What Lives Inside Me

**WARNING: Contains scenes of extreme violence and animal cruelty. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Inspired by real events from the early life of serial killer Israel Keyes.

The other boys have always been like locked doors.
I’ve stared at them for years, searching for a way in.
But there’s nothing – just smooth, sealed surfaces.
They say my name like it’s something heavy they’d rather put down.

After school, I sit alone in my room, listening to the house creak under the wind.
My father is gone. My mother prays.
I count the ticks of the clock, the thud of my heart,
waiting for something – anything – to pierce the stillness.

Then the doorbell rings.

For a second, I think it’s a mistake.
But when I open it, there’s Travis –
a boy from class, kicking at the gravel, like he’s already regretting being here.
Then he asks if I want to come outside – join him and some of the guys.

I nod too fast.
My hand sticks to the doorknob.

I need to show them something.
Something they won’t forget.
Something worth talking about later.

I walk back inside and grab the backpack – big, worn, heavy.
It smells like damp soil and old metal.
I move to the living room, kneel beside the couch,
and scoop the kitten into my hands.

My little sister got her a few weeks ago –
a fragile body of warmth and blind trust.
She purrs, presses into my palm as if I’m safety itself.
Her eyes catch the dim light, blinking slowly. Calm. Defenseless.

I tuck her gently into the side pocket of the bag.

___

Travis notices the kitten’s ears poking out of the side pocket and lets out a laugh.
The others follow, all of them grinning.
“She fits right in the side pocket,” one of them says. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

I laugh too, but it doesn’t sit right.
It feels like I’m imitating something I’ve only ever observed from a distance.
A language I was never meant to speak.

We run into the woods.
Branches scrape against our sleeves, the ground shifting beneath our feet, soft and uneven.
My heart pounds, loud and fast – but not from the running.
It’s something else.
Something larger.
I can feel it blooming inside me, warm and steady, like a fire that’s been waiting for air.

We stop at a clearing.
A crooked tree leans in the center, its bark peeling like old skin.
I set the backpack down, reach into the side pocket and lift the kitten into my hands.

She meows softly, confused.
Tiny claws reach for something she doesn’t understand – light, space, safety.
I smile.
Not out of joy.
But because everything is unfolding just the way I imagined.

I take out the rope.
It’s thin – almost like twine – but it will hold.
I’ve measured it. Tested the knots.
My fingers know what they’re doing.
I tie a tight loop, slide it around the kitten’s neck.

She makes a sound – not a meow,
but something smaller.
Like a question no one intends to answer.
I don’t.

I fasten the other end to a low branch, pull it once – hard –
until it’s tight, like the end of a sentence no one gets to finish.

She walks a few steps.
Then it yanks.
Her body snaps backward,
paws slipping against the ground.

She turns toward me.
Looks straight at me.
There’s no fear in her eyes.
Not yet.
Only confusion.

They’re watching.
I watch them.
I smile.
Just enough.

Then I pull the rifle from my bag.
My father’s.
It’s been with me the whole way – like a quiet promise.
It smells of metal and oil.
Heavy in my hands.
Steady.
Right.

No one says a word.
Only the wind, and the branches creaking softly.

I raise the rifle.
Line up the sight with the soft curve of her body.
Everything else fades,
like I’m breathing underwater.

I squeeze the trigger.

A crack. A jerk.
The kitten screams –
not like an animal,
but like something that never should have existed.
Like a seam tearing open in the world.

She thrashes, tumbles through leaves and dirt,
tries to run.
Her claws dig into the bark.
She tries to climb.
But the rope is there.
It’s always there.

I feel no sorrow. No guilt.
Only a strange heat in my chest.
As if I’m growing.
As if I’m finally doing what I was made to do.

I reload. Slowly.
She hangs crooked now, body twitching.
Still alive.
Still fighting.

I take aim again.
The head this time.
Breathe in.
Let it go.

The second shot tears the silence apart.

Then it’s over.

Her body drops between the roots –
quiet as a rag doll
forgotten in the rain.

I turn toward them.
Expecting something – laughter, maybe. A comment.

But there’s nothing.
Not a sound.

They’re staring. All of them.
Like I’m something that shouldn’t exist.

Travis stands frozen.
His gaze lands on the rifle – and stays there.
Another boy – his name escapes me – covers his mouth,
as if trying to swallow something too large, too awful.
He sobs.
Quiet, but unbearable.
Sharper than the gunfire.

No one comes closer.
Only steps backward.

One.
Then another.

And I stand there –
in the wet soil, between the roots, rifle still in my hands.
It’s not heavy.
Not warm.
Just there.
An extension of something I now see clearly.

They look at me as if I’m sick.
As if what I’ve done has revealed something inside me –
something they can’t explain.
Only feel.
Only fear.

And I feel it too.
Not shame.
Not guilt.

Just certainty.

They see a monster.
And me?

I feel something else.
A calm.
A strange lightness –
as if a mask has slipped off
and I can finally breathe.

I’m not like them.

I never was.

And I never will be.

- This story is inspired by real events from the early life of serial killer Israel Keyes.