I only had two numbers on my phone: the principal… and my math teacher.
I hated the principal.
So I called my math teacher.
"A-Ah… sir," I stuttered, my voice shaky. "I've done something terrible. Can you come to my house?"
"What do you mean terrible? You haven't come to school in days. What happened?"
"You'll know when you get here…"
He knew my address. He arrived about thirty minutes later.
Knock. Knock.
The door was already open.
Broken stuff lay scattered.
Water was dripping from the bathroom.
The TV was playing something loudly in the background.
He walked inside and found me sitting on the floor — eating our last meal — watching TV.
I looked at him and laughed.
He didn't seem scared.
He walked around and saw the body. Her neck had deep finger marks.
When he returned, I stood up.
I was ready to confess.
But then… he smiled.
That bastard smiled — the same way I did when I killed her.
"So… you're the one who killed her?" he asked.
"Y-Yes," I said.
He started laughing. Louder. Louder. Then he stopped.
"Did you call me just to take you to the police? Are you dumb or what?
You're just like me. I killed my father when I was a kid. Let me help you with this."
I didn't understand.
He took a rope and hanged her body — made it look like a suicide.
The police believed it.
Afterward, he brought me to his home.
I started going back to school. Saw Fahim again.
I thought maybe I was happy now that my mom was gone.
But I never forgot what happened.
One day, I entered a room in the teacher's house. It smelled strange.
Red stains.
Blood.
I screamed.
He grabbed me and told me to shut up.
He pulled out a bag. Inside was a fresh human brain.
I stared.
I felt nothing.
Not fear. Not sadness. Just… nothing.
"Aha! I knew it, boy," he laughed. "You're different. You like this kind of stuff."
"No!" I shouted. "Why are you showing me this?!"
"Oh really?" he smirked. "Want me to prove it?"
Things went back to "normal."
I wasn't allowed inside his house without permission. I wandered during the day, came back late.
Months passed.
But that heavy feeling in my heart returned.
Worse than before.
I wanted to die.
He noticed.
He told me to do something unthinkable.
He told me… to kill Fahim.
He said it would make me happy again.
I refused at first.
But… I remembered how light I felt after killing my mom.
Maybe he was right.
I brought Fahim to the teacher's house.
He was wearing a white T-shirt — the one I helped him pick.
He asked for a glass of water.
I went to get it.
When I came back, teacher was holding a knife — stabbing Fahim again and again.
Fahim looked at me and whispered, "Run."
He thought I didn't do it.
He still trusted me.
But a few seconds later, he was dead.
And once again — my heart felt light.
So soft. So free.
I smiled.
The teacher smiled too.
We laughed.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
We had a party with the blood.
I was just a teenager then.
That was my first kill.
Now, I'm 30 years old.
With around 50 kills.
The only thing that entertains me in this boring world… is blood.
And now…
I'm a teacher at Green High.