“Do all men kill the things they do not love?”
I have a confession that may surprise you… I’m not a killer.
No, really. When I used to play Legend of Zelda, friends would gleefully cut down the chickens, and I felt guilty about it. So guilty that I’m still remembering it 20 years (or so) later. A friend told me that she liked to play the Sims, name them after people she was angry with, then starve them or not let them go to the bathroom until they died. I thought it sounded like a great idea. But I couldn’t do it. Again with the guilt.
I cried when (spoilers) Ruth and Danny died in Lightning by Dean Koontz. I cried pretty much the whole last book of Harry Potter.
I’ve killed off a few characters of my own, and it’s usually painful. Depending on how long I’ve spent with that character, I’m in their head. I know their wants and needs. I know their secrets. And then, because the book calls for it, I kill them.
It’s very difficult, even when I remind myself that death is part of the cycle, and that they’re not real. Though they are to me. Nevermind.
I used to tell people I wanted to be a serial killer when I grew up. But maybe I wouldn’t be all that good at it, after all.
“He divines remedies against injuries; he knows how to turn serious accidents to his own advantage; whatever does not kill him makes him stronger.”