text: They didn’t understand it. No-one did. This wasn’t murder or a mere kill that had no value or meaning. It was a grant of freedom. Freedom from the constraints of the delicate vessel that they were trapped in. I wasn’t a necrophile. I didn’t defile them, just for the sake of it, or mutilate and flay them for displaying them as personal trophies. I wasn’t a rapist. I don’t toy with them, or inject pleasure into myself before ending their lives. It was quick. No pain. Just a simple nick to the neck. They call people like me psychopaths. But they’re wrong. They’re all narrow-minded and insular. They don’t understand the service that I have done to society. They don’t understand the appeal the knife holds. The weight of value a simple chunk of metal carries. Every plunge of the knife is a joyous, momentous point in my life. The irony of when I think of all the lives I have saved simply by ending it, I just feel.... bliss. They say that life has ups and downs. The goods and bads. The peaks and troughs. But for me, I’ve been happy for years. Content with the life I’ve lived, the service I’ve done, and the part I played in people’s lives. They’ll all realise it soon enough. My job, my service, driven by an undying sense of passion and determination. But it’s all over now. And as the shackles are wrapped on my wrists, I think of how my service has ended. **Crime** I didn’t understand it. Probably won’t. Not now, not ever. As I witness the man get dragged out of the house, I can hear echoes of laughter, the fruity musk of beer, and the faint odour of lavender. I should feel disgusted. I should feel a sense of satisfaction that we tracked down the killer. A sense of duty that justice has been served. But no. All I felt was cold emptiness. Like as if at that moment I was carved into a hollow, inanimate mannequin dressed in a blue shirt with a petty badge, too mortified to move, utter a word or breathe. Just only having the ability to watch my neighbour walk down the driveway in handcuffs, shoved roughly into a police car and driven off. I used to be proud of the glass cabinet that sat across my study. The glints of silver and gold showcased various service awards and honour awards of my time as a policeman. Every time I looked at it, I felt an undying sense of pride and joy. A sense of gratification and fulfilment at the knowledge that my services have bettered the community from where I found it. But now when I glance at the dusty trophies in the attic, I’m engulfed in a painful blur of the house. Entering the house for the first time, two years ago, there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary. The house was adorned with an old-fashioned set-up. Like those cottages in Scotland; confined but cosy. The smallness of the space did not stop the man from hanging a large chandelier that hung at the topmost crook of the sloping rooftop. The lights showed the chandelier in all its glory, glimmering with such iridescent beauty, that one could mistake that diamonds were strung up rather than glass crystals. There was a thick, pleasant odour of lavender, a musk that was strangely heartening and complacent. The man greeted us warmly, shaking my wife and my hands, and kneeling down to greet our children. I remember everything about that day. I remembered the amazing apple custard pie we ate at the patio down at the back. I remembered the man talking about how he wants to one day fulfil his dreams and become a cook. “To be of good service to everyone”, he had said, smiling widely, “The feeling you have when someone compliments your quiche. Or how wonderful people like yourself say how amazing my apple custard pie is. It’s just.... bliss.” I remember how good he was with the kids. How he narrated riveting and fascinating stories for the children that had them at the edge of their seats. Never once, even from that day did I question the heavy scent of lavender that brooded the house’s hallways. How the scent inexplicably disappeared when I entered the kitchen from the living room. Never once have I questioned the even deeper fragrance of lavender rippling of the man every time I shook his hand. Never once have I questioned why the man had renovated the walls of his living room but never any other structures of his house. But standing right now, at the crime scene, witnessing bodies littered on the floor of the living room, and the walls ripped apart that had concealed the hollowness from within, I realised the questions that I’ve never raised had been answered. Looking on ahead at the scene, I was witnessing the consequences of my ignorance. In a few days, my children will notice that there is no light next door and will come down from their bedroom to ask where our neighbour is. I will say that he had moved on to another city to pursue his dreams of being a cook. My children will cry in despair and I would promise that I will call him so they can talk to him. In a few months, we will move to another state. Friends and social circles will have to start anew, but with a whiff of caution. Our smiles won’t quite reach our eyes, and our minds will be grated with inkling notions of paranoia. There will be more tears. In a year, my wife will wake up in another nightmare, sobbing in grief and trauma. I will soothe her, muttering incomprehensible words trying to comfort her as well as myself. In 3 years, both my children will have graduated to high school. They will have stopped asking to talk with the neighbour on the phone. I still don’t tell them about what the neighbour really did. In a few more years, our children will have graduated from high school both going interstate to pursue further studies. We will watch with proud eyes and cheering hearts. The house will become more desolate; devoid of any more heart-wrenching questions but empty of running feet, squeals and laughter. The nightmares would have stopped, but the trauma will still be lingering. And the guilt would never disappear.