I hate existing. It would be better if no one existed. That is my philosophy.

Yesterday—no, maybe it was today—I was walking through the woods when I found a gun. A pistol with a silencer, just lying there, waiting for me. I don’t believe in fate or divine intervention, but this was too convenient.

I picked it up, feeling its weight in my hands. Cold. Heavy. Real.

I placed the barrel against my skull. My finger hovered over the trigger.

"This is it," I thought. "I could be free right now."

But I didn’t pull it. Not yet.

Not because I was afraid. Not because I had doubts. But because I hadn’t finished my work.

This gun, this one thing, changed everything. It was power. It was my chance to make things right, save the world. I could final in act the philosophy I had in my mind.

I ran home, tucking it away beneath my clothes, my mind racing with the possibilities. I had planned for this. Dreamed of it. But now, I needed to solidify everything, to make sure my actions were not just impulse but purpose.

So I sat down and wrote.

"There is no objective meaning to existence. Happiness is an illusion, a brief distraction from the suffering that will always return. Existence itself is a burden, evil and the only true escape is death. The cycle of life, the endless churning of birth, struggle, and decay, it should be stopped, its all a plot by the devil. Those who refuse to see this truth, those who cling to their hollow lives, are complicit in perpetuating suffering. They should be freed. We should free them. To put it bluntly we should, murder anyone who disagrees. And when the world is empty, when there is nothing left to feel or endure, then we will have peace, no one will have to think, feel, worry or suffer. Everyone will be at peace."

But words wouldn’t be enough. No one would listen. No one ever listens.

I needed to prove it. To live by my philosophy.

I thought about my family. My mother, my father, my sister, my brothers. If I truly believed in my philosophy, they couldn’t be exceptions. If I hesitated—if I spared them—then everything I claimed to believe was a lie.

So I prepared.

I uninstalled social media. Burned my sim card. Disappeared. I told my parents I was going to live in the woods, something I had always talked about. They didn’t question it. They didn’t see the truth lurking beneath my words.

And so, I waited.

Alone in the forest, I let the days pass. I read books, thought about life, thought about death. I watched people from a distance—their routines, their smiles, their empty little purposes. Sometimes I hated them. Sometimes I envied them. I also remember what my Bible study teacher says, firm in conviction “life has meaning, god gives life meaning. We are here to serve him, to pray to live as he intended, life is a blessing from god, not ours to throw away.”

Once, I saw a woman, beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. I imagined touching her, kissing her, the heat in-between her legs. But what was the point? Even if I had a job, money, education, a future, why would she want to be with someone like me plus, it would still all be meaningless in the end.

Some nights, I cried. Other nights, I stared at the sky, wishing it would all just end.

And then, on the night I chose, I walked home, gun in hand.

It was time. ready to put my plan into motion.

I slipped inside, holding my breath, moving through the darkness like a shadow. One by one, I shot my mother, father, sister, and two brothers. No one heard a sound. The night was silent.

The only words I spoke were, “You won’t have to think, feel, worry, or suffer ever again. You are free.”

I exhaled deeply and left.

Before I disappeared, I took care of one last thing—the drunken neighbor who always yelled into the night, cursing and stumbling into trouble. He had been a nuisance, always arguing with the law, a walking disaster waiting to happen. I shot him too. Then I cleaned up the blood, dragged his body away, and buried it.

If I did this right, it would buy me time. Make it look like he killed them and ran off. Since I had been gone for a while, with no contact, I hoped the police wouldn’t suspect me immediately.

That night, I stole a car and drove across the country. Away from the crime scene.

The city was my next stage. A place packed with people, where no one knew me, where I could disappear into the crowd. But I wouldn’t act recklessly. Not yet. I had things I still wanted to do.

Now I was free to move during the day. No more hiding in the woods. Instead of just reading about philosophy, I spoke to people about it. The meaning of life. Whether life was worth living. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered talking to anyone, but when you’re at the end of your life, things change.

I approached anyone willing to talk to me, homeless people, priests, construction workers, pregnant women, old people, nurses.

An old man selling roasted peanuts shrugs. “You wake up, you work, you eat, you sleep. That’s it. No need to overthink it.”

