Isolation is a thing I must endure. It is not for myself, but for the sake of others. They are in grave danger with me around. A fact it took an unfortunately long time for me to realize. Had I understood sooner, perhaps it might have spared a few lives. But I didn’t know what I was. I had no recollection of the events that ended with the demise of innocents. I, just like everybody else, watched the horror from the outside and wondered who could possibly be so cruel.

I have problems understanding why and how I could not associate myself with what happened. How could I possibly hide such extreme things from myself? What device did I create to lock it all away in a place I could not choose to get to? Even the most intelligent and complex mind cannot possibly be that strong. Not to mention, that devious.

Somehow, all clues were kept from me. Even the physical ones that should have alerted me later on to my actions. Smartly, the portion of me doing these things cleaned up after itself. It destroyed all evidence that would implicate me. Made sure it left behind nothing to send anyone in my direction. I was another innocent bystander, in fear for my safety along with all the others.

My concern was never false. I truly thought I might just as easily become a victim of our hidden hunter. There seemed to be no pattern to those who were chosen. So I invested in thicker, sturdier locks and double checked them every night. Never once even suspecting that I was the one I feared.

I keep referring to this revelation as ‘it’ or ‘the other side of me’, which is a habit I must break. Especially if I am going to truly try to keep others safe. It was surely I who committed the crimes. There was no other personality, I am not insane in that matter. In another way, I know my sanity is suspect. But I do not feel insane. Not in the traditional sense. Nor was there a change of me. I did not become some physically recognizable monster. Monstrous or demonish or otherwise. Would that I had, and some mob formed to hunt me down.

I am quite convinced that this is just me. I have no excuse for the atrocities. The blood is on my hands. The lost lives, my burden. It was my survival instinct that made the distinction. I do have quite a strong one. I know that my life is not more important than the lives of others. In fact, my life is worth less once it is taken into account: the murders, the brutality, of the killings.

Yet I cannot bring myself to suicide. I do not wish to die. I realize this would be the best solution to the problem, the quickest as well. But I do enjoy life and the world around me. I fear death and haven’t the strength to cause my own end. I am a coward. I cannot trade my life for the ones of the people who have already fallen at my hand, or those who may potentially in the future.

I contemplated, briefly, confession and imprisonment. It seemed like a good route to take. They would put me in a cell and keep a good eye on me there. I would still have my life, but others would be safe. But this harbors it’s own problems. There are the other prisoners to consider, the guards too. I have seen some of what I am capable of, what if I can do worse? What if I cannot stand being jailed and I escape? How many would I slaughter on my way out from the anger of being a captive?

Worse, what if that anger became so prevalent that the controlled portion of myself, the rational side, were forever turned off? With absolute freedom, what kind of fiend might I become?

Too many risks.

I feel that I and others are much safer with me here in the mountains. Deep, deep in the thickness of the forest. The terrain to and from the cave I found is treacherous. I am in a place I feel very few human eyes have seen. The only beings that have to worry about what I do are the animals I will have to hunt in order to survive. I do have concern about the stray hikers, lost and separated from a group, or perhaps even an overzealous explorer.

But those are bridges I will have to cross when they spring up. Or stumble unknowingly into my path…