You can call me a mass murderer but then aren’t we all? Christ in the great sermon, before the breaking of the loaves and fish to feed the five thousand, fed them this: whoever has murder in their heart is already guilty of the judgement.

And, so I am.

I kill mentally too many times to recall at a split second leaving no trace. I killed the guy in the beat-up maroon Camry who rode my bumper flipping me off as he sped passed, the hospital technician who always calls me a little prick before drawing my blood, and of course I killed my neighbor. Just like that. Gone. No body, DNA, camera shot. Like it never happened, except in my mind. Only God knows and those who read my confession on this digital paper trail.

He smiled at the barista. Held the door for the old man with the cane. Said “bless you” when a stranger sneezed. His laugh had that gentle kindness that made people feel safe.

The thoughts came in quiet places. Elevators. Parking lots. Long walks with no one around.

He never acted. That was the difference.

At home, he reheated dinner in silence. Turned off his phone. Lit the same candle. Sat in the same chair.

And let the theater begin.

In his mind, he crushed the barista’s windpipe. Followed the old man home and shoved him down the stairs. Watched the stranger choke mid-sneeze—and did nothing.

Each scene vivid. Paused. Rewound. Improved. A silent film looping behind his eyes.

He always washed his plate. Always went to bed calm.

A good man, he told himself.

Because dreams aren’t crimes.

Every man is the same.

We like to pretend that we aren't. We chant that some of us are good. That some of us are protectors. That we provide and do what is right in the world. But I promise you, every man is the same.

When we get alone at night, we all have our vices. Some are worse than others, and mine might compete with some of the worst.

But what makes me better is the fact that I don't act.

As I walk the street at night and see a pretty, young girl on the other side, I don't cross it. I stay put, using my imagination to fill the void of what I cannot actually do. I think about the knife. The one I always keep in my pocket. How quickly I could drain her blood and watch her skin go pale. She would be dead so quickly. I doubt anyone would even know it was me who did it.

But I'm a virtuous man. I am better than other men. I know we all think the same. I know some have acted on it. But those who don't are just better.

Virtuous men like me have too much at stake. I have a family. A wife, a son, and two daughters. I sometimes wonder if I will ever dream about killing my daughters the same way I do other girls. Whenever they are grown, will I want to take the knife on the dinner table and watch them bleed?

But it doesn't matter. As long as I don't do it, I am better. It doesn't matter if I spend hours at the store counter, looking at the different types of blades. It doesn't matter if the thought of a girl's blood turns me on. It doesn't matter if I stay awake at night, wondering if the neighbors would be able to hear my wife's screams. None of this matters because I am a virtuous man, so I will never act.

And anyways, why would I even try to change when all men are the same?

Wreckless abandon and carefree trips around the sun haunt my mind late at night.

I am not meant to stay, but wander and experience, love and lose, travel the world on an endless pursuit of meaningless meaning. The monotony weighs heavily. I could quit my job without notice. I could get rid of everything that doesn’t have a purpose, forget the sentimental value, forget the gifts from friends throughout the years, or the letters from Grandma. It all weighs my soul down. Forget what I should be and what I need to be for others. Forget the meaningful connections and responsibilities. Forget all those who depend on me, such as my aging parents, my friend going through a bad breakup, my students struggling with bad home lives, the three outdoor pet cats I feed every night, and my lover trying to stop drinking. I care for them all, and it has become too much of a burden. I cannot stay here any longer! Perhaps, I could occasionally send postcards to family and friends like a way-faring traveler. No, that’s too much responsibility. I am suffocating, and I wish you all well! Tomorrow morning, I will cancel my lease, quit my job, pack a bag, and leave.

Morning comes, and the selfish façade fades in the dawn’s light. How could I be so ridiculous? I can’t do any of it. I message my beloved about our dinner plans that night. I get ready for work and call my mom and dad on the drive there. Arriving at work, I am greeted by coworkers and students, some ready to learn, others not. I smile. In this moment, I know I must continue to carry the weight, and my dreams of reckless abandonment will have to remain just that, dreams.

I am not a monster!

I only mean well. Yet, I keep thinking of ways to kill children. How sick is that? My mind is always on the search for some new way to do such a horrible thing. It's funny because I never thought such dark, evil thoughts before I had my own children. Now they arise and seek me out. I can't help it. What's wrong with me?

Children are fragile. They're actually quite easy to kill. It doesn't take much. And everyone will know it as just a tragic accident.

They can choke. They can fall from great distances. They can be allowed to do the thousand things that have killed children before, and the whole thing can just happen. Fast. And such things are accepted as the goings-on of the world.

Without intervention.

Look at that Bic pen top lying on the floor. A choking hazard just waiting its turn. Look at that pot of boiling oil with its handle sticking out from the stove, just waiting to be grabbed. Look at that bleach under the sink. Seatbelts don't matter if the trip is short.

I'm not a monster. I only mean well. But I can't help but keep devising ways to kill children. And not just mine, but everybody's.

I pick up that Bic pen top off of the floor. I check and recheck the slat distances on the railing to make sure they're too narrow to allow my child to fall through. I swing that pot handle out of grasp, put the bleach up high, and insist on seatbelts no matter how short the ride.

Because when you have your own, you will think of ways to kill them and begin your lifelong vigilance to prevent that from happening. In the famous ways. In the unpredictable ways. In the unimaginable ways. You keep your eyes open and stay en garde. You're preemptively paranoid.

Because you love them.

Because you're a parent, not a monster.

Deep breath. Hold it. Now, release slowly. Do that a few more times. Take a moment to notice the cool of the wooden floor under your naked feet. Look up at the sliver of sky between the shades. What shade of blue is it? Can you hear the birdsong? The traffic outside of the window? Are people walking by? Stay present.

It was just a nightmare. Remnant of the fleeting thoughts before unconsciousness. The past...

White walls. Pale grey tiles on concrete. Painting of Saturn Devouring His Son.

As I draw closer, the lights dim. Only the painting is highlighted. Only the painting grows.

Life-size, the scene. What is it about his eyes that look at me as if I'm known? Eyes aware of the atrocity and yet unrepentant?

I'm cold. From head to toe, yes, but my heart also feels nothing. As if the act of eating the body is commonplace. His body is still warm. His blood drools down my chin. I think of his acts as I exact my brand of justice...