Death Confession

As I sit here and write this, it gets harder and harder to continue writing. No one really has any idea what it feels like to be cast as an outlaw. A killer. A murderer. Except of course other murderers, but no one ever asked them. Well, just before I get taken off for execution, you might as well know what happened. The truth. 24 hours. That’s how long I have left. Wow. I’d better get started.

23:59:45
I’ll start at the beginning. I was born just outside of London, England. My father had a well respected job and my mother loved me. Not a case that would raise a killer, huh? I was an only child, growing up in a posh neighbourhood. I was brought up to be a doctor like my father, but I never liked the idea of poking around inside someone… while their still alive at least.
I was more of the violent type. I got into a few fights at school, but the teachers didn’t care. I never started any fights. I sure as hell ended then though. My father put me in a boxing club, thinking it would calm me down. Long story short, it didn’t and I became more aggressive. I was put into counselling and my boxing club membership taken away. I started to hate my parents, and that hate grew stronger when my mother gave birth to a son, a little brother for me. I was only 12 years old. As my brother grew older, I could see that he was going to be the son my family wanted. He had out grown me by the time he was sixteen. Or so I heard. I had already left by them. He was 4 when I walked out of his life. I was 16 and a very angry teenager. I got expelled from school for putting a teacher in hospital, and my father was furious. We argued and he told me that I could never be his son, how there must have been a mix up. How I was an accident. I flipped then. I threw a hard punch across my father’s jaw. He fell over, slamming into the coffee table. My mother screamed as blood started to seep out onto the carpet. I turned, picked up a bag and a few things, than ran out the back door. I was scared, terrified what would happen to me if I stayed. Looking back, I should have. Would mean I’m not here now, writing this. But I was also angry. I thought my father got what he deserved. As I ran from our house, I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I knew if I did I would be caught and I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. Now I laugh, thinking about my own stupidity. Oh, how I laugh at the stupid choices I made when I was young. It has been 12 years since I last saw my father, yet I can remember every detail about him. His daily schedule, his scent of stale cigars that wafted off him as he walked past. I could even remember his voice, shouting at me that night I pushed him. And that night is the night I remember the most.
When I first ran, I went straight to Todd Stevenson, my best mate. I didn’t tell him what I did, but he guessed it. I knew he would. He was like that, always able to know what you were thinking. He made up a bed for me, and told me to sleep on it. Maybe it would be better in the morning. I did just that. Slept all through the night, dreaming about how happy I was when I was younger. But when I woke up the next morning, mothering was better. It was all over the news, how I ‘assaulted’ my dad, how I was wanted by the police for questioning. A blown up picture of me appeared above a number to call if you saw me. But that wasn’t what chilled me the most. It was the way they portrayed me. Aggressive, temperamental, unpredictable. These words have followed me through my life. No matter what happened. But also, when they started to talk about my father’s condition. The same 3 words he was always telling the friends of his patients, ‘critical yet stable’. The words coming in my ear were not the same as the ones I heard. I picked up important words, but I couldn’t make out sentences. It was anything but better that morning.

23:36:29
Writing this is much easier than I thought. But I won’t bore you with the present. I know that you want me to continue. So I will. Todd kept me on for a few days after I appeared in the news. It was easy to hide me. He lived with his mother, and she practically worked 24/7, so I could just do whatever I wanted. Going to school was out of the question, so I mainly stayed at his house and did a bit of reading and writing. I’ve always loved to write, even if I was never any good at it. But I didn’t care. I just loved to write. Anyway, it grew to the point when even Todd was going to turn on me. He threatened to call the number if I didn’t turn myself in.
“You’re probably not in that much trouble,” he used to tell me, “Just tell them what happened.” I lay awake that night, laying out my options. 1) I could turn myself in and take the punishment. 2) I could stay at Todd’s and get caught.
3) I could be a runaway. Guess which option I chose. If you thought I picked either option 1 or 2, you clearly have not been paying attention. The next morning; when Todd left for school; I packed my things and a few supplies. As I stood in the doorway, I took in my last sights of luxury. Then with a heavy sigh I embarked on my journey into the unknown.

