Purpose to Kill

I’ve never seen someone run away so fast before. Walking on the sidewalk, minding my own business and a man comes from the opposite direction. He sees me, stops and stares. Eventually, his stare blemishes with fear and he turns and bolts. What is wrong with me? I am just a young man walking outside in public with a knife in my hand.

I always find it hard to understand peoples’ thoughts, let alone understand the people themselves. Why do people run away from a person like me? Is it because of what I look like? I think I look normal. Green left eye, red right eye, spiky metallic hair and no clothes on. Someone told me once what clothes were and I refused to believe them, so they lost a few limbs, if not all.

Limbs is a funny word.

LIMBS.

Apart from the running man, the streets are deserted. I look around, see nothing but houses stained with blood, and continue walking.

To be honest, people do tell me I see the world differently to others. They say everything can seem normal at one moment and then the next, the world stains with gore and violence. The last person who said that got a chuckle from me. Gore and violence are funny words. But I think I started to understand after I stabbed the guy in the chest eleven times. I dislike honesty, but how else do you get to know people?

There aren’t many people who I have ever considered a ‘friend’. I dislike that word. I’d rather say ‘fiend’. In fact, I will.

The one fiend who is actually still alive is the person whose house I’m walking to at the moment. Serly, his name is. He is the one person who doesn’t feel the need to tell me what clothes are, nor does he say I am different to everyone else. He won’t believe me when I tell him people say I’m different, but he does ask questions about it. A lot of questions, actually.

Fiends seem to have purpose in peoples’ lives, but what purpose he has, I don’t know. Like I’ve said, I find it hard to understand people and Serly is one of them. All I know about Serly is that he’s a male, he likes asking questions and he likes putting pieces of paper in frames, for some strange reason. I think he calls it art.

I find Serly’s house five minutes later. Every time I see his house, there is always a huge sign standing near it, and in the two years I’ve known him, he hasn’t told me what it says. I can’t even remember how my teacher died when she tried to teach me how to read.

I open the front door, knowing he always keeps his doors unlocked. That we have in common.

I find the grey-haired man rummaging through drawers in his office desk. His walls are covered with the framed pieces of paper I don’t understand.

“Hello, Serly!” I greet cheerfully. “What ya lookin’ for?”

He looks up, his already pale face becoming alabaster-like. “Oh, Bris. Y-you’ve… come at a g-good time,” he stammers uncharacteristically.

“You seem nervous.” I walk towards his desk. “How come?”

“I need…” he breaks off. “I need… to tell you something.”

“Alright.” I lean against the chair opposite him, lightly holding the knife in my right hand. “What’s up?”

He composes himself, straightens his tailored suit as he calls it, and looks me straight in the eyes. 

“You have Purkill Disorder.”

My mouth opens slightly, about to deny it, but my lips hang wordlessly. That is, until I start to laugh.

“What? What is that?”

“I found this out yesterday,” he starts. “Purkill gives the victim an unstable mind, only allowing them to believe in natural things, like your nakedness.”

I look at myself, then back at Serly as he continues.

“The reason why you see blood and gore everywhere is because of your red eye. You were born with a red eye, meaning you were born with Purkill.” He wipes his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “You told me you feel no pain. Purkill Disorder nullifies pain, making you feel nothing. You don’t feel pain at all.”

I grip the knife tighter.

“And finally, the killing. That day you told me you feel no pain, I realised something. There was already blood on your knife… and you didn’t have cuts anywhere else. It was a suspicion of mine… and now I know.” He steps backwards slowly. “How many people have you killed, Bris?”

I don’t believe anything he says. “How do you know all of this?”

What he says next churns my stomach. “I’m your therapist. It’s my purpose to know.”

My thoughts of him shatter immediately. My therapist?

His questions are harmless, I once thought. But now I know that he was testing me. Testing me, trying to figure me out. And his paper-filled frames… I know exactly what he holds inside.

I feel betrayed. 

Now I know him… but now I know myself.

I lunge towards Serly, but I stop myself, the knife millimetres from his neck. He doesn’t flinch.

I don’t know who to kill.

Him… or me?

I thought I knew Serly, but this ‘doctor’ title is a dislike of mine. Something Serly should have known.

The blade slices effortlessly through his throat…

†††††††

The man appears again when I walk outside. Of course, I’m minding my own business again and he runs away, screaming this time. I still wonder what’s wrong with me. I am just a young man walking outside in public with a bloody knife in my hand.