A man reeking of alcohol stares at me, then laughs. “Meaning? Hell, kid, if you find some, let me know.”

A woman pushing a stroller sighs. “I don’t have time to think about that. My kids are my meaning. That’s enough.”

At night, I hunted. One person pre-day.

I lurked in empty, isolated alleys, waiting for someone to wander into the pitch-black. I always made sure there was more than one exit. I repeated this for four nights, watching, waiting.

Then the news broke.

The police had fallen for my trap. They believed my neighbor had killed my family. But they mentioned a missing son, me.

That day I met her. Lara, She was a prostitute. Smart. Beautiful. I asked her.

She exhales smoke, watching me carefully. “Life’s about taking responsibility for yourself. You face the struggle, you don’t run from it. You find joy in the fight, even when it’s ugly. But you don’t fall to despair, not making excuses, cause what we do matters, just like me speaking to you right now that matters.”

That night, I killed a man and took his money. Then I spent it on her. I thought about killing her too, but it would’ve left too much evidence. I had already touched the corpse of the man I stole from. I didn’t want to push my luck.

She was amazing. Her voice was so feminine soft and gentle I knew she didn’t belong out her, her breast was perfect, her personality the kind of girl I could only dream of. If I had lived a normal life, I would have taken her off the streets, made her mine. But that kind of thing only happens in fairy tales.

We both knew it. I wanted to tell her I was doing but how would she react, would she fear me, agree with me, hate me. In the end I couldn’t tell her. We took magic mushrooms to finish off the night.

I asked a nurse she answered “I see people fight to live every day. Even the ones in pain, even the ones who know they’re dying. That has to mean something. If life was pointless, they wouldn’t hold on so tightly.”

With the extra money I had, I started going to death-core and hardcore shows. To release all my anger, hatred, and rage. But it still wasn’t enough.

The next night, I wandered into a bar. I grabbed a bottle and smashed it over some guy’s head. The glass shattered, cutting into his scalp. Blood poured down his face as he collapsed, dazed. But his two friends didn’t hesitate they jumped me.

My head hit the floor hard. Kicks rained down on me. My ribs, my face, my chest—it didn’t matter to them. They didn’t hold back. I felt my body give way under each blow. When I tried to move, shards of broken glass dug into my back, slicing deep. The pain was sharp, but I barely registered it through the haze of hit after hit, kick after kick.

At some point, people stepped in. Pulled them off me. I was thrown out like garbage.

I dragged myself behind the building and collapsed. Blood clouded my vision, filled my mouth. My back burned from the embedded glass, but I was too weak to move.

Is this really the life I want?

The question echoed in my mind. Then, out of nowhere, the tears came.

I cried.

And cried.

And cried.

A full breakdown.

I couldn’t move, so I spent the night lying there on the cold, filthy ground.

By now, I was a walking corpse. No food. No sleep. I hadn’t bathed in months. My hair was wild, my beard tangled and unclean. My clothes were stiff with dirt, sweat, and now, blood. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in so long I could taste the decay. I looked like a vagrant. No, I was a vagrant. No home. Nowhere to go.

When morning came, I forced myself up. My body screamed in protest, but I didn’t care.

I had to keep going. I wasn’t done yet. With no direction, I dragged myself forward.

By this point, the police were roaming the streets every night. The news was in a frenzy, desperately trying to make sense of the recent murders. My face was everywhere, plastered across screens, reporters begging for information, urging me to come forward for my family’s sake.

I laughed.

They still hadn’t figured it out. They had no idea that I was the one behind all the killings. But by then, I barely cared if they caught me. The original plan was to move to the next city, so I wont stay in one place to long, but plans didn’t matter anymore.

I managed another week of killing. But something had changed, no one wanted to talk to me anymore. The streets felt colder. The air heavier. Maybe it was the fear, or how I looked.

Then, one night, as I pulled out my gun to shoot a young woman from one of the alley exits, a cop saw me.

I moved fast, trying to fire, but his sudden yell startled the girl—she bolted. I turned the gun on him instead, but it was too late. He knocked it out of my hand. I swung a punch and ran, but he was faster. The gunshot rang through the alley, and a sharp pain exploded in my foot.

