When I was six, my older brother and I got into an argument over a toy firetruck.
We ended up in an angry tug-of-war, and I planted my foot on his waist and thrusted it forward, causing him to lose his grip and go flying backward.
His head struck the corner of a dresser and he died instantly. A halo of blood spread beneath him and his eyes stared sightlessly up at me, and for the first time I felt truly alive.
When my parents found me weeping over his body, they never realized that mine were tears of joy.
Eventually my exhilaration faded. I knew what I needed to recapture it, but instinctively understood I should wait, lest I reveal myself. Years went by before I killed again.
When I was an adult, I started playing elaborate games with my victims before allowing them to die. The degradations I inflicted grew increasingly perverse and brutal, but I was never satisfied.
Visceral thrills were too fleeting.
I wanted more.
Again, I bided my time. I ran for office, glad-handing instead of strangling, kissing babies instead of eviscerating them. My predatory nature was perfectly suited to politics.
I rose through the ranks until I reached the pinnacle of power.
But the presidency was merely a means to an end.
According to the latest Pentagon report, ninety-three percent of the world's population is now dead.
The death toll keeps rising as radiation spreads, finishing off the few who survived the nuclear fire I unleashed.
I murdered the human race.
Now I'm going to celebrate. It's time to play with these poor souls trapped here in my bunker.