" It is so easy to kill someone…that's why it's so dangerous…."
" What a selfish and ungodly crime that I have committed--breaking apart this community based upon lies. Is this the thing that happens to one abusing drugs, alcohol, addicted to pornography, attracted dangerously to a psychiatrist who challenges me, and most importantly has abandoned hope of being saved?"
October 17 was so cold. The wind blew bitterly against my skin; it bit and stung at the exposed and numb flesh, but I didn't feel it. I felt only the roaring of my blood in my ears. The nightmare-ish leaf man returned, not being stopped by the fire that was emblazing the building. I could see her ahead of me, calling and screaming for me to come forth, but I could not, for I was stuck with the leaf man who breathe me in. His hollow, dark, and wet eyes absorbed me in; his damp exterior was splitting the sea of fire, pushing his way towards me. Surely I would die from the flames or the leaf man. What could I do but stand there and wait for the final moment when the scent of decay and mold filled my lungs, and he stole my final breath? Like a crooked judgment.
The screaming and pulling of hands broke me from that fearful fate, or perhaps the inevitable, my own perverse version of the Angel of Death, and sent me instead into the black abyss of nothing; running from nightmare to reality. Neither seemed the better choice, however, there staged was the one thing that would always prove to be what I desired. To be the perfect stranger; pulling off the perfect crime. Murder.
It is not the body count that is remembered, it is the style. Therefore, the smell of death would fill my lungs instead. I shall dance into my responsibility and become the Dealer of Death.
How did one go about selecting their victims? Unsystematic? Or was there an fundamental intention of that? Shall I lie in wait and let the opportunity present itself, or merely, I select an over-killed target. Whores...the seductress of damnation. The passport to hell?
Murderers did not choose their victim well enough; did not think hard enough and thoroughly to be caught. As a writer I shall act out my crimes and record them; but I shall not reveal the records of my crimes until long after I'm dead, and hope that these words that I write, this book shall be held in the most convoluted sanctuary, else it fall into the hands of the lesser-minds, and not serve its true principle.
I can say a that a fact that contributed to my psychotic philosophy, only say that The Zodiac Killer is my true idol, along with Hannibal Lector, though one did get caught, their ingenious made them iniquitous in the history of man-kind. It is not that I desire prominence, I already it. I desire not immortality either. I desire to see the beauty of death; to look in their eyes and know that I am the final thing they see; the power to hold life and death within my hands; to smell and savor the beauty of their final mission. That is one thing that causes a killer to fall into the hands of justice: the power becomes addicting; logic is gone; it is the sweetest drug.
The first time I got a taste of it is when my father raped anderadicated mother, burying her in the back yard by the large Willow tree. I do not believe in ghosts, spirits, entities, call it what you will, but I know what I saw. I saw mother in my father's bedroom, her smile still that horrible grimace frozen on her face, her lips twisted up high into a snarl. Her eyes were dull with fear and death, and her skin was an ash gray. Her walk was stiff, and you hear the bones crunching, her skin shifting with each movement. Mother had survived the attack from three months ago? She wanted to get revenge. Her movements swift as she approached a frozen and shocked father, his current girlfriend screaming in fear, clutching her sheet around her naked body. Mother crushed both of their necks with an inhuman strength, the sound of their necks breaking was louder than the crunching of hers. I stared father's glassy brown eyes, and then at mother as she turned to look at me. For a moment, I feared she decided to turn her unspent wrath upon me, but instead she smiled, and when she smiled, for a moment, a brief instance, I could see my mother, and not the horrible corpse that stood in front of me. Then once more the glowing light that illuminated from her eyes the moment father knew it was his wife that was killing him, seemed to die away, and death was once more there.
I killed before...on accident of course..
It is so easy to kill someone. That is why it's so easy.
" It is not the body count that is remembered, it is the style.