The History Of A Young Man.

There are a couple definitions of the word ‘martyr’, but the most applicable one is:

Martyr: One who makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order to further a belief, cause, or principle.

When I asked him what he was (as hard as it was to come to grips with, he wasn’t human, that much I knew) he told me, he was a Martyr.

At first, I assumed he was just mentally unbalanced. I hesitate to use the word ‘crazy’, because it’s just a broad term. Still, though, if I might have applied it to anyone, it would have been him.

The remarkable thing, though, was the way I killed him.

Yes, I am aware of the fact that I’m confessing to a murder over the Internet, but I’m sure my information cannot be tracked. Not even I know where I come from, or who my family is, and I’m forced to use a different computer every time I update this.

So, I’m as safe from the authorities as I possibly can be, I think.

Straying back towards the murder in question, I killed this Martyr with skills I did not know I possessed. It seems fairly self-demonstrating, saying that, but I also mean that it really should not have been possible for me to get an edge on this man.

He was burly, nearly twice my size, and I am wiry at best. I have messy hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and the only heavy lifting I’ve ever done to my recollection was Samuel Richardson’s novel ‘Clarissa’.

When I fought him, though, I got flashes, brief snippets of a past that doesn’t sit well in my head. I wish I could remember what had gone through my head, because all I know now was that it didn’t sit quite right in my mind.

I killed that man, and went on the run.