I don’t remember anything for longer than a day. The reason I know that? A sticky note posted right in front of my face as soon as I wake up each morning. The note under it says that there’s a diary underneath my bed that I’m supposed to write in every single day, so I slide from off my bed and reach under my bed, grabbing what I assume is the diary.

After reading the first few and last few pages, I know who I am. I’m . . . I’m a serial killer. Every single page of that notebook, with the exception of a few days, is filled with the gory and gruesome details of some horrific murder that I’ve committed.

I feel sick just thinking about it again. How many people have died at my hands? How many families can I no longer apologize to because I don’t even remember what I did to them? What kind of horrible monster am I?

I spend the rest of my day reading every single page of the diary, hoping to find a name of some sort. Anything. I just want to turn myself in. Apologize to the people that I’ve hurt. I just want to fix it all. I barely even ate dinner, and scribbled in the diary, telling tomorrow me not to kill anyone. I pray that that will be all that tomorrow me needs.

I don’t remember anything for longer than a day. The reason I know that? A sticky note posted right in front of my face as soon as I wake up each morning. The note under it says that there’s a diary underneath my bed that I’m supposed to write in every single day, so I slide from off my bed and reach under my bed, grabbing what I assume is the diary.

After reading the first few and last few pages, I know who I am. I’m . . . I’m a serial killer. I tear out the last page, filled with sympathetic nonsense about why I should feel bad. I understood as I flipped through the pages of that book. I understand.

I’m a god. I’m the one who decides who is worthy enough to walk on these grounds. I’m the one who decides that. I control life and death in the palm of my hand, and within only a few minutes, I decide on today’s activities. 

On the television, the news broadcaster speaks about a social gathering being held just a few blocks from where I live. It wouldn’t be too hard to kill a few and sneak back into my apartment before anyone notices me . . .

I grab a large butcher’s knife and put it in my coat pocket before leaving the building and heading outside.

I smiled as the sunshine shone down on my face, warming it up. The gods were smiling down at me, impressed with my work. Even I, the god of death, am impressed with my work. Today will make a great entry into my diary . . .

I don’t remember anything for longer than a day. The reason I know that? A sticky note posted right in front of my face as soon as I wake up each morning. The note under it says that there’s a diary underneath my bed that I’m supposed to write in every single day, so I slide from off my bed and reach under my bed, grabbing what I assume is the diary.

After reading the first few and last few pages, I know who I am. I’m . . . I’m a serial killer. And I know what I need to do.