Last victim
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Past life? I didn't believe it. People kept saying it. What was my past life like? Did I sin in my past life and become so unhappy? Why do they think about past lives when they can't even properly consider their present? I thought to myself as I listened to them.
If I had sinned in a past life, I would have been punished there. That was all I thought. But back then, I was complacent. I never even imagined that a past life I didn't believe in would ruin my present.
Good and evil existed in the world. I thought I was just an ordinary person, neither good nor evil. A normal member of society, desperately trying to please others. Occasionally, I harbored good intentions, then evil.
/
I woke up in a cold sweat. My pupils were dilated, transparent tears streaming down my face. My breathing was ragged, and my heart was pounding like crazy. Even with my eyes tightly shut, the scene before me was vividly remembered. I couldn't believe it, the scene playing out before me.
The first scene in my dream was peaceful. It was so peaceful, almost healing. It was a forest where insects chirped and birds chirped. It was a beautiful place, where leaves on the trees fluttered in the wind and fell overhead.
I was walking through that beautiful place, hand in hand with someone. We were having a casual conversation, filled with the freshness of first love. Next to me, he scratched the back of his head with his reddened ear and whispered, "I love you." Hearing those words, I raised the corners of my mouth.
I, the dreamer, thought I could whisper, "I love you too." But in the dream, I held his hand and went deeper into the forest, piercing his heart with the hidden blade. He collapsed without knowing what was happening, lying among the grass, coughing.
“Why are you suddenly acting like this?”
I smiled brightly without answering and smoothed his hair. He seemed increasingly distressed, and in my dream, I watched him, my heart pounding wildly, but at the same time, I felt pleasure.
“I love you too, your blood.”
As I pulled out the knife that had pierced his heart, blood spurted out like a scene from a movie. It splashed onto my face, my clothes, and even my mouth. The grass was stained with blood, and I could taste the pungent taste of blood on my lips. I licked the knife, stained with his blood, and spoke.
“As expected, you’re making my blood boil.”
/
The scene from the dream kept replaying itself. Even though I didn't want to think about it, it was still there in my mind. That horrific scene returned to me as pain. The pungent, tingling taste of blood still lingered on my tongue, lingering. Clearly, in the dream, I felt pleasure from murder and bloodshed. It even reached me. I loved for the sake of murder.
That horrible, cruel man is me. I can't deny it. I committed murder. It seemed as if he was crying out for me to save him, spitting blood from his mouth as I stabbed him.
I couldn't sleep, consumed by guilt. His screams still echo in my ears. Every scene I saw overlapped, tormenting me. Tears flowed frantically, my heart pounded, and there was nothing I could do. This was the first time I'd had such a vivid dream. Even precognitive dreams had never been this detailed. This was the first time I'd had a dream so vividly etched in my mind, as if it were real.
After tossing and turning for a while, I finally fell asleep, when that peaceful scene came back into my mind. That's when I started breaking out in a cold sweat. I was terrified of seeing that scene again. I tried to close my eyes, but I couldn't, and time passed. The pain was worse than being pinned down with scissors.
I had this dream for several days after that. It was a dream I had every day, but I couldn't get used to the idea of killing. I eventually went to a shaman, and she brought up my past life. She said I had committed a grave sin in that life, and that my current suffering was due to that past life.
At first, I didn't believe the shaman's words. I thought it was absurd. But as the details of my dreams became increasingly detailed, I eventually visited a place that offered past-life experiences. There, I saw the exact same scene from my dream. In my past life, I was a serial killer, a psychopath who enjoyed killing.
I returned home, shocked by that revelation. He told me I'd killed over ten people in my past life. I watched that horrific scene, one I never wanted to see again, over and over again: the faces of the people in agony, the anguished voices begging for their lives, the crimson blood splattering on me. I wasn't prepared to face it all. Perhaps that was natural.
I finally prepared for my last murder in this life.
I chose myself as the last victim.