I fell.

Even wounded, I fought back as he tried to arrest me. But with one well-placed punch, everything went dark.

I woke up in a jail cell.

The questioning started immediately—one after another, voices demanding answers. I didn’t respond. I barely could. Everything was a haze. Eventually, though, I gave them my social media accounts.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“This will explain everything,” was all I said.

And it did.

The news went global. My confession. My philosophy. My suicide note. It was all out there, dissected by the world. They said I killed my family. Twenty-three others, Maybe even ten more but they need to confirm, My name became infamous.

At first, I had no intention of speaking in court. I wanted my philosophy to speak for me. I planned to kill myself before they could sentence me.

But something broke inside me.

The police showed me the families of the people I killed. Their grief. Their suffering. I saw hours of footage—people crying, screaming, collapsing under the weight of loss. They told me about the lives I had stolen. The dreams I had erased.

I cried.

I had another breakdown.

So I went to court. I apologized. But I told them I had no regrets. I refused to plead insanity, I wouldn’t let them devalue my philosophy. And after that, I said nothing more.

The courtroom was silent as a man in a dark blue suit stepped forward. He adjusted his tie, glanced at his notes, then spoke with careful precision.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my colleagues and I are not just here to judge this man’s actions under the law. We are here to judge his philosophy."

His voice was steady, unshaken.

"Your belief, at its core, asserts that life has no meaning and that, logically, it is in everyone's ‘best interest’ to cease existing. Today, we will examine that claim from every possible angle. And we will see if it holds."

I swallowed hard, my fingers digging into the edge of the table. I wanted to speak, to cut him off, to say something.

He raised a finger.

"First: Your premise assumes objective meaninglessness.

You argue that there is no reason to live, but that assumes you know an absolute truth. And yet, people do find meaning, in love, in creation, in struggle itself. Meaning is not universal, but subjective. Your inability to see it does not mean it doesn’t exist."

I clenched my fists. It’s just wordplay, I told myself. Meaning is an illusion.

"Second: Your argument contradicts itself.

You claim it is in ‘everyone’s best interest’ to die. But ‘best interest’ implies benefit. And if life has no meaning, then neither does ‘best’ nor ‘worst.’ How can you claim an advantage exists when you deny the existence of value itself?"

I tried to breathe steadily, but my body betrayed me—my hands trembled, my jaw clenched.

"Third: Despair is not an absolute condition.

Many who have felt the depths of hopelessness have later found purpose. If suffering alone justified death, then no one who ever suffered would recover. But they do. Constantly. The starving man might feel like life is not worth living, but would you tell him to die when food is on its way?"

The courtroom felt smaller. I looked down at my lap, my vision blurring. “Think, think, think.”

"Fourth: Even if life has no inherent meaning, survival is wired into us.

Why does every living thing fight to survive? Why do we instinctively pull our hands away from fire? Why do we fear death? If life was meant to be discarded so easily, then why does every fiber of our being resist it?"

I bit my lip hard, the pain grounding me for a moment. My thoughts were screaming, searching for an answer, something to grasp onto.

He took a step closer.

"Fifth: Why is death preferable to life?"

You argue that life is pointless, but if life is meaningless, then so is death. You treat death as a solution when, by your own logic, it solves nothing. If existence is empty, then non-existence is equally empty. So why the rush?"

A shaky breath escaped me. I wanted to refute him. I needed to. But my throat was dry, my mind blank, I couldn’t give a good answer.

He stepped aside. Another man—older, gray-haired—took his place. His voice was gentler, but no less cutting.

"Your philosophy is built to be unfalsifiable."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"You dismiss subjective meaning, logic, and even survival instincts. If someone finds meaning, you say it’s an illusion. If someone argues against you, you say words don’t matter. You’ve set your philosophy up so that nothing can disprove it, not even reality itself."

I gritted my teeth. That’s not true.

"But let’s test it anyway."

He folded his hands behind his back.

"You say there’s no reason to live. But that’s just your perspective. If meaning is an illusion, then so is lack of meaning. You say suffering outweighs joy. But why? You haven’t proven why suffering must define life more than pleasure does. You are selective in your logic, accepting only the pieces that serve your conclusion."

