How did this happen? Why did this happen? I never wanted any of this; I just wanted a quiet life.
I'm dead. Quite literally, mind you. And what a death it has been. What a stupid, ironic death. Getting my face peeled off, my neck snapped, and my head crushed by the wheel of the very ambulance sent to save me. I can tell with utmost certainty that this death will never be written about.
I've lived in this city since I was born 33 years ago. I lived a quiet life, not wanting to stand out. But even the man with a quiet life has to have some fun. And so I did. I sought out women. Women with beautiful hands. After I found them, I would take them home. Hands only, of course. The women themselves were too large and messy, sometimes too loud for me to bother carrying them. But their hands: so slender, so white, so soft to the touch. So arousing and perfect. I couldn't get enough of them. Of course, I would have to replace them every now and then, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. Of the grand total of 48 young women that I killed, 47 of them had the pleasure of keeping me company.
But how did this happen?! I had achieved power greater than any other before. None could know who I am, lest they were to die moments later, killed by an explosion so effective that not even dust would remain of them, and I'd be sent back to safety. Yet my body was crushed in what appeared to be shorter than the shortest amount of time, and I was violently flung to my now unavoidable doom.
When I awoke, I could not remember that I'd died. I foolishly thought that I managed to escape once again, now safe for all time. But then she appeared: the first girl that I ever killed, and the only one whose arm I didn't take, for I was in a hurry back then. And now she stood before me, pale as a ghost that she was, with a determined look in her eyes. It was only then that I realized I was dead as well. Oh, how frightening it was. One doesn't easily accept the fact that he is no longer a part of this world. But when I came to my senses, I realized that I could at least have some fun with her.
But before I could do anything, a spirit of a dog with a gaping, bleeding wound in his throat, lunged at me, biting into my wrist so hard, he bit off my hand. Who knew that ghosts could feel so much pain? I fell to the ground, and turned around.
And it was at this moment that my fate was sealed.
Behind me hung a curtain of deep purple haze. As soon as I laid my eyes upon it, dozens of arms reached out, grabbing me, pulling me apart with surgical precision, or violently ripping me to pieces, all with almost palpable hunger. I felt myself being pulled into the void, and reached out with my remaining arm, but the world closed before my eyes.
Now, all I know is pain.
And for what? For my murders? I was only having fun and seeking company. What's so wrong with that?
For killing an innocent man and stealing his identity? His wife loved me more than him, anyway.
But none of that matters now. It's all over. All of my memories are now mixed into a thick miasma of thoughts that adds to the torture I experience for gods know how long now.
Yet two things remain perfectly clear in my head; one memory, and one fact. And I shall never forget them.
My name is Kira Yoshikage, and I will never find peace.
Written by Helel ben Shahaar