The young writer was, I say this with regret, utterly boring.
I had expected something new from her, something that would surprise me somehow.
But all that expectation went to waste.
She was just like the others: dull, shallow, painfully ordinary.
So, I ended it quickly.
I forced her to swallow the poison.
Truth be told, I don't prefer poison. I'd rather end things with my own hands.
But as I said, she was far too boring—and I was feeling incredibly sleepy. So I thought, why not make it quick?
I took several pictures with my old camera as she writhed in pain.
I'll add the photos of this young writer to my album.
She may have been boring, but she deserves to be remembered by someone.
I recall her saying she had no family or friends.
That's why she wanted to become a writer—to gain readers, to make them her family.
What a sweet little dream.
She gave me a bit of joy on an otherwise dull day.
I looked at her corpse one last time and thanked her quietly.
Even now, I don't really know why I thank them.
Back when I first started this little hobby, I remember apologizing to the victims.
I can't recall when the apologies turned into gratitude, or when that gratitude lost its sincerity.
I remember crying once—apologizing with tears running down my face.
And sometimes, I thanked them with real, heartfelt appreciation.
But now? Now it's all just a faded memory of emotion.
Before going to bed, I picked up the shovel, intending to bury this diligent writer under the soil.
Had it not been for the poison, I might've eaten her.
She looked… tasty, in a way. Especially when she spoke with such enthusiasm about her love for writing, that bright look on her face now half-buried in sand.
I made my way to my room, exhausted.
It had been a very long day.
I lay down on my bed, holding a photo of the writer, sliding it into the album.
I felt nostalgic as I flipped through its pages—so many faces, so many women, each frozen in time.
Different ages. Different expressions.
I wondered how their families were doing now.
Had they forgotten them?
Did they remember the last moment before they vanished?
Were they still searching?
Of course, I've killed men too.
But I always found it disgusting to photograph them.
I took a picture of one once, but I burned it immediately.
Adding photos of men to my album felt... wrong. Like it would ruin the aesthetic.
I set the album aside and reached for the writer's bag.
Another habit I've picked up—I'm not sure why, but rummaging through the belongings of my victims is oddly satisfying.
At first, all I found were a few dollars and worthless personal items.
I was about to toss it when my hand brushed against a bundle of papers.
I pulled them out and examined them.
It was a novel—or at least, a half-finished manuscript.
To be honest, I only called her a "writer" because she wouldn't shut up about writing.
But I was curious.
I don't like reading, but I didn't want her effort to go to waste.
I once tried writing a novel myself—based on one of my adventures with a victim.
But I couldn't finish it.
Too tedious.
Writing just a few pages took hours.
Trying to find the right words, the perfect flow of events…
Not to mention deleting and rewriting constantly.
I gave up after a few pages that took me a whole week to write.
Simply put: not worth it.
So, out of respect for her effort, I read the manuscript.
And honestly... it wasn't bad.
I expected boring nonsense.
But it was good.
Really good.
It told the story of a young man in a fantasy world, rising from a beggar to the savior of the realm.
Sure, the structure was cliché, but there's a certain charm to cliché stories.
Sometimes, they're more enjoyable than the so-called "deep masterpieces."
Still, there was one thing that ruined the experience: the villain.
A spoiled brat. Useless.
His part took up too much space.
I got bored halfway through and tossed the manuscript aside.
Maybe I'll bury the manuscript tomorrow—alongside its author.
There's something poetic about that.
I don't know what exactly, though.
I was never good at finding deep meaning in things.
My eyelids were getting heavier by the second.
"Goodnight, everyone," I muttered, speaking to the souls of those I'd killed.
Another phrase that lost its meaning.
I used to say it because I felt some emotional connection, some twisted guilt—as if they were family.
But that was then.
Now, I see them only as prey.
I don't know why I used to be so emotional.
I'm embarrassed by my younger self—so dramatic and sentimental.
But, to be fair, a part of me misses those days.
Back when I could still feel things: gratitude, sorrow, even disgust.
Now, all I feel is boredom.
Endless, gnawing boredom.
Nothing feels fun anymore.
Even my little hobby, which I indulge in now and then, has lost its thrill.
For some reason, I thought of the writer again—her eager face, her fantasy novel.
Her words echoed in my mind, soft and vibrant:
"I'm not just saying this because I'm the one writing it, but trust me… the world in my novel is amazing. Full of adventure, danger, and unforgettable characters. It'll surprise you. It'll enchant you."
I couldn't resist sleep much longer.
I surrendered to that sweet feeling.
And the last thought I had before consciousness faded into the dark:
How wonderful it would be... to live in a world like that.