I have killed a man.

This isn’t the way I intended things to turn out, but it doesn’t really matter. Not really. If I had thought about it clearly, maybe been a bit more careful, perhaps certain things wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps.

I don’t feel any guilt about what I’ve done. The events which led to my sitting here writing this will no doubt have serious repercussions, but I don’t care. Things can’t be undone. And despite their outcome, I don’t really want them to be.

As I sit here staring at my computer screen, watching the words form, I’m fascinated with the ease with which they seem to flow, the ease with which my brain is able to unjumble thoughts into coherent phrases of prose. A stream of consciousness that – I’m sure – would make no sense if allowed to run unchecked. But there is so much that needs to be allowed to flow, so much that has to be imprinted onto the blankness of the screen. And so here I am, desperate to get down all that has transpired, not really knowing where exactly to start but certain that time is not on my side.

I have killed a man.

Five mono-syllabic words put together to form a grammatically correct sentence. That’s all. And yet the implications of that sentence will make most recoil with curious disgust because of its simplicity. It is a statement of fact. It is the truth. It is why I am here writing this. And it’s why you continue to read. Your curiosity has been piqued. Every fibre in your being is telling you that what I have done is wrong, and yet you want to know. You want the details. You may even want to know why.

Why. Why not? That would be the flip response, but then there would be no reason for these words. No, there is a reason why.

He deserved it.

I’m not looking for justification. It was my decision ultimately to end his suffering, and my decision alone. It’s a decision that I will have to live with regardless of the consequences, and despite the fact that one less human breathes because of me, the bastard deserved it.

I’m not writing this because I want you to agree with my actions. I’m not writing this to gloat in what I have done, and nor am I writing this for any kind of glory or recognition. I’m writing this because it needs to be written. I’m writing this because you all need to know what kind of man he was and why I did what I had to do.

His corpse is lying a few feet away from me. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, lifeless and dull. His mouth is open slightly, a small dribble of blood and saliva drying at the corner. He’s naked, his dark muscled skin reflecting the single bulb overhead, the drying blood around his head like a halo. His right arm rests lightly across his chest, the other above his head. If it wasn’t for the perfect hole in the middle of his forehead, you would be mistaken to think he was merely resting.

As I look at him I feel nothing. I light a cigarette and watch as the smoke finds its way into the light, swirling patterns that writhe and tumble and ultimately disperse.

So this then is my confession. I am not looking for absolution. My penance has already been served; the marks on my wrists and ankles are testament to that. The bite marks and bruises too serve as a reminder that my punishment was served before this particular crime was committed.

But I’m running ahead of myself.

My name is Diana. This is my story.