It's the Little Things.Mature

The story of a killer whose motive is simply irritation with the world.


I knew they probably weren't the best reasons to kill people. But I swear, the little things about them left me no choice. They were the kind of little things that could very well be considered cute quirks by someone else, but to me, they were reason enough to warrant death. It was justified to me - I was making the world a less irritating place.

Plus, my... unusual motives had their upside. They made me harder to track. I was never an obvious suspect, because I never knew my victims. It was very rare for me to know them for any longer than a day. It only took minutes of being around someone for them to annoy me enough to spur me into action. And on the off-chance that someone would see me following the soon-to-be-dead, it was easy enough to simply not return to that particular area of town for a few months.

This particular victim was going to die simply for the way he treated a waitress. That, and the way he sat at the table, loudly complaining about everything he possibly could, laughing horribly at his own jokes, making comments that really left me no choice. I had kept reasonably close to him all day, and I was beginning to regret it. It was bad enough having to eat lunch within 50 metres of his table; listening to his inane bullshit all day was really getting to me.

My chance arrived in the early evening. He turned a corner into an alley - how appropriate. He was rushing to get home. I knew he wouldn't make it. He didn't.

The broken bottle called to me from the gutter, and I knew it was time. I picked it up, called "hey, jerk!" and rushed toward him. There was no time for the bastard to react. The shards of green glass flecked his skin, cutting softly into his face as he fell to the ground. I heard a crunch as he landed on his wrist. I couldn't resist cracking the remains of the bottle into the back of his skull before finishing him off. It made such a satisfying thud.

In one, smooth motion, I pulled the craft knife from the pocket of my jacket, slid out the blade, and ran it along his neck. Moments later, the familiar sound of someone inhaling blood filled the air, and I grinned. I was done here.


Thirty minutes later, I was back in my apartment, flipping through a book filled with my favourite quotes, a casual smile on my lips. It was the best way to relax after a long day. I would sleep well, there was no doubt about that.

The End

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