murdering used to be fun. their screams were always too loud of course, the blood always too messy. it was fine as long as i got to take the credit.

i don't use knives or guns. knives leave too much evidence, and guns are too loud. (loud things bother me more than i'd care to admit.) i always liked fighting. and it seemed fitting that i would pummel them to death.

but again, too messy. instead i gave them a poison, a very rare poison, that worked like a drug would, intoxicating them to the point of numbness. they would run to a nearby alley to release the contents of their stomach and thats when a friendly man would approach them, check if they're alright, if they need help.

most refused, saying they were fine, they just needed to clear their head or have some fresh air. that's when the poison starts coming out. their eyes, their nose, their ears, their mouth. soon after their blood will clot, their eyes roll back into their heads and they have a seizure.

that's when i come in, with gloves, and snap their neck. it seems stupid, i know. but it was oddly satisfying. the only part i liked about these murders.

until i get out of the debt i owe to my mother, ill have to murder people. not the way i want to, but in a way that will have her name written all over it. i swear that woman was lucrative as hell.

i missed holding a knife in my hand, stabbing into muscle and ripping apart their flesh. i missed gouging their eyes out and slicing their lips off. i missed pressing the gun to their ear and firing the bullet inside, watching it come out the other way. call me a psychopath, i don't care. you're curious, and that makes you and me more alike than you think.

.

mother sends a letter every week, a new name, a new target. i always have to kill them the same way over and over and over. this week was no different. the name gave me quite a shock.

my mother's name.

hermione luna

dealers choice

i laughed. that old crone had finally lost her mind. her only son would murder her. well, orders were orders.

and so i went to her room. she was sitting behind her desk, a glass of wine sitting on the edge, and papers strewn all over the floor.

"mother." i greeted. she barely spared a glance. "son." she said curtly as she swept her hair over her shoulder.

that's it because this is for a competition with... a 'friend'

i think that's what he counts as

anwyays.

433 words

not bad but not my best