Memoir Of A Murderer Review Novels & Stories

"As long as you don't come at me and bother me, I'll even die for it." I guess I was thirsty for my life. Certainly. I wanted to die, and for a murderer like him it would be okay to kill me. The moment he committed the murder is still fresh in my mind. Even as he committed the murder, his breathing was regular, he didn't even feel the slightest bit of excitement. However, I read in an article that even the most professional killers always have a small indication of a little bit of excitement. For example, tingling fingers. For Edim Demiray, calling him a murderer was the same as saying he still has a heart, he was a cold-hearted monster in my eyes.

The neon glow of the diner across the street flickered hazily, casting distorted silhouettes on the cracked pavement. She gripped her camera - more than a tool, it was her armor - and waited. The town had been whispering about the murders for weeks, hushed gossip trailing every corner like poison: mutilated bodies discovered in the dead of night, all linked by an unspoken horror. And none had been caught. Lena came for answers. She would not let the darkness swallow her sister’s memory without a fight. Footsteps echoed nearby slowly, deliberately. She steadied her nerves and raised the camera. From the shadows emerged a tall and commanding figure, his presence almost a physical force. Jeremy

He’s remembering the forest. Not the cliff. Not the fall. Just the night before—the one where I saw him kill a man apart as if paper. The one where I ran until my lungs burned. It’s the first time I’ve seen him. As a murderer. I swallow, trying to sound steady. “Maybe it’s a dream. You’ve been under stress. That kind of—”

Blood on my hands, on my clothes, oozing from the gash on my sister's throat. A shaky breath escaped my lips before I shut them, pushing my trembling fingers through my hair. I could still recall the way everyone had looked at me, the unspoken words written on their faces: murderer, monster, traitor. How could I let my mate see this part of me? How could I tell her that I'd suffered a blackout and couldn't remember committing murder? Wouldn't that make me a jerk who refuses to acknowledge his own deeds? "After everything we've been through..." Clarissa's voice pulled me out of my spiralling thoughts, and when I looked at her, a tear slid down her left cheek.

"You’re gonna want to see this." Evelyn moved closer, her stomach churning as she looked at the victim. The man's chest was torn open, deep gashes running from his ribs down to his stomach, the flesh shredded as if by a beast. Blood soaked the pavement, pooling beneath him like a dark, ominous omen. But it wasn’t just the violence of the crime that unsettled her. It was the precision. "This wasn’t done with a knife," Evelyn muttered, her voice thick with disbelief. Ramirez nodded grimly, his brow furrowed. "Looks like an animal attack. But we're in the middle of the city, and no one saw anything."

He collapsed in a heap, unconscious. I shook slightly, my mind almost beating out of my chest. And then I was numb. I just killed someone but I was currently not feeling too bad. Which simply meant that I was going to lose my mind about this much later. Now, I was not so different from Owen, was I? I was a murderer like him… Meanwhile, silence engulfed the room. Then a slow, amused clap. Joan. “Smart girl,” he mused. “Not bad.” I tossed the knife back onto the table, meeting his gaze slowly. “He’s as good as dead anyway. No need to waste the effort.”

He's shaking, looking like he's moment away from wildly panicking, everything that he knew unravelling. Him and I are sharing that feeing, because I'm struggling to accept that I've lost such an important portion of my memory. A few weeks might not be much, but clearly a lot happened in that span of time. Not to mention, I murdered someone, and I wish I knew how I came to do that. "Did I say anything during that time that would didn't make sense to you?" I ask, hoping I can allude to the murder. Grey looks thoughtful.

“If you want to leave now, you can, by all means. However, it might make us more suspicious of the reasons why you don’t want to hear what Mr Handful has got to say.” “Just get on with it, will you.” Jessica Learmonth shouted. My notes were written on a page, tucked into my jacket pocket. I kept taking them out and glancing at them as if I was cribbing for a test. “The murderer of Mr Alistair Fleming is sitting amongst us right now,” I announced, pausing for a moment to look at their faces. The atmosphere hung heavily in the room and I noticed tentative half-smiles amid a general dislike of such melodrama.

“Well, he’s a killer of some note—a killer of ritualists, in fact. They say he has glowing red eyes, gleaming silver wristblades, and tattered black clothes. He’s supposedly battled in countless wars, a phantom on the battlefield, feasting on the living . . . I thought he was a myth, but just yesterday I saw him myself. He had . . . remarkable skill. I cannot wait to catch him, and kill him . . . oh, how I want to kill him!” I was puzzled by Mr. Cillian’s inquiry. Did he think I was in league with this mysterious criminal? Why would he ask me, a woman who was under arrest—a woman who he would have no reason to trust the word of? But as Mr. Cillian let out a fanciful sigh, I realized that he

This time, he studied the incident more closely, watching with the remote in one hand and his pen in the other, pausing and replaying as needed, jotting down notes and trying to dissect the killing as dispassionately as possible. In little more than an hour, he was finished. Nothing more would be gleaned from the recording. The murder that the killer would almost certainly copy was as simple as it was hideous. For a fleeting moment, Conner hoped he was wrong, that the killer would choose a different death to mimic, that this one would be too much even for a soul as sick as his. There were two other killings in the episode he could choose from, but this was the one that stood out, the signatu