Some days it gnaws at my insides like a rodent, attempting to find its way out and let the world see it for all its horrid glory. And when it does, I can only clench my fists and focus my thoughts elsewhere, ignoring the sweat building on my forehead and the feeling of my heart attempting to escape my chest. On other days its silent, waiting in ambush for me to let my guard down.

Do you understand how easy it would be? For me, someone who has never in his life gotten in trouble for anything, been arrested, or even shown up as a blip on the radar to get away with a crime? So easy... So easy in fact that sometimes the urge to do so overwhelms me. I'll see someone at work and wonder how simple it would be to slit their throat. The feeling haunts me.


But I'm not stupid; no, far from it. That much you must understand. And I'm not crazy either. Some day, when I'm sitting before a jury of my peers and the judge is looking down on me as God must have Satan, I will testify that no matter what, I was always sane. For there's nothing insane about wanting to kill someone- if anything its the only sane thing a human can do. It plays into our most basic instincts, our most fundamental needs. One must prove they are the strongest. One must prove the other is weak.

So I sit at work, watching people walk by , reading reports of murderers online and what they do wrong, what gave them away. Soon I even feel ready to go through with my plan. The people at work suspect nothing, I have acted no differently than before. There is something magical when I get home and eat dinner, for the food then tastes a million times better than any other night. I get a pair of old gloves, a throwaway pair of sweatpants, and an old pair of running shoes whose soles are so worn down they're more like slippers, and I start to drive.

Where am I going? I don't know. If I knew then I would have already messed up. Statistics say that in 90% of murders the deceased knew the murderer beforehand. I don't know if that's true - I read it somewhere - but I intend to be the 10%. The person I kill will have never seen it coming, they will have never known what was going to happen to them.

I drive, taking on ramp and off ramp. Road and side road. I don't even know where I am, and so its perfect. I ignore the name of the development that I pass, but I mark it. Nearby is a park surrounded by trees. Perfect. I park the car and get out. It is at this point close to midnight, the magic hour. Statistically speaking, midnight is the hour when most people are murdered. I don't know if that's true, but I read it somewhere.

I walk back down the road to the development I passed and wander down the streets as if I live there. I can't act bothered, because that's a sign, you see. If I act bothered, people notice, and people get suspicious, and people call police. Nobody must know or suspect. I think that's the problem. They say subconsciously all murderers want to be caught. I say no. I want to get away with it. I want to walk with blood on my hands and no guilt in my gut.

I pick a house with a fence and a pool. Statistically, people who live in a house whose back yard is fenced in and has a pool in it don't lock their back doors. I don't know if that's true - I read it somewhere. But in this case it was, the door slid open as though it was greased and awaiting my arrival. I can feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead now, but the sweatband I wore absorbed it. I foresaw this might happen, the anticipation.

Right through the sliding door is the owner's kitchen. Perfect. You see the biggest mistake I think you can make is to buy the murder weapon beforehand, or worse, bring one from home. So I thought it out. I thought, why not just use something from their own home? I think its beautifully ironic. So I sort through their knives. They have the usual assortment of cheap cutlery, but it's one piece that catches my attention.

My guess is the lady of the house watches infomercials, for the knife I pull from its custom made protective cover is as beautiful as I could have hoped for. Obviously sharp, slightly serrated, with a good grip and weight to it. I don't need to be an expert to know that this is a good knife.

Just then the living room light turns on. My heart begins to thunder in my chest, and I look around. Moving like a shadow across the kitchen floor I duck behind a counter, where no sleepy eyes can see me. Foot steps come into the kitchen and the room is filled with the pale light of an open refrigerator. I stand up, my clothing makes no noise.

Silhouetted against the fridge is a girl. I'd put her age anywhere between sixteen and twenty-one. Its hard to tell these days. I blame the rap music. I can't help but admire she's beautiful, and the way her pajama pants cling to her curves is nothing but enticing. But I won't leave that sort of evidence around, no, I'm not that stupid.

My feet make no noise as I cross the floor. It seemed to take an eternity, but barely two clicks were made by the second hand on the kitchen clock before I was behind her. My left hand curls around her face, covering her mouth and forcing her head down. Down, not up. Most people don't understand that if you push their head up then you might only slice the airway and they could live. I would have no survivors.

My right hand comes up with the knife, the blade pressed up against her throat. There is no dramatic pause, I don't whisper anything into her ear. With one deft movement my right hand flies through the air, she lets out a muffled squeal and than slumps to the ground. The inside of the refrigerator is coated with blood, her arterial spray is more intense than I thought it would be. Some things movies get right after all.

Standing over her body I feel nothing for a moment, and then it hits me, like a weight off my shoulders. There's nothing difficult about it. It's that easy. I bend down and turn her over, her eyes still staring out in death, confused, hurt, sad. I lift up the pink tank top she is wearing, revealing her breasts, perfectly formed and still. The camera in my pocket comes out, and I take the pictures that I said I would. Proof, proof of the deed, proof for me and me alone. Porn has nothing on this.

