Freedom Is Coming

December 23, 2010



Sometimes I thought that it would have been kinder to have let me die. That might be harsh, but the truth isn’t soft and squishy. I’m not exactly soft and squishy either. I’m hard, tough. That’s not to say I’m not breakable, it’s just that I refuse to show that. They want someone who is invincible? A superhero? Then that’s what they’ll get. Just don’t get too close. The closer you get to me, the more you’ll see I’m not invincible or a superhero. And wouldn’t that be crushing?


January 4, 2024. Unmemorable for most people, but that was the day I was born. Not literally born, I didn’t claw my way out of my mother’s womb on that day, but it was the day I was born intellectually. Spiritually, even. That was the day I was abandoned by all those I thought gave a shit about me. Bloodied and bruised, I crawled my way to my car and went to a gas station. The card reader wasn’t working, so I went inside to pay. The look on the attendant’s face had been priceless. It was a mixture of fear, pity, and nausea. He almost screamed. Instead he just asked, “Should I call the police for you?”


Really? “Should I call the police for you”? You couldn’t even ask me if I was okay? Offer me a band-aid or something? You fucking coward. It was whatever though, and as I was still processing what had just happened, I let it slide. You can thank me later. It saved your life. So, instead of slamming your face into the counter until the bridge of your nose was shoved back into your brain, killing you, I simply smiled said “Thanks, but no thanks”, paid for my gas, and asked where the bathroom was. You told me it was outside, and I smiled at you again and thanked you. I use the term “smile” loosely, of course. I walked outside and went into the bathroom. Looked into the mirror and saw a stranger, so I turned around. There was no one there. Looked again and started laughing hysterically. I’m surprised you didn’t come out to see what was going on, Mr. Gas Station Attendant. The laughter became sobbing. There was no stranger. The amazingly disfigured, and horrifying looking creature in the mirror was me. No wonder you grimaced when I smiled.


Something inside of me died that day. Then something else came to life. I’m not really sure what died, but I know what came to life isn’t pretty. Inside of all of us is good and evil, and whatever came to life seems to favor the evil side. Funny that you think of me as a hero. I doubt under different circumstances, you would even want to associate yourselves with me. Now though? Now it’s, “She’s amazing!”, “She’s a hero!”, “She’s everything we need!”. What you’re really saying is, “I don’t want the blood on my hands, so thank God she’s here to do the killing!” Indeed. Thank God I’m here to do the killing.


The first guy I killed was a nobody who lived out on the streets. He looked at me funny. Called me a whore. I started to walk by him, trying to ignore him, but then he started laughing at me. Something snapped. I took a pencil out of my bag and shoved it through his eye socket, severing his optic nerve before pushing upwards to penetrate the brain. His death might not have been the quickest, but at least he didn’t see much of it. That was the first time I had someone else’s blood on my hands. It was liberating. Freedom and death don’t seem to go together, but isn’t that what death ultimately is? Freedom? Life is full of pain and regret, death is a release from that. His death was freedom.


I realized I couldn’t keep killing people, just because they laughed at me, or looked at me funny. I needed a system if I was going to continue. So, three other random killings later, a system was born. One that allowed me to kill the murderers, rapists, and other people that only create misery, without having to suffer too much from the pangs of morality. Plus, no one cared too much when these people just disappeared, or were found savagely killed. It was a win-win for everyone. Except for the baddies. But who gives a shit what they think about the system anyway? I don’t.


You can’t imagine the visions of delightful violence that pass through my head at any given moment. The sight, smell, feel, and taste of blood is more divine than any ambrosia that falls from heaven. You can keep your chocolate. When I have a bad day, I’ll just kill someone. I meet someone and immediately imagine the many ways I can kill them with ordinary object around the room. Or with just my bare hands. I suppose that makes me not right. Not right in the head. But sanity is so overrated. All of you sane people trudge through your lives, working your boring jobs, and pretending your lives aren’t such huge wastes, such colossal failures. I smile through my life, gleefully slicing and dicing through my “jobs”, and make no pretensions about who or what I am. I am a murderer. Even better, I’m a murderer sanctioned by you, the sane people. Who’s the insane one now?


I suppose I should warn you. Being mentally imbalanced, I don’t always know where I am, who I am, or what I’m doing. Eventually, I’ll forget which one of you is a bad guy, and which one is good. Some day, I’m going to kill you. I’ll take pleasure in it too. So go on, worship me as your hero. One day, I’m going to be your enemy. Smile. Freedom is coming.

-DeAnne Evans, all copyrights reserved



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