Conscience of a Killer

An enforcer for a London Greek crime family battles between feelings of guilt, faith and loyalty as the weight of his sins begin to weigh heavy on his conscience. Monologues from the short film.

4 min read.

Scene I

It’s a strange feeling the first time you take a life. One gentle squeeze of the trigger and you’re taken to a place of no return. A place where few dare to venture. Your body trembles. It shakes. A mixture of fear, adrenaline and power. For a brief moment your heart stops pumping, your lungs stop taking in air and then an overwhelming sickness takes over you. But it gets easier. The third time. The fifth time. The tenth time. And with every kill your perception of life begins to change. It begins to lose all its meaning. You try to make sense of it all. Life. But nothing makes sense. More questions than answers. We’re thrown into existence not knowing why, or for what. We try to give it some meaning, some purpose, deluding ourselves into thinking that we’re beyond our primitive instincts. But separate ourselves from our ego and what are we? Just monkeys wrapped in suits, scurrying around like rats. Disillusioned, distracted and divided. Like Sisyphus, condemned to a life of false hope. What are we but skin that can be broken, blood that bleeds. There is no moral truth. This world has no meaning. Just cause, and effect.

Scene II

There it is. That familiar feeling of guilt that follows me around after every kill like a bad smell. A battle between my conscience and reality. It consumes me. Somebody’s father, somebody’s husband, somebody’s son. What makes me feel this guilt? Are we born knowing good from evil? Right from wrong? I find myself stuck. Stuck between a place of faith and reason. Virtue and sin. Life’s purgatory. I try to convince myself that this world has no meaning, but my conscience tells me otherwise. Maybe we’re all born with a purpose and this is mine; a merchant of death. A necessary evil. Cause and effect; am I the former? Or the latter? More questions than answers.

Scene III

As I lay here in the dead of the night, the gold crucifix around my neck pushes down on me like lead weight. A weight that I find harder and harder to carry. If the devil prayed, would he be forgiven? If Jesus died for my sins can I keep on sinning? Do you forgive those who have trespassed once too often? Thou shalt not kill, and yet I have killed many. Why do I keep turning to you in a world where religion is the cause for so much division, death and destruction? And yet I find peace in faith, this I can’t deny. A feeling I can’t explain. It’s why I keep turning to you for your forgiveness. For a sign. For something. Anything. A reason for my existence. Why do you no longer show the world your miracles?

Scene IV

But then the phone rings and I answer. I always answer. Another job. Another soul. Another envelope stuffed with money. In the end we’re all just hypocrites. Contradictions of ourselves. We don’t practice what we preach, but what serves our own selfish needs. For good or for evil. The line dividing the two cuts through the heart of everyone of us, and which one of you is willing to destroy a piece of their own heart.