"Are humans inherently evil?"
I sat in the leather chair, the afternoon's golden sunlight streaming through the room's window.
Any other day, I would have complained of the light. Too light, perhaps. Or too warm. Too… something. Not out of true annoyance; simply to follow the script.
But today was different.
Today, the light seemed appropriate.
Illuminating, even.
"That's an interesting opening to our counseling session, Dr. Morningson," I said, forcing the right amount of warmth in my voice. "Usually, you ask about my college applications."
Dr. Morningson's office smelled of old leather and sandalwood.
The former FBI agent had taken up counseling at St. Christopher's Preparatory Academy three months ago, though few knew about his previous career, or prior identity.
Except me.
After all, I made it my business to know everything about everyone.
"Just a thought exercise." Morningson's weathered face crinkled into a thin smile. "Humor me, son — what's your take?"
Hands relaxed, voice steady and calm. But his left finger tapped twice.
Anticipation… a different approach this week.
What is he searching for?
"I believe evil is a construct. Nature itself isn't good nor evil — a lion isn't evil for killing a gazelle. It simply is."
"Interesting parallel." Morningson said, folding his arms. "But humans have consciousness. Emotions, souls. We're not ruled purely by primitive instinct."
"Are we?"
I allowed my lips to curve upward — not too much to be a sneer, but not too little to be a smirk.
"Strip away society's mask, and what are we but sophisticated animals?"
There was a pause.
"You speak about evil with remarkable detachment," Morningson finally said. He leaned in, closing the distance. "Most students your age approach it emotionally."
Now he's interested.
"Emotions cloud analysis, doctor." I said delicately.
"I would assume the observation of evil would require a shade of emotion. For example, if a person who claims evil is an action such as 'she killed him' or 'he raped her' would the action stem from something personal like... emotion?"
"No. After all, what human truly calls themselves evil? Instead, we rationalize. Justify, irregardless of our circumstances. A man who tried killing another may say it was deserved. But the victim would call it evil, would he not?"
"In that case, what is evil?"
My eyes met his. "Evil doesn't exist."
Heavy silence filled the space between us. I could measure it between heartbeats.
One.
Shadows lengthened across the classroom floor.
Two.
The afternoon sunlight turned red, bleeding through the windows.
Three.
Dr. Morningson's eyes narrowed.
Four—
"Tell me, Osiris," he suddenly said, "what do you remember about your accident? Before the coma?"
Ah, there it is.
"Nothing before waking up a year ago. As I've said before."
"Yes, one year ago."
Dr. Morningson picked up a file from his desk.
"The same time the Soul Case went cold. The serial killer who analyzed every human reaction behind death... all to find out the true essence of mankind. The one who thought evil was a myth."
"Are you insinuating something, doctor?"
"Am I?" Morningson's smile faded completely. "Your paper on human nature last week… the methodology was identical to the notes left behind by the Soul Killer. Notes that were never made public."
Leave, I told myself, leave now.
But I stayed there in my seat.
My smile dropped from my face.
Dr. Morningson and I looked straight at each-other. No smiling, no forced mannerisms, no false dialogue.
Both of our masks dropped as we saw our true selves.
I stood. "Well, doctor, this was a most fascinating conversation."
Dr. Morningson mirrored my movements; an attempt to psychologically create discomfort through invasion of personal space.
"I believe we'll be seeing each-other very soon, Osiris."
"Indeed, professor," I said, grabbing my belongings and moving to the door. "Soon."
Much sooner than you'd prefer, Morningson.
"By the way," Dr. Morningson's voice held me back, "do you know what my colleagues and I used to call individuals who could perfectly mimic human behavior while feeling nothing inside?"
I glanced back. "What is it?"
His eyes sharpened. "The devil's philosophers."
False.
"That's where you're wrong, doctor. The devil doesn't need philosophers."
I showed him my true smile.
"His heart of sin already festers inside everyone."
And then I walked away.
***
My name is Osiris — or at least, that's the lie I tell the world.
In truth, I do not know who I am.
Nor do I remember.
Thirteen months ago, I woke up in a hospital without any recollection of my past.
I have no parents; I have no siblings.
If I were anybody else, perhaps I would be puzzled by the anonymity of my identity.
Scared, even.
It is in man's nature to fear what they do not understand.
But I am not human.
I think of myself as an entity wearing human flesh.
The concept of a 'human' might be subjective, but I believe that the answer should be simple — a human is a flawed and complex being who feels emotions.
I do not feel emotions.
Instead, I note them.
I can realize when my brain releases chemicals in my body — dopamine, serotonin — without being consumed by them.
