‘Kill him.’ I don’t want to kill him. Why should I kill him? ‘Kill him.’ I don’t want to. ‘Kill him when I tell you to kill him. He doesn’t deserve to live happily when you don’t.’ I don’t understand. Why should I listen to you? I don’t even know you. ‘But you do know me.’ Then who exactly are you? ‘God.’

I was walking down the street when I heard that command. I didn’t know the voice I suddenly heard. It was frightening. It was like the words came from Satan and made my entire body quiver and shrills go down my spine of how icy cold the voice was. I’d never heard such a cold voice before, not even inside my head. I’d heard voices before, the little devil telling me what to do; controlling my mouth, my arms, my legs and even my brain. But there was one thing the devil inside me couldn’t control: my heart. It would never be able to control my pulsing heart, unless it got my arms to stab something into it, like a knife. But it has never tried to kill me, for some unknown reason and much to my displeasure.

This new voice, the voice of Satan – or “God” – told me to kill an innocent man walking on the other side of the street. I could tell that it was wrong and against common sense, but I still felt tempted to do it. The more I thought that it might be God who spoke to me – only me – made the command a lot more likeable. I was also close to crossing the street and then kill him there, on a bright spring day with the birds chirping in the sky above us and the new-mown grass smell, decorating the small neighbourhood I was currently making my way through. I had to get to Minseok’s because we’d made plans. We had to listen to some old LPs he’d found in his garage; another thing his mother didn’t want to be shown to the public when it visited their lovely and modern home.

But I pushed the idea away. It was so tempting, especially when God had a direct connection to me. I felt special; different, but in a good way. I really wanted to just walk across the street and then kill him with my bare hands. I could do it by placing my hands around his throat, clenching around it and he would probably fight back at first, but as his windpipe would slowly have pressure on each side and slowly close together, he would stop fighting back. He’d feel his lungs scream for the needed air so his blood could keep on circulating round his body, but he’d never be able to get the needed air, because my grip wouldn’t loosen until his dead, lifeless body would be so heavy that I knew he’d already died. Died in my hands. When I’d remove my hands I would’ve left marks from my fingers and they would have a violet colour. A very beautiful violet colour; just like my mother’s curtains at home.

 I could also choose a more violent way; beat him to death. I would approach him and he would probably look confused at first. Then I’d connect my knitted fist right in his face, making sure I would hit his nose too, with so great power that I could feel my bones crash against each other in my hand. I would hit him so hard that it would hurt me too, not that I would mind, because the adrenaline would make the pain seem less painful. I would hit him again; over and over again until he’d fall to the ground. Blood would run down of his face, painting him like an Indian who was combat ready. He wouldn’t be able to get up again, because I would kick him so he would have to lie down again. As I would aim to kick him in his head, he would colour the concrete underneath him. The concrete wouldn’t do him anything good when I would grab his head, force it up and force it right back down, crushing his skull.

But none of this happened. I continued on walking, tried insistent on not screaming my lungs out in frustration because I couldn’t do the command. I knitted my hands and walked with my head low. I had to get to Minseok’s house as fast as possible before anything bad would happen.

And I did come to Minseok’s house a few minutes later. When he opened the door he stood there with his stupid smile that I liked more than I wanted to. He looked so happy and ugly every time he saw me, and I wanted to be disgusted by it, but I couldn’t really find anything disgusting about it.

I quickly pulled him in for a hug when I entered. I didn’t even take off my jacket, nor did my shoes intend to leave my feet.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, voice nonchalant. I could feel he was so close to me and my body was close to his. My mind was elsewhere though.

‘You should kill him instead then.’

I ignored the voice, forcing it to stay as far away as I could, but it wasn’t really that far. “I’m happy to see you alive.”

A/N: Maybe I should tag this as horror...?