But a girl like this doesn't live alone in a house like this. So I put the camera away and get my grip on the knife once more. The living room has the softest carpet I have ever felt in my life. It cushions my feet perfectly, making no noise. I'll bet it's annoying to vacuum.

The stairs worried me, but I figured that if they were used to people going up and down them in all hours of the night, then I had nothing to worry about. Only one stair made any noise, and even then barely enough to worry about. On the second floor there are four rooms, a closet, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. One of the doors is open and inside I see posters of various bands. The girl I killed in the kitchen's. The other door is left partially open, enough to let the barest sliver of light in through the gap and some noise. The man of the house's frail attempt at protecting his family.

I push it open to reveal the room inside. The couple are asleep, one with a book held open on her chest and the other on his stomach with his head buried in the pillow. Statistically 40% of people sleep on their stomachs. I don't know if that's true - I read it somewhere. I walk over beside the bed and admire the woman for a moment. It's easy to see where the girl got her figure. I slit her throat easily, and she wakens to struggle for breath in the last few seconds of her life. Her movement rouses the husband, who groggily stirs.

He probably is wondering why he's wet, and warm, and his wife is flailing. By the time he understands what happened I'm near him, and as he turns and sees me I strike him with the hilt of the knife, dazing him. With a kick I send him back onto the bed, which exposes his stomach. See, the throat is not the most deadly location on the human body to cut someone, nowhere close indeed. See, just below your stomach before the pelvic bone is a thick vein that provides blood to your legs, and if cut you die far quicker than if your throat is cut.

I stab him in it five times, slightly annoyed that he didn't have the strength to resist. He slumped to the ground, writhing in his last seconds, probably wondering what will happen to his beautiful daughter, ignorant that she will be waiting for him in whatever afterlife there is. I pull my camera out again and take my pictures. Before I leave though, curiosity gets the better of me. I'm in a strange home; why not see how these people live?

And so I begin to explore the house. In the basement there is a pool table, I rack up and play a quick game of 8-Ball. Stripes lose to solids. The table had a curve. There was a bar, but I don't partake, because that would leave evidence. Done in the basement, I go back upstairs. I ignore the kitchen, I know what's in there anyway. Their DVD collection is respectable, but boring. The bathrooms hold the normal array of hygiene products.

In the girl's room I find a computer, I turn it on and go through all her files. I'm guessing she has a boyfriend, she has the kind of pictures in some of her folders that you only give out to the intimate. Her toy is in her bedside drawer, her teddy bear on her bed. I think it's ironic how kids these days are so innocent yet devious.

I make my way back to the parents' room. In the woman's bedside drawer are magazines. I ignore them. In the man's drawer is... oh my.

My fingers are reverent as they pull the item out. I'd done my research you see, before I ever decided that I would do anything. And what I was holding was a .45 caliber Colt model 1911 semi-automatic pistol. It was a glorious weapon, most likely purchased for home defense. It was too nice to pass up, so I check to make sure the safety is on and I put it aside.

I was done now, and so the final and most crucial step was called for. I change out of my clothes, and into some of the husband's. They are a little loose on me, but that is alright. The pistol goes into the pants, tucked safely in the back, not the front. 15% of gangsters who tuck their pistols near their crotch regret it. I don't know if that's true - I read it somewhere.

In the garage I find what I need. I pour the gasoline on all the bodies, my pile of clothes, the knife, and wherever else it would go. Quietly to myself I laugh, with gas prices these days this would be an expensive murder if I'd paid for the tools myself. I light a match, and let the house begin to burn. I make my way out the back and down the street, and by the time I make it back to the park where my car is I can hear the sirens in the distance.

It is the most glorious drive home that I have ever had, and that night I sleep like a baby. The next day I read about it in the paper, a horrible house fire that killed a family of three. See that's the brilliance of it, nobody suspects a murder, because they're all dead anyway. I think I'm too much of a genius for myself, sometimes.

The next day at work I feel fantastic, the people who walk by don't understand how easily I could end their lives. All I can think about is the pistol that I have back in my home, and what I can do with it. Everything about life seems fantastic, and when I go home I celebrate. I pull out a bottle of whiskey and drink nearly half of it, and when the worlds a blur and the stairs to my bed seem insurmountable, I go to sleep.

I wake up the next day and feel the glorious pounding of the liquor's after effects as they thunder through my skull. It is glorious. It is my own personal band, my own victory music. I turn the news and hear about how the family and friends of the three people who were tragically burned alive in their home are arranging a memorial service. As I laugh I wonder if anything will ever be this funny to me again.

I sit in the chair, the stolen pistol in my hand, and feel the emotions as they run their thunderous course through my veins. I got away with it. And it was so easy. So easy in fact that I knew I was going to do it again. And I would do the same thing. The same exact thing.

The house will be random, the family will be strangers, the neighborhood will be unknown to me.

Based on simple random statistics there is almost a 1% chance that the next person I kill will be you.

But I don't know if that's true, I just read it somewhere.