𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 (Ash Trilogy #3) ✔️

1

I was 12 years old when I killed a person for the first time.

It was a family friend's son. My parents were forcing us to spend time together. He was pissing me off, we were outside, blinded by irrational thinking and rage I hit him over the head with a rock and killed him. I can't even remember what the actual dispute was about. 

That was the first, and only mistake I have ever made in my life. I spent countless hours in therapy after that. It was like a second home to me, I could paint that room with my eyes closed until the end of time. 

Not to put the blame off of me, however, it wasn't completely my fault.

My grandfather was a killer. My father was a serial killer. Sociopaths, psychopaths, they ran in the family like a cancerous gene. 

And when my parents gave birth to a boy, they should've expected this. They should've expected that this cursed legacy continues on once again. 

My therapist suggested that I should keep a diary. Write down my days, to keep myself accountable. At first, I thought it was dumb. But now, I've decided to give it a try. 

I'm 22 now. I've never killed a person since. 

I plan to break the cycle. Both my grandfather and my father became obsessed with their wives - no. Not obsessed. Addicted. And not an innocent kind of addiction, like caffeine. Addicted like smokers are to cigarettes. Following them day and night, killing people for them, perhaps you could say even stalking them. 

I live in the Northern United States. My father was a killer in New York, many years ago, before moving back to France with my mother. But when he got wind that the police were trying to find him, he decided we needed to move. There's been no word from them since.

I don't want to write down the exact state I live in just in case this diary is ever found. 

The sky is grey while I walk up the steps to my university. I major in criminology. I find that it helps me continue to break the cycle, learning about why people do things. 

When I enter the lecture room, the door squeaks. Some people glance over their shoulders to check who has entered the room, but quickly look away when they see that it's me. It's as if they see me as Medusa, thinking they would turn to stone if they looked me in the eyes. 

I have never spoken in class once. Nobody has heard my voice besides my professors on rare occasions. I hear them refer to me as 'mute' rather than my name, Luc, but I couldn't care less. It's short for Lucien, but pronounced like 'Luke.'

I sit in the seat I always sit in. Everybody knows not to sit next to me. There's a minimum of 5 seats between me and the next person at all times. Being around other people makes me physically feel ill. Call it dramatic, but I find myself wishing death upon anybody that even comes in my proximity. 

I sit, resting my left ankle on my right knee. I lean back in the seat, holding a pen up in my right hand. 

My family has so much money I'd actually consider it morally wrong. I don't need to be here, sitting in this goddamn chair for 3 hours. But I want to, I want to learn, I want to be better. 

My professor grunts while pushing the door open, and the second he enters the room, all the minimal conversations come to a stop. 

"Okay, class, let us get started on today's lesson," his aging voice echos off of the wall as he reaches the front and grabs a piece of chalk. 

He begins writing on the board, everybody listening in silence to the sound of the chalk moving across the board.

He turns to face us, and begins, "So, today-"