Irony story

 In the morning i begin my routine of getting the kids on the bus and letting my excitable dog out. I grab the paper from its deliverer he receives his weekly ten dollar tip. Reading the papers day in and day out describing the horrors of a mass murderer. How he's getting messy leaving the bodies about, instead of burying them or hiding them at all. Supposedly he still roaming. What i'm not quite understanding is how a person could go that far off the deep-end. I wonder if he has a family, children? Maybe he single. I've always wondered about the twisted horrors within their minds, thoughts of killing related with enjoyment sounds like acid to me, eating away at my skin. I wonder deeply how much their head hurts. My dog prances around the room happy to be eating his breakfast. I go on reading the sickening paper wondering what i myself would do if i found myself in the position of a mass murderer standing over me. would it be like in the movies? where you open the door at 2am wondering who's knocking and open the door in curiosity? The murderer has killed 15 people all in the same sick twisted way. They all are gutted. I hate the paper, yet i still read the damn thing. Eh the hell with it. I go about my day, listening to the squabbles of people whispering of the horrors in the night. Its like theyre talking about “the one who must not be named” people were not talking about voldemort. I try my best to ignore them, such annoyances, my brain feels fuzzy. I make my way home, feed my wagging dog and lay upon my bed. brain fuzzy and full i fall. The next morning i awake, i'm covered in blood, what? i rush to the bathroom and find a knife. what even? my mind starts to buzz again. blackness. Its nothing but acid.