Thursday 1 February 2007

A Serial Killer Among Us

What I am about to confess to you could shock you, but I have to get it off my mind.

Hi. My name is Joyce and I’m a serial killer. There it is, out in the open for all to read. Finally, it’s off my chest, my heart. Confession is good for the soul, right?

It started small enough, innocent enough. I didn’t plan on becoming the killer that I am. I thought my DNA was coded differently, that I wouldn’t go through my life being a ruthless murderer, but it’s not to be. I will always have this black stain on my soul, but there seems to be nothing I can do about it.

I didn’t start on small animals like most killers. No, I started even smaller than animals. I started with seeds.

Tiny little innocent seeds whose only hope was to someday grow big and tall and to bloom in a riot of amazing colours. Little did they know that when I got my hands on them, all hope of a future was immediately lost.

It was easy for me to unknowingly murder a seed. I’d just stick it in the dirt according to instructions and watch it not grow. Dead as soon as they are buried.

When I lost interest in watching the death of the little seeds, I moved on to seedlings. Small, infant plants that were excited about possibly realizing their big, tall, blooming futures. Not even in the adolescence of their sprouty little lives do I have mercy. I plant them in a bigger pot and set them in front of the front window. They grow a little taller before they realize that the world outside that big window will never be theirs. I can almost hear their pathetic whimpers before they shrivel and give up, losing their will to live.

There is one banana plant left, one that I have been slowly torturing to death for more than four years now. It’s a sturdy little fella, but it’s slowly giving in to my unwitting plans. It’s lovely to see a victim with such a strong will to live, one that’s held on for so long.

The banana plant has seen many come and go in its sunny little corner. They never last long, these others. That poor banana plant has seen so many murders. So many slow, wilting deaths. It’s a wonder that plant hasn’t simply jumped out the window and ran away from me.

I don’t know how to stop this killing spree. It doesn’t matter how many self-help books I read, how many people I confess to, how many tips I hear on how to avoid this murderous life I lead.

The words will sift through my mind like ghostly warnings as I look at a gorgeous, full, perfect plant that will look so lovely next to the banana plant.

Then again, maybe I should just finish the job on the banana plant. It knows too much.