A storm is on its way. I can smell it in the air. Over the horizon, I can see dark clouds gathering. Good, the rain will wash away any evidence I have left. Not that I would ever be so careless as to rely on the rain, but I won’t complain about extra insurance.
I look down to the lifeless body next to my feet. This kill was different. This one had meaning. It didn’t just satisfy my hunger like my other kills. This man had to die because I needed to keep another one alive. It felt different. It felt good. Is this what it feels like to care about someone else?
I have been a serial killer as far back as I can remember. It is kind of my family tradition, passed down each generation from father to son. My grand father was a serial killer, he groomed my father to follow in his footstep and my father did the same for me. Being a serial killer was always my destiny.
When I was two, my father killed my mother in front of me. I was just old enough to understand the maternal bond. Consciously, I don’t remember anything. But I have nightmares about it. The nightmares would become more frequent and intense until I can’t stand it and have to go feed my hunger.
Little Julia Osborn was my first kill. On my eighth birthday, my father bought me to the basement, where my best friend Julia from school was tied to a chair. He handed me a knife and told me to slit Julia’s throat. I didn’t want to hurt Julia, she was my best friend. I cried and cried but my father just stared at me with his kind eyes. He told me lovingly this was my destiny and he wished there was another way. He was always very kind to me. But I couldn’t do it, so he started hurting her. He kept telling me, if I wanted to make things better for Julia, the only thing I could do was to end her life. So I did. I couldn’t bear to see the pain in her eyes anymore.
Over the years, he taught me how to hunt, how to hide my tracks, how to perfect my craft. I have killed hundreds of women who looked like my mother.
But Jenny Walters changed everything.
