Memoir of a serial killer

It’s not like I do it in cold blood…
Each time is a crime of passion, and what would life be without the glowing heat of excitement; of anticipation and the thrill of what’s to come?

Empty, that’s what it would be. I couldn’t live an empty life; everyone gets their kicks from somewhere, someone, something.  This is how I get mine.  It might not be the norm – most people call it cruelty – but I couldn’t live without what I do.  I need to satisfy the beast within, craving for the next fix like a caught fish craves the sea.  But my fix has nothing to do with drugs.  No powder, liquid or inhalant can fulfil my needs.  I desire so much more.  Something stronger; something more potent; something to fill the hole that widens with each day I go without.  An act that brings an incredible high that no amphetamine could achieve.  I need that feeling of accomplishment; the adrenaline rush felt when everything you’ve worked so hard for finally falls into place.  No job could ever lift me the way the fulfilment of my fantasies does.

Don’t think I’m hollow, I’m not.  I have thoughts and feelings and emotions.  I’ve felt the depression after the death of a loved one and the elation of marriage – committing myself to the one woman I love most in the world.  I eat, sleep and breathe so surely I am human?  And yet society still calls me a monster; the anti-Christ; something – not someone – to be feared.  The concept seems alien to me.  I have the sweetest wife and two beautiful daughters whom I adore, their long flowing hair shining in the sunlight on long walks out in the park, giving the illusion of ethereal auras; I have a job and a social life and have built up a home over the years – some may call me prosperous, but I’m a modest man. 

Everything I have should make me content, happy even.  But nothing compares to the instant gratification felt when you realise just how powerful you really are.  I am a man, a god, the angel of death.  I have the ability to end the pitiful lives of those below me.  I’m an owl, only coming out at night to search for my next kill.  Soaring over the innocence below with wide eyes, then diving low with predatory precision and perfect aim…never off target.  Don’t be fooled though, my prey is no animal, no petty creature made to die for us to consume.  This is what makes what I do so special, so unique.

Fair, that’s my “type”.  It makes it all the more euphoric when you can see the innocence and purity not only in her eyes, but also in her skin; soft and white with delicate blue veins just beneath her silky smooth epidermis.  She has to have golden hair, like an angel so that I feel like the devil smothering all her hopes and dreams and desires; so that I realise that supremacy is mine to have.  Nobody can stop me, nobody even knows.  Who would think?  I have the faith…every Sunday I wrench myself from under the warm folds of my bedcovers, washing, eating, making myself presentable for God.  It’s pitiful – there is no God – if there was a God I wouldn’t be here; surely, if he exists, he would have striked me down after my first “fix” or destroyed me before my conception could even begin.  There is no God, only me, but I keep up the charade for society’s sake.

I’m a stranger and a friend, an acquaintance and an unknown enemy.  I’m not like the others - erratic and blood-crazed.  I take my time; plan my next move; watch my prey for days or even weeks to observe their every movement.  They ever see me lurking in the shadows, out of sight and mind.  Then I lunge, choosing the moment carefully for maximum bewilderment, giving my prey no chance to escape.  The frenzied panic in her eyes filling me with warmth and pleasure as I revel in the bliss of fulfilment.  My thick, strong man-hands gripping her neck and clenching ever tighter until her pale skin is white as paper and her soft lips are cold and faintly blue.  Then my work is done, another angel loses her wings and my horns grow ever longer, the devil himself growing ever stronger.

I don’t do what I do out of hate, out of sadness or revenge.  It’s something I need, something I could not live without, like an addiction.  A person would shrivel and die without sustenance; this is my sustenance.  It’s not a choice, it’s a way of life – my life-force; the cement that holds me together.  Nobody wants to die and I feel like I would if I stopped; if I never again got to feel the cold hard metal of the dagger blade in my palm; never again got to hear the soft crunching sound as metal breaks through skin; never again got to feel the exhilaration as my weight on top forces the blade down further and further, plunging through flesh releasing thick, warm crimson fluid – like the satisfaction of pouring the sweet juice from a coconut that took you many violent tries to split to the core.

So now I ask you…have you ever felt as though you’re being watched?  Walked down a street at night in the quiet darkness and started at the sound of a cracking twig or muffled breath?  Taken the long route home to avoid walking into the uncertainness of an alleyway?  Sat at home and watched a horror film alone, and then not been able to leave the room and enter the unknown, sinking deeper into your sofa as though it will protect you?  It won’t save you.  Nothing can because by now I know everything about you, you’re so predictable, fragile and unguarded.  My path is clear and I’ve been ready for a while now, just waiting, stood in the corner behind you and breathing quietly so as not to disturb the peace before the hysteria…

Your hysteria.