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I am a murderer.

I know what you're thinking: Who did you kill?

That's the thing—I don't know. Not all of them, anyway. After fifty, you lose track.

And before you get any ideas, no—I'm not a serial killer. I prefer the term artist .

Blood is my paint; the scene is my canvas, and my hands are the brush. Yes, hands. I like to get a little messy.

But don't mistake me for a bad guy.

I know you’re wondering how someone like me could have redeemable qualities.

Well, I don't kill just anyone. I'm not that sick. I do what no one else is skilled enough to do—get rid of the dregs of society. The rapists, the paedophiles, the cheaters who destroy families, the abusers who leave scars no one else can see.

And yeah, I enjoy it. The thrill. The power. The art of it all.

Does that make me a monster?

Maybe.

But at least I'm useful.

What have you done to make the world a better place?