Short story, I hope to extend this and maybe even illustrate it.

"The COmponents of Silence"

People are always scared when I pull out the knife. This guy is no different.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m here to kill you and nothing less or more.”
He’s breathing fast now, like all the others. Just once I’d like to find someone with a bit more conviction, but that doesn’t come with my job.
“I’m here to save you and myself, Jeremy. Doesn’t that sound great?”
“But you’re going to kill me.”
Refreshingly, when he talks, it’s not some sort of stringy high-pitched frantic bullshit. Despite the fact that he’s trembling, his voice is still fluid, silky and low. There are shades of tranquility hovering within his words. I guess part of dreams come true.
“Yes, I am.”
“But why?”
“It’s really quite simple. Let me tell you a story. About you.”
He reluctantly agrees. He doesn’t know I’ve traversed his mind already before I begin to speak.
For the next two hours I dive deeply into the psychic energies running around in the room and tell Jeremy a story about his life. Every second, I’m tracing another disturbance, another incongruity, running down tangents and cerebral pits that pulse in his skull. A series of connected events, all intertwined into each other and cutting away with viscous thorns. Thoughts, stories, networks – a crass jumble of lines and electrified synapses, all full of memories of the last three weeks.
You see, I’m repairing him. Slowly fixing all the little breaks placed in his brain – millions of them, writhing and throbbing. This all has to do entirely with his recent life.
“Jeremy, I know everything about you. All those lost opportunities and times you cried into your pillow. All the times you took a razor and cut the number fourteen into your palm. No one else seems to notice it, right? Don’t you wonder why?”
“I wear a bandage.”
“But don’t you think someone would notice that you have an incessant wound on your palm? Asked about it? Tried to medicate it? What would happen if they saw it – that it was clearly and intentionally done? That the cuts were followed exactly like the first set ever made?”
“No one has.”
“Because I’ve stopped them.”
The news calls me a murderer. A kind of sleazy ripper. A rapist. Demented. Everyone loves to add their own personal adjective and narrative to every body they find. Channel Four is universal in every city, I’ve discovered, and they always use the phrase “scene of death.” It’s like some sort of morbid memo that was passed to every reporter and news correspondent. Maybe they wrote it with bold letters. Remember, people, this is our job and we can’t go around fucking up our words.
See, the problem I have with all these descriptions is that they are false. I assure you there’s a very good reason why.
These people I kill – for simplicity sake, I will say victims, although I want to be perfectly clear that it is a terrible misnomer – are different sectors of me. Of my entire embodiment. My psychological network, my body. I am connected by an invisible string to every person I access. These connections are visible in ultraviolet spectrums, and someone viewing them would see one intimately buried deep in various organs of my body. There are thousands of them.
There is not one on my left ear. There is a reason for this.
“She cheated on you, Jeremy. Since then you’ve come drastically close to falling into madness. You are connected to my right hand. That’s the hand I cut best with. That’s the hand I kill with. Lunatics become separated from me, and I suffer. When one of them drifts into psychosis, they are severed from me, and my body violently tears the offending organ out, like excising a malignant and cancerous guest.”
At this, I touch my ear. He becomes quiet.
“So you kill people for yourself. How goddamn selfish.”
“No. I save you. I preserve your mind and place it away in a realm you can’t see or touch. Inside a swirling world, entombed in drugs that pump you full of morphine-like bliss. When I kill you, you restore part of me, I become whole, and you get to live inside a paradise behind my eyes.”
When someone destroys their own mind, either by a persistent state of psychotic imbalance or silencing themselves in suicide, they are torn from me. Julia in New York took my ear when she shot herself. I can only be alerted to an eventual breakdown by a few days at most. Without my rescue, my body will slowly degenerate. Additionally, their mind will rot away inside eternal purgatory. Such an end is reserved only for the people connected to me. A selective Hell, the most virulent and punishing.
In other words, a select few are of this majestic, though troubled, honey. Distant manna slices that I have to devour before they decay and putrefy. When I kill them, I silence their struggles and pain.
Jeremy doesn’t seem to understand all of it.
“Why would you be chosen to do this?”
“I don’t know. I believe I will learn that when I find the last host. I can’t afford to lose any more.”
Brilliant flashes of pain rip through my mind. There’s another one. She’s in Japan. That’s all I can tell for now. It’s like passing needles down your throat. Swallowing bees. Touching urchins.
That one has my leg.
“I have to go, Jeremy. Now.”
I slit his throat - the least painful. It’s called murder, but it’s really salvation. Instantly I feel restored. My mind cleared. Jeremy is speaking to me.
“You were right.”
Every soul tastes different. Like crystals, like water. Purity wrapped in peace.
I guess Channel Four will be here soon.
I’m only silencing fires - preserving myself and every part of me stretched across the world.
One day we’ll all go to heaven. One day we’ll all be silent. And it will be nice.