For me, killing is a lot like having an intense craving.
Have you ever been on a diet and you’re watching TV and a commercial comes on? Some big-breasted broad is biting into a big, juicy, perfectly cooked hamburger? Makes my mouth water every time.
Well, that’s how it is for me when it comes time to kill someone. Same exact thing. Same sensation, multiplied by one hundred. When the urge hits, my mouth waters, my heart pounds. Sometimes I manage to hold off for a day or two, maybe even a week, but in the end there’s no stopping me. Somebody out there is going to die. Mostly I already know who it’s going to be.
These victims of mine did nothing to me. My urges have nothing to do with anger or resentment. They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. So I killed them.
And the reason is this: I like death.
No, let me rephrase that. I love death.
The idea of the soul rising up, perhaps to make its way to earth again in one form or another, intrigues me. The grim reaper is pure genius. Predation is orgasmic. Death by malnutrition and disease, not so much. Suicide fascinates me. Accidents aren’t half-bad—if there’s a car crash, I’m definitely the one craning my neck, causing traffic jams as I try to get a good look at some random victim of circumstance.
But nothing beats killing a human being with my own two hands.
My favorite part is watching closely, intently, as the eyes lose their luster, until the only thing left is a dull, blank stare.
Like most serial killers, I did start with animals. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Most critters are easy to control. Clueless, really. I used to enjoy watching the animals fight for their last breath. But killing people is so much more of a thrill. I wish I could explain it well enough for you to understand.
It’s a compulsion.
Yes. I have a compulsion to kill. I was born with the yearning to kill. When I was eight years old, I killed my first human being—my four-year-old sister. My palms are sweaty just thinking about it. My heart is drumming against my chest. I take a deep breath.
Thirty years have passed since that day.
There are times when I am confronted with remorse. I even hate myself for a moment or two. But more often than not, I feel gladness that she was able to pass so effortlessly once she began to sink. Her eyes were wide open as she descended to the bottom. Her arms and legs hardly moved at all. To this day, I think she knew what was happening and she accepted it. I remember it all so clearly. You see, I have what researchers call highly superior autobiographical memory. This allows me to remember episodes from the past in detail. But even though I have the ability to recall these events in full HD color, I still put every detail in this leather-bound journal.
Why?
Because as much as I love reliving the details stored in my brain, I adore rereading my own vividly descriptive passages filled with sensory details that whisk me back to a time and place where I can see the fear, smell the tangy blood, and taste the panic in the air.
I have other ways of remembering these incidents, too, but we’ll get to that later.
Back to my first kill.
The moment I saw the red rubber ball roll over the edge of the pool and hit the water, I became tense and very alert. My heart rate accelerated.
With her uneven ponytails and big green eyes, she pointed at the ball floating there and asked me to get it for her.
I looked around, but I already knew my parents were out front talking to the new neighbors who had just moved into the house next door. I knew she couldn’t swim, but I told her to go ahead and get the ball herself.
She didn’t hesitate. She headed that way, reached for the ball, straining every tiny muscle in her arms. But the ball bobbed farther away, just as I knew it would. She reached for it one more time, and that’s when she fell in. Water splashed as my little sister fought for her life. She struggled valiantly that day, instinctively paddling both arms, swinging madly until one of her hands got a good solid grip on the pool’s edge. Not only was I stunned by her fight for survival, I was panicked by the thought of her tattling on me. I had no choice but to kneel down and pry her little fingers off the edge, one at a time until she had nowhere to go but down.
I could go on and on about that day: the look on Dad’s face right before he jumped into the water. My mom falling apart, all snot and drool. The neighbors, complete strangers, trying to console everyone.
I remember feeling afraid.
Once I realized my sister was truly dead, I missed her. I still do. But I would do it all over again if given the chance.
I have killed many times since then.
I have never shot anyone, never used a gun. Much too loud, for one thing. What good would it do to call attention to myself? Like many killers, and so-called normal people, for that matter, I like control.
Who doesn’t?
When I overpower someone, I prefer to strangle them. I rarely drug my victims because most medications take all the fire out of their eyes.
I don’t know why I’m so passionate about killing.
There are days when I wish I could stop.
No, not days, but moments. There are moments, long moments, when I wish I could stop killing. But I’m thirty-eight now, and if there is one thing in life that I’m certain of, it’s that I will never stop.
If it makes you feel any better, I rarely rape or torture my victims. If that gave me a thrill, I might, but I’m not your typical serial killer. I’m not trying to play cat and mouse with the authorities. There was one particular FBI agent who intrigued me for a while there, but he’s dead now. I have no desire for notoriety. My ego is plenty healthy enough as it is.
I simply want to keep doing what I do best.
I want to kill people. And then write in my journal. And paint. I will always paint.
I am almost finished with my latest work of art, which involves my last kill. It’s the eyes I’m having problems with. I can’t get the right look because it was dark outside. She was walking in a half-decent part of town, but it was an unusually dark night devoid of stars, and she was alone. The moment I spotted her, I opened my window, slowed my vehicle to a leisurely pace, and proceeded to warn her about the perils of being out alone at night. She looked worried, assured me she was almost home.
That’s what they all say.
I drove ahead, parked around a bend, and waited for her. She didn’t see it coming. Everything considered, it was all very anticlimactic.