I never wanted to be a murderer. My mother gave birth to me, maybe just because she wanted me to be one. She was a communist, just like everyone else back then. But not so, rather much better. My mother knew, and felt she had to give something to the Party, the Empire. Something, or someone that makes her proud to wear the red star on her dress.
Everything was so beautiful in my childhood. So pure and simple. But later, when I first had blood on my hands, I understood what true power really was. Oh my God, I regret what I did, I sprayed death with both hands! Anyone can take life, but no one can give it back. Am I a bad person? No, I do not think so. But my soul belongs to the devil already…
