Delusions of Grandeur

Hey guys, this is the beginning of a short story I'm writing, a memoir of a fictional serial killer. This is but the preface, so tell me what you think!

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Delusions of Grandeur​

It began, or rather I began, I suppose, in much the same way a child’s innate curiosity might cause him to squish an insect, if just to see what might come out. This is not entirely the case, in that I believe I knew exactly what would come out of the peons when I pulled the trigger, stuck the knife, swung the ax, etc; but that I was rather curious in a more narcissistic manner as to how I would feel, how I would react, how I would live with the greatest sin known to man. And in the falsely calm little moments that preceded and followed the crack of my .357 or whatever I happened to be utilizing on any random occasion, I felt……indifference; always. Beautiful, pure, indifference. Always.

Someone who probably thought themselves wise once said “Ignorance is bliss”; insightful though this may sound, I disagree. The problem with ignorance lies in the fact that for one to be ignorant it means one actually recognizes some sort of preconceived notion or problem and chooses to not care about it, thereby giving whatever the individual chooses to be ignorant of credence, and thus validating its existence. I believe that true bliss, rather than ignorance, lies in detachment. When one is truly detached, it is not that he recognizes right and wrong, good from bad, and chooses to ignore them, but rather that these arbitrary laws of morality have no affiliation with him. To him, they do not exist. And when the everyday laws of existence do not apply to a man, he ascends to something more than just human. He becomes a wolf among sheep. A diamond among coal. A God among men. But I digress.

Now before I get too deeply into this memoir I must clarify a few things: One, this is not a posthumous plea for understanding, nor is it my way of excusing myself from my recent actions. I take full responsibility for what I have and am about to do, knowing full well that the most likely outcome of my current situation will be death, or imprisonment that will eventually lead to my death. I have coped with these scenarios, accepted my fate, and thus fulfilled my duty. A duty not to God, not to my (few) loved ones, not to anyone, but me. My duty is solely to my memory, to create a monument to me. You see people are far more apt to forget those killed in most any manner, than their killers themselves. Few people remember the names of Ted Bundy’s or John Wayne Gacy’s victims, but their names are known universally. Such will be mine. Such will be mine.