The book is black and has many pages between its thin leather covers. A third of the book has been written in, and the wear shows on the pages. There's a small foreword on the inside cover. The handwriting is very neat and deliberate, and is printed in black ink.

“This isn't for me. I don't feel the need to confess or get a weight off my chest. This is for posterity. I'm sure one day I'll be found out. People have done much less than I have and been executed for it. I know that one day the hammer will drop and this will end. So when that happens, I want a record of what I've done. Somehow what I'm doing will further some field of knowledge, I'm sure of it. This is for all of you. - Lindsey Marigold Clayton”

Each entry is preceded by a date. There is a small strip of fabric resting between two pages. Opening to that spot reveals the entry for March 2nd, 2013. It reads as follows:

So I thought of how to test myself. I burned through my reserve last night, so I had to go get more. I didn't feel like doing a big round-up, so I just sat on my porch and waited. Sure enough, some unfortunate woman came walking past. I saw her a ways away, long before she saw me. I laid on the ground and waited for her to come near, at which point I lured her in by crying for help. When she was close enough I stabbed her with the machine and she dwindled away in a few seconds. I scooped her and her clothes up and brought it all inside.

She was screaming and wailing and I watched her in my hand for a long time. She looked over the edges of my palm, seemingly daunted by the long drops all around her. I could tell she was thinking about walking out over my arm, but I think she realized she'd still have nowhere to go. She didn't really have much choice but to wait for me to decide to do something with her. I just watched the expressions on her face. She'd make eye contact with me occasionally, but I think my stare intimidated her. She called up to me, asking why I'd done this, how I'd done this, that I'd better let her go or else. I didn't even smile. It's not funny to me anymore, it's just routine.

I kept her like that for what felt like a long time to me. Ten minutes, maybe more? I really tried to feel something about her plight. I tried to feel like a monster, or even just bad for her, but I couldn't. So I decided to kill her. I was ready to carry out the plan I'd come up with when I woke up. I positioned her sideways in my fist and held her there, curling my fingers around her. She was completely immobilized except for her head, which she thrashed back and forth. I could feel her little limbs squirming, but there was no room for them to move. Her tiny flexing was easily absorbed by my skin.

I carried her into my kitchen, walking over to the sink. She wasn't really paying attention to where she was, she seemed too preoccupied with trying to escape. I suppose it was hard for her to accept – or even comprehend – her own helplessness. I held her over the sink and waited for her to calm down. She didn't really, but she did eventually acknowledge where she was. Looking down into the drain of my sink seemed to scare her more. She started begging. She pleaded for mercy, and again I tried to make myself feel. I thought to myself that I would let her go if I felt. That her life would be completely spared if there was even a twinge of guilt. I tried to focus on that thought, that it was my own brokenness that was condemning her to death. It did nothing for me.

With my other hand I sealed up the drain and turned on the faucet. I kept the water cool; hot water has its place in torture, but with what I was going to do I didn't really want to have to endure that. She got quiet as the sink filled up. I don't know what she was thinking. Maybe she thought I was running her some kind of bath? Whatever she thought, she actually seemed a little relieved. As though now that there was water beneath her, she was safer. She looked back up to me and pleaded again. She tried to appeal to my emotions, and when that didn't work she insulted me for being a 'fucking robot.' Again, just the way it goes. I looked her in the eyes as she spoke to me, and it made her obviously uncomfortable.

When the basin was two-thirds full I turned the faucet off. I stared at her, wondering if I should tell her what I was going to do or not. I tried to weigh the emotional implications of each. I decided that telling her her fate was darker.

“I'm going to hold you underwater until you drown.” I said. She laughed. Not a funny laugh, but was a nervous one. She laughed like she'd misheard me, that I'd said “I'm going to let you go,” and she'd interpreted it as a death sentence. She asked “What?” but I didn't repeat myself. I knew she understood what I said. After a short silence she began to beg. She shook her head and flailed her limbs again, but my fist was tight as ever. Again she appealed to my sense of mercy. My sense of justice. She tried to remind me that she'd come to help me, and that she was a good person. While she did all that I tried to feel bad for killing a good person. I thought of the deal I'd made with myself earlier about letting her go. Still nothing.

There was nothing left to do but do it. If I pulled out, then maybe I just didn't feel bad because I always knew I never would. Ridiculous, I know – I have no qualms about killing a person – but I had to at least eliminate it as a possibility. I lowered my hand underwater, neither quickly nor slowly. I just put it there, completely submerging her. A few bubbles issued from her face, and I leaned in for a better look. The water was remarkably still despite her thrashing, and I could see her face. She looked at me in what I'm sure was horror as I watched her die. She hadn't taken a deep breath or anything, and her mouth was already open. She was already drowning. I squeezed one of my fingers a little tighter, the one around her midsection, and her expression bulged as a few more bubbles issued forth. I had squeezed out what little air she'd had left. And through all this, I still felt nothing. I didn't even smile, though I'm sure that was only because I've become inured to such tame methods of killing at this point. I let her die in my fist, completely helpless, and through the whole thing I only felt a little boredom. That must settle it. I'm sure I'm a monster. But what's more is that I don't care. It's not as if that means anything. It's not as if I'm condemned, or if anyone can even tell before I choose to reveal myself. I just am. And I'm sure that I'll kill many more people before I'm caught.

I ate her body. Not because I was hungry, just because that's the most thorough method of destroying them that I've come up with so far. Then I realized something funny. I walked back into my living room and was staring at my fish when I realized I still have a small box of tiny people for food for my fish. I didn't have to use that woman at all. I fetched the box and dropped someone in the tank, another tiny woman. She was a little emaciated, she must have been good at dodging my fingers. But not too good, I guess. She screamed as she dropped and then splashed madly in the water. I don't think she could swim. The piranha grouped up and took shots at her as usual. She tried to learn how to swim and bat them away at the same time, but it didn't work out well for her. She went to swing at one of them, but it just took her arm off. At that point, the fish decided they were done playing. They swarmed, tearing her apart in just a few seconds. A few bloody pieces drifted down, but they were snatched up before they could reach the bottom of the tank. The dark redness that she left behind lingered for a moment, but as the fish swam through it it dissipated into the water.

That's probably all the playing I'll do today. I have things that need to get done. I suspect I'll write again tomorrow though; today's kills were so mundane.