I continually drove throughout the countryside, setting souls free as I saw fit, one stop sign and traffic light at a time. I never knew what the fuck I was going to do, at any given moment, I could just decide to kill you. Countless bodies and endless bloodshed, yet I myself still felt incomplete, still lacking something deep within me. Although it may have appeared that I was a free spirit, I was actually a slave, tortured nightly in my sleep with all the visions of pain and agony that I had caused all those people. I still wanted to die, but now that my life seemed to have purpose, it really didn't matter to me anymore what the fuck happened next. I am the law of the land, and this was my jungle, and you are the prey that I have decided to feed on. With every waking breath, I will never stop searching for an end to the nightmares, as well as creating new ones along the way. People in certain states are probably beginning to wonder why someone would be doing all of this, and the answer is quite simple, because I needed to. I could give a shit about what was right or wrong with it; to me it was the only way to end all the pain. Raindrops started to hit my windshield, splattering across all the cracks and pits, before running off along the sides. I could feel the cool drops starting to hit my neck as well, through the trucks broken back window, when I started to think about all the victims and if they would have met me 10 years ago, Hell, they would still be breathing today. Unfortunately for both of us, life has a funny way of teaching us its lessons, and sometimes those lessons are taught within the death of others. I can recall, even as a child, that the world didn't owe me anything. In fact, I realized the world would kill you in a second if you were not careful, and weren't constantly paying attention to your surroundings. At least in the part of town I grew up in anyways, you better be sharp and keep your wits about you, or you'd end up on the last page of the newspaper one day in the obituary section. I grew up in various foster homes, never knowing my real parents, so I knew if I wasn't worth their time or hassle, nobody would ever give a fuck about me. It was okay though, I didn't give a fuck about it either, so I grew up to be very independent kid. I knew all I had in this world was me, so as long as I looked after myself, I knew I was going to be alright. After all, in this world only the strong shall survive, right? I can still remember many nights going to bed dirty and hungry, because my foster mom was too busy getting drunk to give a shit about me. Her late nights of being passed out in front of the television often led to cigarette burns to my arms in the morning, when I tried to wake her to fix breakfast. It wasn't like I was looking forward to mushy Government Oatmeal, plain with no sugar or milk, or the cigarette ashes that would fall into the pot frequently while she was stirring it. Later in life, I often wondered how a woman could have treated a child like that, but then I remembered that all I had in this world was me and the world didn't give a fuck about nobody. I can recall one certain morning I had woken up with a fever, shivering in a cold sweat, soaking wet in my bed sheets. When I had got out of bed that morning, it was the first time I felt light headed and woozy, before eventually hitting the ground and blacking out. I remember waking up six hours later to the sound of an empty whiskey bottle smashing against my bedroom wall, and being accused of stealing money, never once asking why I was on the floor to begin with. She would always forget the money the State gave her for taking care of me wasn't all hers and that it was mine as well. I remember the first and the fifteenth of every month quite well, because I would spend all day at the local check cashing store, waiting to get the states check cashed. I would watch her cash my check, and then we would go to the local liquor store and get her daily fix of alcohol, and me the usual glare or two to keep me from asking for anything. Even at six years old I knew the concept of addiction, and going without for someone's wants. Funny thing was I could watch her mood change instantly when the lady behind the bullet proof glass would give her my money. Those were the only times of the month that I would ever see a smile cross her crusty dried lips, smeared with a cheap drugstore lipstick, as my stomach would be grumbling from hunger the whole time. But I knew one thing about the first and the fifteenth; it signified the abuse would stop, well at least for a few days until the money or liquor ran out. Either way, I would sneak into her purse and grab some money for later; after all I had to survive. While she would be passed out in the living room, as usual watching stupid game shows on TV, I would sneak down to the liquor store. I would buy chips and soda, living off candy bars until the pain from my cavities kept me up at night. I grew up being known as the local drunk's orphan, all alone in a world of pain, forever longing to just feel wanted, let alone loved. I figured this was the way most people lived, since alcoholics and drug addicts were the only people I saw around my poverty stricken neighborhood. There were also all those women on the street corners, talking to various men pulling up in cars, some eventually getting in and driving away with them. I never knew as a child what those woman did, but I figured people must really like them, having all those friends that kept coming by to pick them up every ten minutes or so. Truth of the matter was, one had actually befriended me, probably feeling sorry for me being an orphan and all. And as sad as it was, I looked at her more like a mother than anybody else, since she was the first woman who actually treated me like a human being. Even later on, when I was a little older and found out what she was doing for a living, I didn't care much; I loved her none the less. I can even remember becoming a man at an early age, but I wasn't your average kid, and this wasn't your average childhood. A typical day in my foster home usually consisted of me getting up early enough to watch my favorite cartoons downstairs. I would eat whatever was left on my foster mother's dinner plate for breakfast, because I knew she would pass out before eating all of it, if any of it at all. Eventually something Bugs Bunny would do would be loud enough to startle her awake, and she would be hungry enough to fix herself something to eat, giving me the scraps of what she couldn't finish. I went to school looking barely decent, even though my clothes were old and torn; they were clean enough to convince the school as well as the state that I was properly being taken care of. I was always the subject of ridicule in school because of this, and deep down inside it hurt, but I just kept in all inside, even though I felt a rage brewing deep inside of me. Well, until that one day at recess, when I had enough slander and hazing to last two lifetimes, and it was time to show my fellow classmates what I was capable of. Still daydreaming all the while still driving to God knows where, I started to remember that day rather clearly, for it was the first time that I had ever hurt somebody, and the first time I felt what it was like to inflict pain on someone else. I could feel myself getting sleepy, and decided to pull over for a nap, as well as get out of the rain. I pulled off the highway into a thick part of the woods where there were enough tree branches hanging overhead to shield me from the storm, as well as keep me hidden from anybody driving along the highway for a few hours. I shut off the engine as my trusty sidekick barely acknowledged what was happening, his tail wagging slightly as if he was having a nightmare of his own. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if he was dreaming about the day we met, or if he was dreaming about the last time were ever going to see each other.