A short passage written after reading about BTK, an infamous mass murderer from Kansas, USA.
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It’s just like… Like being bundled and dumped into the backseat while the driver steps on the accelerator. I can’t do anything but watch BTK use my body to commit such atrocities.
This is my body! My body being sullied for such… perverse bouts of violence. I, too, am a victim!
Do you think I really enjoy these shows, this carnage? Do you really think, I, as a human like you people reading this letter now, don’t feel a thing as this limb of mine wraps the cord around their necks, tightening it, watching their clawing hands in their desperate frenzy, their bulging, accusing eyes, their paling faces as they drew their last breath? Do you really believe I can take some sort of perverse pleasure out of that?
I should not be blamed. The agony I sit through every day, I can’t even bear to look at these hands that have murdered. I live every minute, every second in panic, not knowing when BTK will strike again, when he will make me endure the torture of watching someone die.
He has already chosen his next victim. Stop him.
Yours truly, guiltily.
