The Story of a Killer

7

7 was a memorable number. Numbers make me feel safe, they are logical and are straightforward. When I was 7, I was sent to a mental institution for nearly killing a classmate. They put me in there because they felt I was crazy, I was making a painting in art class and I ran out of red paint. So I tried to use some of his, only I hadn't realized it wasn't right for me to try and get the paint out of his arm. 

It has been 13 years since I was put into the hospital. I had escaped at age 15. When I was 7, my parents had already sent me to therapists because of the things I had said. I don't know why talking about murder and kidnapping was so wrong. I got into a lot of trouble for that, then they realized that these were too real and vivid to just ignore, so they sent me to my first therapist (this was before the whole red paint incident). The therapist was really annoying, I would often start screaming to shut that son of a bitch up. 

When I was 7, I was often yelled at for threatening to kill my peers if they didn't give me what I wanted. On that faithful day, my peer (I'm gonna call him Peter) wouldn't give me my red paint. I yelled at him over and over to give me the god damned paint. He wouldn't. So I grabbed my scissors and cut his arm. I happened to "accidentally" cut a major artery when I tried to get some more "red paint."

The teacher had grabbed me down, I started screaming, they called the police, and everyone was freaking out. I loved the expression that Peter made as he was in pain. It was a milestone for me. When the police arrived, I was taken to a mental institution because I was only 7. They diagnosed me with millions of mental diseases, and have kept me their until I was 15.