It’s fun setting your own goals in life, even if they don’t serve any purpose whatsoever.

Ever since I was eight, I have set “quests” for myself. Drown ten rats. Strangle five pigeons. Kick the stray cat to death. It was really satisfying when I beat the “quests” I set for myself, even if my parents repeatedly tried to cure my murderous ways.

As I got older, my quests got harder. Humans occasionally appeared in my quests. Killing humans wasn’t particularly difficult as I had lots of experience, but disposing of them was challenging at times. I couldn’t get caught, otherwise my little game I had carried on for many years could come to an end. I chose people that no one cared about, like the homeless, the severely ill, or the old and weak.

However, killing the forgotten soon got boring. What was the point of killing, if it didn’t cause agony to the victims’ loved ones? I started killing dozens of people at once. Burning buildings down. Setting bombs. Rigging train tracks. Since I lived in a small apartment in a massive metropolis, there were plenty of targets. Everyone was scared of the loose murderer killing everyone. I always planned my next murder weeks before I committed the crime: which door to lock, where to escape from. I was a professional, I told myself every time my killings went well.

Of course, no one is lucky every time, and eventually, I got caught and was sentenced to death. Everyone called me the foulest names I could imagine, and the prison guards hurt me every day, saying it was revenge for everyone in the city. On the day of my execution, thirty police officers, all frightened to death, carried me to the electric chair. I felt a zap, and fell into a deep sleep.

I woke up.