Monday, the 2nd of December 2012
Today is my birthday. This day should be associated with happiness and joy, but not for me. For me, it's associated with violence and despair. My mother was an abusive whore. She didn't care for me. Didn't love me. She beat me and this was one of the things sent me down the long road of this spree. This is one of the factors that caused it. Along with the bastards at school. But,oh, I made them regret everything thing they said to me. They regretted everything they done to me. Everytime they beat me up and left me bruised and bleeding on floor of the schools toilets. Oh, didn't they regret it? When I left them broken and dying in the local park. Every one of them begging was music to my ears. The bones breaking in their arms and legs, just set me off even more. I found more bones to break. More places to inflict pain on their worthless bodies. They were my first. There were six of them. The sixth was the only one who had the sense to try and escape. I managed to break his knee, so he couldn't
get far As he stumbled down the path, I silently walked after him with a crowbar I had stolen from my house, or should I say my prison. I caught up with the last one and buried crowbar in the back of his skull. His dying breath escaped him and had become the most exhilarating thing I had ever experienced. I would never forget that feeling. Never forget the joy it brought me. It was on my birthday that I found my meaning in life. I hadn't become a serial killer yet. I would have to kill two more people on two different occaisions. The second occaision however would come sooner than I thought. The days after that event, my mother was at her worst. She had smashed some of her goddamned plates. She flew off into a rage and blamed it on me. She started hitting me, kicking me, scrathcing me. I managed to crawl to the kitchen where my mother had bought a big knife block. I struggled to my feet for just a second and knocked the block off the counter. This sent the knives skittering everywhere on the floor. Luckily, a long, thin knife lay within my reach. I plunged the knife into her bare foot as she let out a scream of pure agony. I withdrew the knife from her foot as she fell backwards, blood spurting out of the slit in her foot. She slid from the kitchen to the phone which lay in its cradle in the living room. She managed to get within three feet of the phone before I stabbed the knife through her back. She let a pained gasp escape from her mouth. I then pulled her head back exposing the soft flesh of her throat and I drew the blade across her throat. She spluttered as she choked on her own blood. As her head finally rested on the cold, hard floor, the blood pooled around her. I was gone before the police arrived, my bag on my shoulder filled to the brim with clothes, food and money. That was the last time anybody seen me in my home country. To hone my craft I would had to go to the neighbouring country and find my victims there.
