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The first time I ever killed someone, he was only nine. He begged for his life, clawing at the ground, with desperation dripping from his sweat. I could still remember the taste of the grass, the stench emitting from him, and the hammer I used to bash his head in, bathing me in brain matter. He had begun to convulse with the first hit, foam at the mouth with the second, by the eighth, when I had peeled away his skull, piss and shit soaked his trousers. By the ninth, he was dead.

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