Make Peace with God

I’d always thought that chasing, killing, and preparing myself all my life to be an assassin had put me on the sidewalk of the condemned, long before dying and getting right with God.

Indeed, I don’t remember the first time I killed. I don’t remember the technique I used, nor the victim's characteristics, color, weight, or odor. By the end of the day, I recognized that all my accounts seemed the same to me: buzzing, annoying, unbearable, and intrusive beings.

I also couldn’t remember when I started to do this. Believe me, I didn’t enjoy it—but someone had to. All I knew was that it began when I was a kid. The season of the year—well, couldn’t say when. The only certainty is that now, as a young adult, I recognize a consistent pattern: my killings often started during the spring and extend throughout summer. Sometimes I’ve performed on rainy days, and the subsequent ones—grey, sticky, and damp. Now I know, during those special days, the desire to commit these criminal acts became strong and undeniable.

Because this started at a very young age, I understand why people forgave me. Deeply in my soul, very buried in my heart, I know they knew that I was a victim too. As a kid, my parents were the first to look at me with sorrowful eyes. They put their gaze on me as they felt the same pain I was living through those days. They could think that I was a poor kid, suffering and trying to survive the painful irritation that ignited it all.

Things worsened when I was a teenager. My craving to kill increased as the number of my accounts did. I circled the issue many times, over many years. Now I realized—completely assured of it—that the phenomenon had become irreversible because I was a very handsome young guy. My skin, velvety, smooth, and firm; my sweat, hot, moist, and sweet; my blood, ferrous, crimson, and spicy—all chemical triggers acting like attractors to death’s door. And they always surrendered to me. They flew to me to an unavoidable destiny, the end of their lives.

I clearly remember one particular night during High School—I massacred them. I cannot say how many, but I will not forget what came later—the next hour, I was hospitalized, being injected with who knows what concoctions, my Mom horrified by the nettle rash that my body showed. Regarding my Dad—he’d never handled the fact of seeing me like that. And I was grateful for not inflicting on him so much regret. My Dad always saw me as a god; he wouldn’t have stood for it. If I had seen my son in the same condition, plugged into cables, with fever in his brain, without knowing if he would recover—I couldn’t stand it. So, I’ve never blamed Dad for his absence.

I recovered after two long years. During that time, the crimes stopped. My Mom watched for me every day, every night. And one day—when my parents considered that time was enough to keep me apart from the real world—I began to study at the University. Yeah, something unthinkable for a person like me, considering my parents weren’t scholarly people—my Mom a dental assistant, my Dad a car wash manager. But I was there. Me. I. At the College.

Four years of study—I loved it. I became a Biochemist, and a good one. It’s not necessary to explain what happened in those years—my intention is not to bother you—because nothing happened in terms of murders.

However, things came to me again when the most important Biochemical company contracted me. Despite my low age, I knew they saw something special in me, and they were aware of my past, though they never spoke of it. They instructed me to create the ultimate poison to exterminate them completely. A formula to annihilate every species, in every country, no matter if they lived in the East, the West, the South, or the North.

The company directors had agreed on a consensus to do it, allowing me to be myself once more. And I did it. After years of development, sleepless nights, and no obvious murders, I went ahead with the mission—this time, the kills were all behind closed doors. I tested my formula over and over again in the laboratory. In rats, doves, monkeys, and pigs. It worked. It works. And if this makes me the most assassins of all—well, I’m proud of it.

Now, in my thirties, the killings are visible and publicly acknowledged. And though no one knows the name of the actual perpetrator of such crimes, the world has seen them fall. Silently, in every season, not only on summer or rainy days. The victims cannot do anything when organophosphates come into action. One by one, they fall. No need to dirty my hands with their blood. No need for intricate zappers, toxic pills, or pyrethroid sprays.

We have vaccinated each human being on Earth with my formula. Now, no mosquitoes can touch us. They fall like a swarm every time they try to sting us. We have developed the perfect booby trap for them: you. You, with a mix of my DNA, my blood, and sweat cells, who makes you very irresistible to them. And another organoleptic blend that makes them pass on.

As I’ve mentioned, I always believed being an assassin placed me on the path of the condemned. I didn’t have a choice. But I still have time to answer to God—and you know what? So do you.

You carry in your veins my past—the contrition felt after every needle puncture, the concern of my parents when they thought I wouldn’t make it. You hold my Mom’s tears and the fear of stepping outside, the solitude, and the confinement days. You share my fate. So, you should also put your affairs in order before your time comes. Because once you’re there, you’ll have to explain to God—or whatever awaits you—why you became the same kind of murderer as me. After all, you might be an excellent bloodsucker yourself, without even realizing it. Maybe, somewhere, someone like me is now preparing the perfect formula to make you less painful, less buzzing, less annoying, less unbearable, and less intrusive. Perhaps you have come this far without knowing your true nature. But whatever happens, remember this: you remain a murderer.

I warn you.

You'd better make peace with God.