[Captialization of words represent italics]
Before arriving at this serene nightmare, I viewed darkness as my associate. It financed and funded my only functional business: problematic situations. Situations that booted me from the surplus enjoyment of life -- if there was anything surplus (let alone, enjoying) about it.
But, alas, I digress, conflict was lust within my nature. It was, clearly, my fault all this h*ll happened, but now -- now, i've just learned to accept this fact. And, I guess, this is partially the reason why I did it. Or, maybe, more than HALF of the reason. I'm never quite sure.
Anyway, regardless of any incertitude, or other wavering doubt, I plastered an incentive upon my agenda. An incentive to kill.
A murder so simple, so perfect, that it involved no disguising of ANY tracks, no disposment of ANY evidence, no relocation of ANY pinpointed position -- but an intent to be discovered.
Discovered with an adulterated blade, soiled with the fresh blood portruding from the wound of the victim -- an incision consisted of a jagged "X" inscribed upon the fragile surface of their forearms (a sign, spiritually believed, to reject entrance towards the afterlife [although, my intentions were, primarily, satirical])
The victim's body, (positioned neatly among the floor, with bloody arms laid out before them as though justifying a sacrifice towards me) however, remained lively yet drastically flushed around the face, leaving an angelic imprint despite the  cowering deep within the cold, black, abyss of their eyes. Their mutilated shell, twitching violently with every quarter ounce of blood pumped visciously from their wounds.
Following this, seemingly tragic, image was a lone, extended screech spanning the area of my newly developed crime scene: a small, enclosed bathroom.
Echoing off the dense walls (hoping to escape the horror resulting from the body of this tortured soul) were the final words this person would ever scream, before their eternal silence: "Help...me! Oh...dear god, help!"
And did that DEAR GOD help this POOR TORTURED SOUL?
It's debatable.
But one thing's for certain, my remedy to dispose of the man who f***ed up my life, remained unsuccessful. Although, his scars should've proven otherwise -- familiarly, on his wrists.
The wrists of a man too coward to face the aftermath of his own deeds.
The wrists of a man, or rather boy, like me.