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Dearest Diary,

I killed a man today. (And, wow, isn't that something? Not many people can say that. Not many people really want to say it, either, and nor do I, but it is true. I killed a man today.)

Of course, I promptly lost my lunch, and half of my internal organs, by vomitting, after I'd done it.

There's something - and I hate the way this sounds - but there's something almost poetic about watching a person's last thought - a person's soul - leave their eyes. Like someone flicks a switch and they just turn off, like they reach the edge of the world and don't quite make it to Tartarus. Like they try and commit your face to memory, so that they can point you out in a lineup when the police finally catch you, before they leave.

Of course, when they do leave, it's not in the way they want to leave, and their last ditch effort at memorising your features falls short because all they can see is their own face, reflected in your cold, emotionless eyes, as they die.

That right there is something, too, I guess. The last thing they see is their own death. It makes you want to pity them.

But, of course, we do not pity the dead. We pity the living. Not those who live without love, thank you Albus, but we pity those who made the dead the dead.

I cannot, however, pity myself, because it was my own decision and I am to blame. And I can't pity myself, because I don't even know how.

Of course, that does not mean that others cannot pity me, and, really, after about a minute, that look gets pretty annoying.

I killed a man today. I did not plan on killing a man today, nor did I ever maintain the urge to kill a man, on any particular day, and nor did I, today, react well to killing a man, but it remains a fact of history, now and forever (unless the Doctor makes a surprise appearance, which he can't, now, because I would have seen him), that on this day, I killed a man.

And, of course, my first kill was not just any man.

No, it was my father.

Of. Freakin'. Course.

Description
Dearest Diary,

I killed a man today. (And, wow, isn't that something? Not many people can say that. Not many people really want to say it, either, and nor do I, but it is true. I killed a man today.)

Of course, I promptly lost my lunch, and half of my internal organs, by vomitting, after I'd done it.

There's something - and I hate the way this sounds - but there's something almost poetic about watching a person's last thought - a person's soul - leave their eyes. Like someone flicks a switch and they just turn off, like they reach the edge of the world and don't quite make it to Tartarus. Like they try and commit your face to memory, so that they can point you out in a lineup when the police finally catch you, before they leave.

Of course, when they do leave, it's not in the way they want to leave, and their last ditch effort at memorising your features falls short because all they can see is their own face, reflected in your cold, emotionless eyes, as they die.

That right there is something, too, I guess. The last thing they see is their own death. It makes you want to pity them.

But, of course, we do not pity the dead. We pity the living. Not those who live without love, thank you Albus, but we pity those who made the dead the dead.

I cannot, however, pity myself, because it was my own decision and I am to blame. And I can't pity myself, because I don't even know how.

Of course, that does not mean that others cannot pity me, and, really, after about a minute, that look gets pretty annoying.

I killed a man today. I did not plan on killing a man today, nor did I ever maintain the urge to kill a man, on any particular day, and nor did I, today, react well to killing a man, but it remains a fact of history, now and forever (unless the Doctor makes a surprise appearance, which he can't, now, because I would have seen him), that on this day, I killed a man.

And, of course, my first kill was not just any man.

No, it was my father.

Of. Freakin'. Course.