I do not know what is up, and I do not know what is down. I think I am lying flat, though I could be angled up as if standing on my feet.
I believe my left arm is broken. I cannot feel where my legs are. There is piercing pain in my lungs. I am surrounded by the deepest black I have ever experienced. The cellar seems sunny in comparison. I always thought this would be cold, but I am achingly hot.
They say you have around 18 minutes of survival time while buried. I’d say I have about 15 left. It’s a sick irony, one I have realized.
I have one minute for each of them.
This is my confession.
The first was impulsive, something I am not proud of, something done before there was any meaning in doing it. I was sad. Angry. At nothing and at everything. She was completely innocent, but my sin was more than enough for the both of us. It was her little pink rain boots that had caught my attention. It was so many years ago.
I can hear a noise as if something could be digging through the pack. Who it could be, I do not know. It is all-encompassing, everywhere and nowhere at once. Above me. Below me. It is all the same.
The second wasn’t much different — a boy this time, a few towns over. I scooped him up from the side of the road. His backpack ripped, and papers and markers spilled out along the asphalt. I cleaned up as fast as I could. It was far messier than the first time.
This sound continues all around me.
The third was just like the first two. I never violated them, their innocence. Maybe they were drained of blood or organ or bone, but their purity remained intact. Perhaps even hardened. I didn’t do it because they were children. I did it because they were the easiest option. I am still ashamed. It was exhilarating, but the comedown was far lower than the high was tall. I stopped eating. Stopped taking my medication. Locked myself inside for weeks without leaving. Years went by like that, and those were my only three.
It is a constant droning in my ears. A low hum. Scratching through snow.
The fourth was what I wish I could consider my first, but that would not be fair. For me, but especially for them. But this was when I discovered my purpose, or when my purpose discovered me. I was given a name. It just appeared in my head one morning. I had felt cocooned, not dissimilar to my current state, and this had opened me up again, caused me to bloom. I didn’t know who they were, this name given to me, but I somehow already knew where to find them. All I had to do was wait. Later, in the cellar with the body, I was told for a second time what to do.
Though it may be my savior, this sound is becoming grating.
It isn’t a difficult hike. At least not anymore. When I first had to do it, I was still weak from my days of sloth. Lugging an entire body, one that had been chopped up, blood congealing in a duffel bag, was tiring. But I was motivated, hypnotized. It took the entire day — dawn to dusk, and then some. I had simply been told to go to the cave, so the cave was where I went. Like the victim, I already knew where to find it. The second time up the mountain, carrying my fifth victim, went easier. I had become more skilled with each slaying, each dismembering. It wasn’t as awkward to climb up that mountain. I was more prepared for the trek. Brought more food and more water. Again, I had been told a name and again was told to deliver the corpse, or the pieces, to the cave. There had been months between, but I felt better between the bodies. After this second contact, this tapping into my skull, knowing that it could happen again, I craved for the next time it did.
It is getting louder.
I do not know what the bodies are for. I do not know who they are for. Months later, with my sixth victim, my third sacrifice to the cave, I almost lost it all. There is no trail to the cave. I hadn’t seen anyone on my previous visits. But there he stood, beard covering half of his face. *Lot of luggage for a rough hike,* he said to me as we approached one another. *What’s all in there?* he asked. I said nothing. I did not know what to say. He eyed me, and then the bag, full of the remains of a random woman who had lived over 200 miles away, and then back at me again. He spat once. I walked by.
And louder.
I almost laughed when the bearded man was number seven and only three days later. Does it have a sense of humor? Is it truly attempting to hide from humanity? For the first time, it made me question what I was doing. It did not stop me. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he recognized me. And for the first time since the pink rain boots, my victim was someone entirely local. I was the last thing he ever would have seen. It almost felt like he knew I was coming. Did he have a similar task? I do not know.
It is becoming difficult to breathe.
Number eight was a short man from Oregon, the first time I had to cross into another state. He pleaded with me, told me he was a special education teacher. I did not hesitate. I have multiple methods. Nobody has ever made it back to the cellar alive.
It is getting closer.
I never remember the names. It is information granted to me and then taken away. But I always remember the faces. Number nine seemed as though he was happy to be killed. Like it was something he’d dreamt of. There was no screaming. For once, I think I was the one who was experiencing a greater fear.
And louder still.
Nothing is left when I return to the cave with another body. I never go deep into the cave. I venture just beyond the mouth. I unzip the bag. I dump out the contents. Is it simply picked over by animals? Is there nothing inside the cave? Number nine was a child, the first since my third killing. It was an easy climb that day.
The noise is narrowing.
Every victim I am designated to almost seems like they’re specifically selected to be an easy target. Someone I am capable of overpowering. Though I always had brought one with me when coming to collect a victim, I had never had to use a gun. That was not the case with number 10. It was terrifying. I have not used one since. He was a large man. He required two bags for transport. It was not an easy climb that day.
The sound is coming from above me. I can now sense it.
I could not tell you what I do between killings. It can be up to a year at a time. It is a blur, a buzz. But I know I feel better now than I had before I was given this purpose. Number 11 was a younger one again, all but 60 pounds. Perhaps an apology for number ten. I don’t think she ever saw me coming up from behind her.
My breathing has not become easier. My ribs feel splintered.
I do not torture. I simply kill. The victims given to me can be very far away. I do not mind. Number 12 was three states over. The body took on an unpleasant scent on the drive home. I did not mind. But I do remember.
The sound is right above me now.
But sometimes they are closer, just like the man with the beard, and also with this number 13. I do not know how they are chosen. Their proximity tells me I am being tasked within reason. I don’t know if that will continue, especially not now.
Someone or something is there. I can hear more than just digging.
Number 14 was a man nearly identical to me. It was an odd experience. We were both normal-looking men, so I suppose it wasn’t anything too out of the ordinary. It only made me question what is happening, though not for long, as I know they are unanswerable questions.
I am so close, but I can barely breathe. I can see the light finally blooming above me. The snow becomes dark blue hue above my eyes. Snow continues to be removed, slower now.
I had just given my 15th victim to the cave no more than an hour ago. It was the first time I had to hike and deliver a body in the snow. I heard the avalanche happen, watched it so far off. But it moved so fast. I tried to run but to no use. I was buried.
In a gasp, I can finally breathe as my lips breach the snow. I gain momentary relief as I see the sky, though there is far more in view.
It is above me, and I am below it. The eyes gazing into mine are so large. They are the deepest black I have ever seen. Red saliva drips from its mouth and into mine. It is no animal, and it is no human. It continues to contort as we both pant while catching our breath.
It is my savior.
In my head, I hear my own name.