He had to die. I killed him. He had to die. I killed him because he had to die. Life is meaningless, I told myself. I told myself over and over so that I would continue to believe it. But killing him had awakened a feeling in me that challenged my long held philosophy of life. That is, if life itself was pointless and therefore killing him was no loss or gain, why not allow him to live out his existence in the loveless void. And why be so motivated to take something that returned me no reward. I existed in pointlessness before I killed him and I exist in pointlessness now.

Did I feel guilt. No. Guilt is pointless because his existence was pointless. Yet I felt something. If his existence had been pointless why did I now convince myself to suspend my belief that his death had been a waste. That was surely a form of guilt. A regret. What other reason could I give for killing him but that I had no reason.