The train station wasn’t far, but for someone who was used to being driven everywhere, it was tedious work. What made it worse somehow was the fact I had to take public transportation. I know I’m being a snob but can’t really help it. Kind of an upbringing thing. I caught the train down to central London, thinking I could stay with my uncle Manny, but no such luck. He looked at me, than reached for the phone. I slammed the door and ran. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was scared. I heard sirens coming towards me, and I slowed down. I wasn’t stupid. Why run and raise suspicion, when you can walk and elude them. The police cars raced past me, going in the direction of my uncle’s house. I continued walking in case the police decided to double back. I came across a clothes store and looked down at my clothes. They were alright for the current weather, but soon it would be cold and rainy. I knew I’d need better clothes. So I went in and with the little money I had, brought some jumpers and trousers. And also a cap to hide my face. The clerk gave me a funny look when I handed over £50 in cash and not looking him in the eye. Never the less, he took the money only too happily and I set off to make my next purchase. A sleeping bag. It was expensive, but it was better than nothing. I stuffed my clothes into my backpack and headed on down towards the city centre, placing myself neatly upon some steps and tried to make myself look venerable. I don’t think it worked. I only made 80p, and then came the problem of where to sleep. I searched along each side street looking for a suitable shelter. As I trudged along, I saw a group of boys all laughing and talking around a fire. I stood there looking at them. One of them spotted me and signed my presence to the others. I looked away and continued on walking. One of the boys ran up to me and I stopped.
“Hey man,” he said, slapping my shoulder, “You new ‘round ‘here?” I nodded and he smiled. It wasn’t a smile I would normally trust, but back then, I didn’t have a choice. He was pulling me back towards the group, talking to me, but I wasn’t really listening. “So...” he asked, “Wot is your name?” I hesitated before answering.
“Buster.” I finally said. Of course that wasn’t my real name, but how can you respect a guy whose name is Edward? He smiled again.
“‘A ya doin’? I’m Bulldog and this is the bloomin’ group.” Everyone standing around the fire turned their head towards Bulldog. They nodded in my direction and then went back to their conversations. Bulldog did a high pitched whistle, making everyone flinch.
“That’s better. This is Buster, and ‘e’s joinin’ our lil’ group.” The boys smiled Bulldog’s smile and came over to greet me. They were about my height, but they all looked strong and that they could all beat the shit out of me. Bulldog introduced them all to me, including a young boy, no older than 10.
“That’s Aussie, the twins Knuckle and Bread, Beast boy at the tack, Steel next ter ‘im and the lil’ pipsqueak there is Sniper.” I didn’t catch any of that and I looked at him puzzled. Sniper sighed.
“He speaks in rhyming slang. He’s introducing us. And by the way the twins names are Knuckle and Head.” I tried not to laugh, but I still got dirty looks from them. Bulldog lead me through them and showed me to a tucked away side street.
“We peep ‘ere.” He started, “You should get sum peep. We ‘ave Hurly starts and Cilla Black nights.” He slapped my shoulder and unrolled my sleeping bag for me, next to the other six lined up. It was like speaking to someone that spoke a whole new, undiscovered language. Then he lay down on his bag and I understood. He wanted me to sleep. I lay down and zipped up the bag, cuddling my bag in close to me for extra warmth. Bulldog smiled and watched me as I drifted into a deep sleep.



19:05:51

I didn’t take long to settle into the gang, although I still could not understand a word Bulldog said minus the occasional ‘ands’ and ‘a’s’. So me and Sniper used to talk a lot. But I’m side tracking. We didn’t beg for money. We stole it. Pickpocketing people off the streets. Sometime we even mugged people. Why do you think we had Knuckle and Head around? Bulldog was the top dog so to speak and ran our group. None of us minded though. If we got out of line in any way, we were out of the group. But it wasn’t all bad. We had quite a few laughs. We swapped stories mostly, but I never reviled anything about myself. I may have been one of them, but that didn’t mean I had to trust them. But I’m rambling again. Where was i? Oh yeah, I think I’ll just jump to the part about when I really needed to run form the law.




15:19:26

Sorry, dinner arrived early. I know this is a little bit of a detour, but what would you have for your last meal? Although hopefully you won’t ever have to choose one. Anyway, I was getting to the good part.

It was almost a year after I ran from home, and it was coming up to my 17th birthday. A thin, ginger stubble was starting to grow on my face and as I trudged through the English rain, I glanced at a TV screen in the local pub. I was horrified by what I saw. A picture of me a few hours ago was on it, along with the caption, ‘Edward Grancher spotted!’ I walked into the bar so I could listen to the report.

“Early this morning, police received this photo from a young girl who refused to give her name. The man in the photo has been positively identified as the missing Edward Grancher. Police are re-opening the case and are keeping an extra eye out, hoping to finally return him to his family. Dr Granger, Edward’s father, is finally out of intensive care and wishes for his son to be found quickly.”

I couldn’t listen to anymore. I ran out of the pub and sprinted back to the ally where we stayed. Bulldog was already there, looking angry with his arms folded. I taught him to speak mostly in English, so that’s what he’ll say now, whether he did or not.
“You lied to me, ‘Edward’. You’re on the run from the police. I don’t like people that lie to me.” I was out of breath from running, but I told him my whole story in-between gasps for air. When I was finished, he moved forward, still with his arms folded. I thought he was going to tell me to pack my things, but instead he burst out laughing and slapped my back.
“I like you Edward… Buster, whatever. You’ve got guts and I like that. Now for your birthday, I’m going to give you the best present yet.” And with that, he walked off, smiling. I never trusted that smile. And just then, didn’t trust it more then usual. Know that feeling you get when something’s not right? Well, right then, my warnings alarms were going off like fire bells. And I was right.






