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The diary of a serial killer revealed to the public for the first time. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Apr 28, 2011    Reads: 81    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

October 20th, 2010

I don't understand why I do it. All I know is that I do. And I enjoy it. There's almost no greater feeling to me. It's like a drug. Like the most addictive drug. I can't stop. I've tried to stop. But I think I don't want to. I think that's why I can't. Because I don't want to. And why should I? There's no reason to. It makes me feel good.

They say that people like me are sick. That we have no place in the world. Not just the civilized world, but all the world. They lock us away in jails or mental homes. Sometimes they say we're "insane" and give us the "help we need." Other times they shut us behind bars and throw away the key. Quarantine us so that our "sickness" can't claim more victims.

But I don't think I'm sick. I'm just different. Like the gays. My mind doesn't work like everyone else's, but it isn't sick. It's different. Nobody thinks the gays are sick. They may think they're wrong, or maybe they're sinners. But nobody thinks they're sick.

Because the world thinks I'm sick, it's difficult for me to get my fix. It isn't quite as easy as walking down the street and knocking on the door of the local dealer. No. What I need is special, and it must be handled with care. But it's worth it. The rush is very much worth it.

There is almost no greater joy than watching the life bleed out of another human's eyes. To see terror shimmer in their tears, and to hear distress quiver in their voice. Sometimes they mince their words, but it's the best when they can't say anything at all. They try and try but nothing comes out besides a almost adorable squeak. How it fills me with pride to get this confirmation that I've done my job, and that I've done it well.

That's how I felt tonight. I was afraid that the task would leave me hollow. She was so frail that I expected her to break in mere minutes. But she lasted, shaking the whole time. A few raspy words left her lips, but otherwise she said nothing. I played with her a while, wrapping my fingers around her neck and squeezing until her eyes rolled back in her head. Then I'd let go, let her breathe. She looked at me with pleading, beautiful eyes. I loved the way that felt. Loved having that power. Loved watching her beg. But I didn't tell her that. No. I felt merciful tonight, at least just a little. I told her I was sorry. I asked her to forgive me. Then I broke her neck.

Of course, I wasn't sorry, and I couldn't care less about her forgiveness. I don't expect her to forgive me either. Not after how I'd rifled through her purse and burned her body. The fire is still crackling behind me. I'll have to feed it soon. I can still make out her face.


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