I slammed my hands on the table.

"The simple fact that no one would have to question whether life is worth living anymore, that alone makes death better!" My voice cracked.

He didn’t flinch.

"That does not prove death is better. It only removes the question. Destroying a book doesn’t make it bad. It just stops the discussion."

I gripped the sides of my head, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The final man approached. He was younger, sharper in tone. His words cut deep.

"If your philosophy was sound, you wouldn’t need force to enact it.

If you were right, people would choose it willingly. But you know they won’t. Because deep down, they want to live. And that fact alone unravels everything you believe."

My breath was shallow. My nails dug into my palms, until I started to bleed.

"You believe suffering justifies death. But if suffering matters, then joy, curiosity, and love must matter too. You can’t claim one is significant and the others are not."

He looked me in the eye.

"Your philosophy is self-defeating. If life has no reason, neither does suicide. If suffering justifies death, then relief justifies life. If meaning is an illusion, then so is despair. The question isn’t whether we should live, but rather, why not?"

The words shattered something in me. I tried to speak. Tried to form a sentence, an argument, anything.

But I couldn’t.

I sat back down, my body trembling, my vision blurred with tears.

I had lost.

Everything I had clung to, everything I had built my mind around, demolished in minutes.

The young man turned to the judge.

"We’re done here."

“Fuck you” I whispered

A silence hung over the courtroom.

I stared at the floor. I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t look at anyone.

I had nothing left.

When it was all over, and I was alone.

I sit there, fists clenched, eyes unfocused, drowning in the echoes of their words. The courtroom is empty now, but their voices still claw at the inside of my skull.

·        “Your philosophy is self-defeating.”

“If life has no reason, neither does suicide.”

“The question isn’t whether we should live, but rather—why not?”

I exhale sharply, gripping the sides of my seat, sweating. They think they’ve won. They think they’ve proven something. But I see through it. I see through them.

It wasn’t about logic. It was never about logic. It was about forcing their narrative, about ganging up on me with their smug little speeches, dressing their bias up in cheap philosophical tricks. They don’t care about truth. They care about winning.

They paint themselves as rational, as enlightened, but they’re just scared. Terrified of admitting that life is meaningless, that their distractions, their little loves, their “struggles” are nothing more than stalling.

That first guy, his confidence was fake. He spoke like he was delivering a closing argument in some grand trial, like this was a battle he’d already won. But I saw the way he avoided my eyes when he talked about suffering. He doesn’t understand suffering. Not real suffering.

The second one,  the older one, he tried to sound wise. Like he’d thought all of this through a thousand times before. But his whole argument hinged on what if? What if people change? What if meaning is personal? What if suffering isn’t everything? What if, what if, what if. That’s not proof. That’s hope. A weak man’s crutch.

And the last one? The young one? I hated him the most. His words were sharp, but he enjoyed it too much. I could see it in his face. He didn’t care about truth, he just wanted to watch me break. To see me doubt myself. He didn’t argue because he believed in life. He argued because he wanted to win.

That’s what this was. A game. A performance. Just to make me look bad.

I shouldn’t have let them get to me. I shouldn’t have let them push me into that moment of silence, that single moment of weakness where I hesitated. That’s all they needed. One second of doubt, and they acted like it was some grand revelation.

It wasn’t. It was just noise.

I know what I know. I know what they refuse to admit. They hide behind their justifications, their half-baked optimism, because the alternative is too much for them to handle.

They think they won.

They think they proved something.

But all they did was remind me how blind people are. How desperate they are to hold on to their delusions.

They don’t see the truth.

But I do.

I killed myself. To cement my philosophy, to prove my conviction.

My philosophy lived on. Individuals and small groups of people, inspired by my words and actions, tried to carry out what I had started. The groups escalated, they turned to bombings, and mass shootings. My philosophy was labeled Exodism, it was debated in academic circles. The governments band my work, they cracked down on the followers. Counter-movements rise against my philosophy champing life even greater then before.

My most famous quote came to be” I hate existing, it would be better if no one existed. That is my philosophy.”