First blood

My first kill was when I was 14.
It's probably none of the things you're thinking.

My sister and I were close, even though she was a few years older than me. She never treated me like an embarrassment, never pushed me away when friends her own age were around.
I got pushed around a lot at school, but she always stepped in against the assholes and stood up for me, even though she knew I could take care of myself.  I suspect she did it because right form when I was a little kid, any time somebody pushed me and I pushed back, they got hurt. I suspect she was trying to protect me from myself the only way she knew how.

So when I was 14, she was 19, and dating some guy - don't remember his name. Walking home from seeing him, she got jumped. She fought back, they fought her and left her on the floor, head split open, brain getting aired by the breeze.

So we got a call from the hospital. Parents grabbed me and in we went. There she was, all bandaged up and unconscious, nobody sure whether she'd wake up or if her brain would still be intact.
Police, doctors, everything - I left my parents to it and stayed with her. When they tried to take me home I refused. The hospital let me stay, the nurses took pity on me and brought me extra food, and  for 3 days I sat and slept on the chair by her bed, holding her hand, reading her books, talking to her.

On the 3rd day her hand gripped mine and I looked up to see her awake and looking at me. She croaked my name and I called for the nurses who did the things they had to do and called for the doctor, who came in. My sister refused to let him shoo me so I watched as he performed tests on her.
I saw that she could barely use words anymore, that her memories were faded - she remembered me, but only just, she could recall us growing up together but couldn't remember any of the things we'd done.
Doctor said it may improve, it may not, we'd just have to wait and see.

So we waited. And it became clear that not only was it not going to improve, it was worse than we thought. My sister was still there, but barely. Not just memories but personality, too, were faded. Something kept making her flash out and snap, insult, be mean. The doctor gave us all this jargon about head injuries but what it came down to was this: those muggers had removed my sister, they had removed who and what she was.

Sometimes when she was herself, she would look at me with such terror and sadness I couldn't bear it. When she told me she didn't want to keep being this person she couldn't control, I shook my head and fled.

But I came back. Because she was my sister, still, and I'd have done anything for her.
Understand me: she didn't wish bad on those who had hurt her. She just didn't want to keep hurting those around her. She knew what she was asking of me, and how big it was. She asked only once, telling me she'd do it herself but she didn't want to be alone, and that she would stay alive if that was my choice, and then she let me decide.

I know what you might be thinking, but no, she wasn't selfish. She was asking me to give her a way out - to end it, or to promise it would somehow get better - that somehow she would stop hurting people without meaning to or wanting to. The sister that had protected me from myself was asking me to protect others from herself, but willing to continue living with the things she couldn't keep herself from saying if that was what I asked her in return.

You'd be surprised how easy it can be to find the right drugs, if you're willing to put a bit of risk into finding them. I watched the pharmacy for days until I had a plan, a way in and out. I knocked out the security guard and disabled the cameras, broke in to the pharmacy - which was separate from the main building - took what I needed and as much else as I could carry in a backpack, so it looked like a robbery. I sold that stuff for a bunch later, gave it all away, but first I went back to my sister.

Keeping on the gloves I'd used for the robbery, I loaded up a syringe and, together, my sister and I injected it through the cannula. I held her hand while she closed her eyes and stopped breathing.
By this time she was off monitors, and I'd gone back to sleeping at home, so I made sure she looked comfortable, and that the syringe stayed in her hand, and said goodbye.

I'm pretty sure my parents always knew what I'd done. They could never quite reconcile themselves to hating me or loving me for it. I ran away from home a few months later - though only after I'd hunted down the muggers - to save them the trouble.
It's good they struggled. People should. What I did, it's not a thing to do lightly. It's not a thing that most people in the world should ever allow themselves to do.

Most people in the world, whatever they or you might think, don't have it in them to kill. Even in passion, there's still something in most of our heads which will stop us from going too far. To do so with thought and intent, but also love - that's a thing that, rightfully, very few people can reconcile within themselves.

It's a good thing. To take a life is not something to do lightly. But for the times it's necessary, for the people that need it or deserve it: that's what I do.

I don't enjoy what I did to my sister, but it was necessary, and done from love.

What I later did to the people who hurt her, well that was both necessary to the world, and a lot of fun.
Yes there is a sick, twisted, sadistic side to me. I'm aware of it. I accept it. In a perfect world where everyone was happy, I wouldn't exist - but then, I wouldn't need to.
I like torturing and fucking with evil people of this world before I kill them.