 It wasn't always like that. My job, that is. I used to enjoy going to work every day. In fact, I loved it. I loved the children and the stories they tell. They always told the best stories, those kids. They told the best stories, and they created them too. That's why my employers wanted them dead. Because in their eyes, someone that can make their imagination come to life is dangerous and should be exterminated. My employers have different views than I do. Those kids had so much life in them, I remember all of them. Every single one and all the stories they told, perhaps my memory, is a curse. Sometimes I see it as a blessing to remember the kids. I guess I'll always remember them. I like it that way. Years ago, we were doing the usual. I was the one who found the kids, and I was good at my job. Many of them came from broken homes and even more broken lives. More likely than not, those kids had their past burns into their imaginations, which sparked a gift my employers had been seeking for ages. I remember one little girl who came from a surprisingly stable home. Her parents were overjoyed. To learn their daughter had been accepted into a gifted private school. The girl herself was excited and packed the same day, though there was always a wait time to make sure the parents didn't suspect anything. I don't know how they know, but as soon as we get in the car and start driving, those kids somehow know we aren't going to a gifted school. Most of the teenagers knew they were too stupid in their eyes to get into a school such as that. Many of the younger ones went on instinct alone. The little girl smiled at me and rolled her window down, sticking her head out the window to feel the wind. She brought her hand back in and suddenly a dove sat peacefully in her hand. Look, mister. I'd look in the rear view mirror as she let the dove go when we came to a stop. Many stories such as hers plagued my memory. At first, it wasn't bad. We'd get to our destination and explain quite frankly that they aren't in a gifted school, but they are quite gifted. Usually they lock themselves in their new rooms for a couple days before they start to explore. Usually they settle in and the monotonous daily routine begins. Breakfast tests, practice lunch, breaks test, practice dinner, break bedtime. This little girl was different than the rest. She was so damn happy, skipping through the halls to her new room. It's white walls and small bed, making the room feel cramped and depressed. She just stood there looking at it and then, when I blinked, it wasn't unlike her bedroom at home. Pink and glittery, fairy lights decorating the ceiling and walls. Perhaps this is why she had to die. Perhaps her stark difference from the other children singled her out to my employers. Perhaps her gift was something they were afraid of and decided to destroy instead of nurture. They were afraid of her. That's why she had to die. That's why all of them had to die. My employers sought out children with gifts, but turned around and exterminated them when they seemed too powerful. To control, I would understand with adults, I would understand in any other circumstance other than children. Children can be quite conniving when the time arises, but these employers had every means necessary to overpower them. I began to hate my job when I had to watch the children I'd taken from abusive homes and horrible past be murdered in cold blood. I began to hate my job. And I was the one to do it. They screamed. I hate when they scream. I walked down the hall to a boy's room. He was a new arrival, powerful. He turned his bedroom into his treehouse back home, the treehouse he lived in for years for fear of going inside the house to an addicted mother and an alcoholic father. Today, the boy had to die. I knocked three times. I always knock. Come in. The boy called. I came in. He sat on his bed and looked at me. Hi, mister. They all called me mister. I stopped telling them my name a long time ago. I grabbed his hand and let him down the hallway to the room. He didn't seem to mind, and he followed dutifully. I'm getting really good at making mac. Wanna see? I nod and look down. The boy closes his eyes, and when he opened them, a small black lab puppy sits at his feet. Mac, he shouts, dropping down to pet the puppy. I pull him along. The puppy disappears. We enter the room. There's a beanbag chair. He goes to sit. I sit down across from him and close my eyes. I think of a painless way to kill him. I think of a way that won't cause fear. I hate it when they scream. I settle on a sleeping death. Sleeping deaths are tricky. I have to make sure they're asleep before I kill them. I've had one backfire. His screams weren't pleasant ones. They were desperate screams that stabbed the back of my mind with a fury. I opened my eyes and looked at the boy. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and steady. His eyes slipped closed as I thought of his heart slowing to a stop, his breathing ceasing. When I opened my eyes, his chest didn't rise and fall anymore. I stood up and turned to face the door, the door I'd forgotten to close. A girl named Anne stood there. Blonde pigtails down to her shoulders, an uncertain look on her eyes. Mr. I looked back at the boy, then back at her and shook my head. What's happening to Tyler? I shook my head again. Mr. I heard their voices in my head suddenly exterminate. Just one word, one word that filled me with rage. I ignored the command and pointed down the hallway towards the cafeteria where the children were having lunch. I pointed again. Finally, she walked slowly to the cafeteria. I watched as she finally slipped through the doors. Now I can do it. I stomped down the corridor to the office I'd only ever been in once. I knew for a fact who sat at that office chair today and I wanted him dead. What are you doing here? The man asked, appalled. A smile crept onto my face and I closed my eyes. I'd seen a man die by being crushed to death. I was eight when I'd seen my uncle crushed under his Mercedes Benz after the jack slipped. I'd heard as he gasped, trying desperately to get air. When I opened my eyes, a car was on top of a man. He was gasping just like my uncle all those years ago. He was gasping and looking at me, begging with his eyes. I smiled. I walked down another hallway to an office I'd never been allowed in before. I opened the door to a woman, a woman I despised. What are you? I imagined her brain exploding. When I opened my eyes, brain matter painted the walls of her office red. I smile. I go down the hallway, office by office, person by despicable person, and I smile and I smile. A man stands in front of me. This is what I've been waiting for. This is the day I dreamed about, finally being able to kill him, to get rid of him for good. Son, what are you doing? I looked at him and shook my head. I imagined stabbing him over and over and over again. I imagine his blood on my hands and I feel the joy in my very soul. When I opened my eyes, he screams. The smile slips from my lips just as the screen dies on his. I hate it when they scream.