“Finish these sentences: “I have a little bit of a problem. I like to ______. It all started when I was ______, when _______.” Use this as a jumping point into a fictional story.”
-Writer’s Digest Creative Writing Prompt: My Problem
I have a little bit of a problem. I like to kill.
The sweet tragedy of the victims’ pain brings me to a crushing catharsis that I find… addictive.
It all started when I was in eighth grade, when I murdered my first victim. Victims, actually: two very loving parents with a brat of a girl that managed to escape. Their screams will echo in her ears forever; it’s just so beautiful I could cry.
I had a few failed attempts… half-cocked plots that were too easily escapable. I ensnared a few of lesser minds, but these slaughters gave me no sustenance. I even murdered this… goddess… of a woman, and… nothing. I almost gave up my rampage, but then…
The next one I murdered was the girl’s sister. It was tragic and beautiful and full of sacrifice and heart-felt emotion. Their pain was as my pain, and it was as cleansing as the autumn rain. I found myself again, and with self-rediscovery came a far more crafty killer.
There were those here and there… the next that stood out was a military man, beloved by his wife and his fellow soldiers. I think I felt my soul shudder when I heard her plaintive screams. A simple dagger in the gut brought me the sweetest feeling I have ever known.
Oh, who’s next? There are so many… I’ve killed a universe’s worth. I began a plague of horrible proportion just to watch the poor bastards squirm. Each death- so very deeply personal, so impeccably intimate- brings me my sweet drug of sorrow.
And I won’t lie… I’ll kill again… and again… and again: until the world trembles in fear and bows at my feet, worshiping me for the great goddess that I am! I am their Shiva, and they will be right to hold fear. None of them can stop me. None have the power.
But it is their pain I find so sweet… so beautiful and touching… it fills a void within me, by hollowing out one inside someone else. Sometimes I wonder if it’s fair… or if maybe I’m the sick bastard here…
So this brings me to my question, the one burning in my soul, and I can think of none better to answer me than you:
Do you think that, maybe, my writing is a bit *too* gruesome?