I’m a Murderer, and I’m OK With That

I have something to confess.

I kill with reckless abandon.

I lack feeling for my victims and I go about my brutal assignment with disdain and indifference. My victims typically die without knowing it’s coming. I deal swift and final judgment upon them as they sit defenseless or move about unknowingly. There really is no escape once I have decided it is their time to die.

I slowly and deliberately move into position and then, suddenly and without warning, unleash my fury upon them before they have a chance to react. Usually a single blow will do the trick. However, there are times where repetition brings their ultimate demise.

I guess it all started when I was a kid. I would kill on my own terms. Sometimes it was driven by fear and self-preservation. Other times, I’m embarrassed to admit, it was done out of sheer boredom or because I felt they were simply in my way.

Over the years, I married and settled down, but the killing continued. What used to be done on my own terms was now remarkably different. My grisly undertaking was not only embraced by my wife, but actually driven by her demands. She would frequently let me know who had to be “taken care of “and I would put to use my particular set of skills.

The years went on and our family grew with the birth of two amazing kids. Even if I wanted to escape my brutal past, I couldn’t. There was no retiring from my job as judge, jury, and executioner. In fact, the frequency and variety of killing increased dramatically over the next 15 years. The relentless assault now seemed completely driven by my family. In a wicked twist, my very own kids seemed obsessed with finding victims. As a result, I no longer cared to kill on my own accord. I was merely a tool. I was a hit man hired to carry out someone else’s deathly deed.

I continue to kill today.

I have no shame and will routinely kill in front of witnesses. I fear no judgment and could care less of consequences. My audacity to commit these crimes is so cold that I will frequently display the result of my killing, usually to those that requested the act.

Unfortunately, I’m not perfect. There have been times that I have failed in my mission. The unsuspecting victim absorbs my wrath yet inexplicably survives and takes flight to tell their story another day. These are reckless examples of shoddy work on my part and I typically curse myself for failing at what I consider to be a simple task. Worse yet is the ridicule I suffer at the hands of my wife and kids. When they scream out, “Daddy! Come kill this bug!” I damn sure better succeed. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.

You see, my victims are all types of bugs. I’m summoned at a moment’s notice and I’m required to be swift and exact. My daughters walk around the house looking for any sort of bug that may have infiltrated our domain. No corner remains unseen in their nonstop quest to discover and deal with intruders. I arrive with tissue in hand and perform my duties as professionally as possible with my main focus on getting back to what I was doing before their call. As fathers, this is a role we undoubtedly serve in our households.

Such is the life of a hired gun.