Confessions of a Serial Killer

Writer’s note: This is an extract from an ongoing writing project, it is written from the perspective of a serial killer on the loose, and is purely a work of fiction.

I like to think, that before someone dies, they think of their mother. Freshly cooked dinner sitting invitingly at the table, the picture of homeliness and comfort, before the image, just like their life, begins to fade.

 

That’s what I like to tell myself, it puts me at ease, knowing that I aren’t killing these people, merely sending them to see their mothers.

 

I had always been what most people would call ‘odd’ or a ‘loner’. These were the nicer things people would say, never underestimate the cruelty of people, especially kids. Kids are, to put it mildly, little shits.

 

But even I, the deranged serial killer your mother warns you about in her horror stories, wouldn’t kill children, it just seems to ghastly, I don’t kill those whose life is just beginning, just those who I think need to end.

 

This all started in earnest one day a few years ago, a lone gunman entered a school and started shooting, I can’t remember which, they all seem to blend together these days. Sure, I had killed before this, but this made me step up my efforts as if feeling that I was some sort of avenging angel. As if I thought as many people needed to die as possible, to balance the books so to speak.

 

I first got a taste for blood in my formative years, almost like a case study for a prototypical serial killer, one day, after walking home from another dismal day at school, I suddenly became a key witness in a brutal assault. Frozen with fear I watched one man armed with a knife beat and slash his victim before running off into the pale purple glow of the early evening night. Deep down I was feeling exhilarated, even aroused by this scene. His face, a pitiful mess of slices, cuts and bruises begged me for help and I took great pleasure in walking away, not once looking back. He probably deserved it. I remember thinking, the feeling of power I experienced just by walking away just made me want more power, I had become an addict, not drawn to needles or joints, but to death, blood and destruction.

 

I wouldn’t kill for a few years yet, but this incident may be an interesting insight into my mind, although should I really need to provide evidence other than what is currently broadcast on network news? Is it any wonder people lose their minds? We do what we do to kill time between the latest devastating massacre or earthquake, the world keeps on turning.

 

Your first kill, like your first kiss, is a special one, you always remember it. Some look back on it fondly, others wish they did a better job, I just wish mine had been planned better.

 

It was a cold winter evening, snow had covered the ground and I was out walking, not looking for trouble, just walking. Joggers passed me and I didn’t take a backwards glance, as I was turning the corner into the public park, I saw him.

 

I would later find out that his name was Oliver, and he’d been homeless for a few years, at that time however all I knew was he was asleep and there was no-one around. A bum on a park bench, who’s going to miss him? I thought to myself as I approached the bench, my breath getting faster and faster in excitement and a slight dose of panic. Before reaching the bench, I glanced around. No-one was around.

 

Taking off my thick, woollen scarf I walked around the bench to where he head lay, I wrapped it round my hands a few times for firmer grip and then brought it around his neck, and pulled as tight as I could. He awoke with a jolt in confusion as to why he suddenly couldn’t breathe, he struggled, but I think he welcomed death, Hell was probably warmer than a park bench in December.

 

For weeks after that event, it was all I could think about. His laboured attempts at breathing, his flailing getting weaker and weaker, it was all so exhilarating a memory. I’m told you get a similar feeling when you first inject heroin, not that I could hope to end as many lives as that vice.

The police naturally, found nothing, it was of no interest to them how this sad individual met his end, they had more important things to attend to. The latest offer at the donut shop perhaps, and I was itching for more of that exhilarating feeling.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.