I see emotions as concepts.
When the concept of anger touches my mind, my fist clenches.
But then it goes away.
When the concept of sadness touches my mind, my eyebrows crinkle.
But then it goes away.
When the concept of joy touches my mind, my… well, that's the only emotional concept I haven't felt yet.
And I doubt I'll feel it anytime soon.
Since I'm not much like a human, I have no choice but to hide. Fit in.
And that's where the mask comes in.
On the outside, I'm known as Osiris — not the dark entity cosplaying as a human — but as the All-American, golden-haired, handsome, teenage boy who feeds stray dogs, charms pretty women, and helps elderly men.
I smile when I need to. I laugh when I need to. I frown when I need to.
And when the time is right, I kill when I need to.
***
I was waiting for him.
Hedid not know it yet; they never did.
But here I was, waiting.
The room was dark. Outside, the moon's pale eye stared down at me through the open window. Watching, waiting. A silent .22 caliber firearm sat in my pocket, one bullet inside.
Just perfect.
It only took one to kill one.
Click-Clack!
Finally, here hewas.
The wooden door opened. Hestepped inside. Silver strands of moonlight followed behind him. The door closed, returning us to comfortable darkness.
I moved.
Hereacted, but it wasn't enough — it never is enough.
My fist slammed into his trachea.
CRUNCH!
The cartilage buckled, a wet, crushing sound. Hetried to cry out, but only a strangled gasp escaped — more of a wet gurgle than a scream.
Without pause, I brought my knee upward and buried it in the midline of his pelvis.
SQUELSH!
Hecrumbled onto the ground in a heap — choking, sputtering, a fountain of blood spurting from between his lips.
But I did not stop there.
I brought my feet downward and stomped on his orbital plane.
CRACK!
The delicate bones beneath his eye socket splintered like cheap glass.
Again, now on his nostrils.
CRUNCH!
The bridge of his nose caved inward, blood mingling with splintered bone. I leaned downward and picked his head up by the scruff of his neck. Viscera dripped downward.
And I smiled.
"Hello, Dr. Morningson."
Dr. Morningson groaned as he lifted his head up.
It was a weak sound, vaguely familiar to laughter. His face was swollen, bleeding, barely recognizable. He set his gaze on me, and…
… wait.
He laughed.
Oh, I thought, that's new.
"You… you f-fucking—" he coughed "—bastard. I knew... I knew... fucking bastard, you—"
Before he could continue, I wrapped my hand around his throat.
I could feel his carotid artery beating underneath.
Fragile and alive.
Beat-beat.
I applied pressure.
Beat-beat.
The warm tenderness of skin folded underneath my touch, blood vessels bursting like tiny balloons.
Beat-beat.
I let go.
Morningson gasped, drinking in the air like a drowning man. His brown eyes fixed on my blue ones.
Still, he was laughing.
"I got you... you son of a bitch — I got you."
"You got me?"
Crimson spittle flew from his lips. "After years... I FINALLY GOT YOU!"
WEE-WOO!
WEE-WOO!
WEE-WOO!
And that's when I heard the shriek of blaring sirens.
The concept of surprise tickled my mind. It quickly faded.
I glanced down at him.
"You called the cops beforehand."
It wasn't a question.
"I... I knew you were following me..." Morningson stammered, smile still set in place. "And... The Soul Killer, he always... kills on the sixth day of the month."
"I see."
The sirens grew louder, nearer.
For the first time, it appeared I had made a mistake.
"You're... fucked," he laughed. "I was... FBI for a reason, you... cunt."
What if I escape? The cops would interrogate him and find me.
The cacophony of policemen running amok outside rang out.
"You know, I've been waiting for this..."
What if I kill him and then escape? Not enough time to remove forensic evidence; they would find me.
The sound of footfalls emerged from behind the door.
"... I would dream of this moment..."
What if I flee to another country? Too little time to fabricate a passport.
BANG!
What if I—
"... to finally see you suffer inside a cell."
"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!"
"Well," I blinked. "I guess there's only one option left to do."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the revolver.
"You think... I'm scared of dying?" Morningson guffawed. "Go ahead... you son of a bitch, do it!"
"Oh, no, doctor." I told him, smiling. "This isn't for you."
And I pointed the gun at my head.
Dr. Morningson's eyes widened. "WAIT!"
The door burst open. Splinters exploded outward. Policemen ran inside. Firearms probed the air. Morningson rushed forward, arms flailing.
And above them all, the moon stared at me. Watching, waiting.
But in the end, it doesn't matter.
I pulled the trigger.
BANG.