10:10:10

Hah. Look at the time. That’s odd. Sorry, side tracking again. Nasty habit really, must try to stop doing that. So my birthday comes along and I’m dozing on my sleeping bag in the cool morning breeze. I was wondering what Bulldog had in store for me. But the day was uneventful, minus me managing to slip a £50 note out of some guys pocket. That was fun.

But that’s a different story. When I saw Bulldog and the group next, it was already dark. They were dragging around a brown sack that was grunting and groaning.
“And now,” Bulldog said, like a wrestler commentator, “It’s time for the unveiling of Buster’s present!” he nodded at Beastboy, who then proceeded to whip off the sack and tipped its contents onto the pavement. It was my father. I took a step back.
“What is this?” I asked, thinking it was either a joke or I was going mad.
“Now you get your revenge.” Bulldog handed me a piece of piping. For some reason, I took it. Then I faced my father. Tears started running down his face. But I didn’t feel sorry for him. After all, at the time, I hated him. I thought he was getting what he deserved. I only intended on hitting him a few times, but once I got started I couldn’t stop. According to Sniper I was smiling and laughing as I was clubbing him. After my father had taken a few hits, I stopped. I enjoyed the feeling of finally having power over him. Bulldog handed me a baseball bat and I remember grinning some more. I could hear my father whimpering and I kept on blocking it out. I hit him over and over, all over him. It was a good 5 minutes before I finally saw anything clearly. Blood was all over me and stained the ground around my father. I was breathing hard in the warm air, and I was smiling. I liked that feeling of power. In fact, I loved it. That feeling that I finally got my revenge. But then I heard it. That nagging little voice at the back of my mind. What did you do? What did you just do? it asked over and over. Slowly I saw what the world would see. I murdered my father. And liked it.
“Feels good, don’t it?” Bulldog said, cutting through the silence with his tongue. I nodded slowly. It was like the devil had taken over my mind and made me like it, that feeling of power. We stood there for a while longer before splitting. I decided to go my own way, get away from Bulldog and the rest of them. So that night while they all slept, I packed my things, wrote my goodbyes on an old receipt, and strode off into the busy streets of London.


7:25:30

Sorry, but had a last visit from my mother. You would have thought that because of how much she was crying she had forgiven me, and my wrong doings. She kind of ruined it by brining my brother along. It was the first time I’d seen him in 12 years. Oh, how things were different. But right now, let’s stick to the story. So after I split from the group, I didn’t know where to go. But my legs carried me towards the station. It was like a dream, yet I was most defiantly awake. I was curious to see what happened next, and I let my legs guide me down the cold, stone steps. As I brought my ticket and got on the train, I suddenly had a horrible moment when I thought my conscience had gotten the better of me, for the train I was on was on route to my hometown. But when I got off, I made my own way downtown, keeping my head down so people didn’t recognise me. But also, downtown was far away from my old home.

That night was the coldest night of my life. But I made a plan. Because I enjoyed killing my father so much, I decided to kill everyone I hated. I smiled as I thought up my plan. It was perfect at the time. Now I see it as a stupid plan that I should never had done. Sure, murdering your father was bad, but it wouldn’t have me writing up this now, with less then… 4 hours until I die. But I guess that’s what happens when you get something into your head. You can’t get it out.

It started with Harry Redding. Then Bruce Mann and Charlie Hector. Next were Philip Gardner and his father. I won’t go on. Overall I killed 13 people, including dad and the ones I mentioned. I spread them out over the years, so as not to seem desperate, but also to plan my next move, learning their schedules and their habits. Then striking at the point when they least expect it. But I didn’t like to leave it as an odd number, but I was struggling to think up another enemy. Then I thought about doing the impossible.

He was 12 now, making me 24. Everyone had stopped looking, and I used it to my advantage. But I never said who my next target was, did I? I wanted to kill my brother. He started this whole mess, now he could end it. I wanted it to end. And then it was. Now it will most defiantly.

But I made a fatal mistake. Quite literally. I didn’t know what he looked like. And I killed an innocent boy. That’s when my brain clicked back into place. I suddenly realised what I had done, I decided to turn myself in, but on the way to the station a police car snuck up behind me and made the arrest. They had witnessed the whole thing (the last murder I mean). And who was going to believe I was turning myself in?


2:01:07

Well, not much else happened after that. I was found guilty of all 14 murders, and put on death row. And that’s it. Here we are, back at the beginning. Or rather the end. End of me that is. The end of Edward ‘Buster’ Charles Hendricks. That’s a rubbish name isn’t it? Hope you have a better name then that.

Many people ask me if I deserve being sentenced to death. Well, duh! Of course I deserve it! And nothing less! Why should the murderer of 14 people be given anything less?

And now, as my final hour ticks away, it is tie to bid you farewell. I know you won’t shed a tear or feel sorry for me, but I understand. How can you feel sorry for a pawn of Satan? He got himself there, he can get out again, you must be thinking. Even if you aren’t, you must have at one point. But I don’t care if you don’t feel sad. At least you know the truth.

Love to mother, and baby brother (even though I never met you and tried to kill you)

R.I.P all of my victims, I won’t be seeing you where I’m going.

Goodbye.