Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer

Chapter One

I stare blankly at the wall, flipping the loaded gun in my hands. I sit on the bed, my elbows on my knees. The temptation is killing me. Just like you killed the receptionist downstairs. I shake the thought away.

The room is silent other that the buzzing of moths outside my motel door. I need to get away from here, before they find out it's me. I look at the alarm clock. 1:34 A. M. I grunt, as if I'm impatient. Impatient with what, I'm not sure. I'm calm, nothing able to break it. I gave the receptionist a fake name; James Ford. I made sure I replaced the pen, so there were no fingerprints. I also changed the key for the lock, so the cops wouldn't get in so easily.

I lay down on the bed, my head clear. No thoughts run through, no "what ifs" to shatter sanity. At least, what's left of it.

* * *

The temptation kills me, the feeling of escape. Truth is, there is no escape. Escape is just a term, not a reality. We all say we escape our lives when we die, but do we really? What comes after death? Do we become ghosts? Are we judged for heaven or hell? Nobody knows for sure. What I do know is, either way, there is no escape.

I lay in a coffin. I'm the center of an open casket funeral. My family is there to mourn for their loss, but they can't mourn. They're all dead.

I see my mother, a noose around her neck, her face a bluish-purple, and her neck is snapped at an odd angle. I see my father, a beer bottle and pills in hand. Cuts line up and down his arms. I see my sister, a thick, red cut lining across her neck from ear to ear. She also has cuts on her arms. I see my brother, his arm and leg missing from the war he fought in Afghanistan. You can see the blood still oozing from the freshly opened wounds.

I see my Aunt April, her hair, clothes, and skin wet. I can smell her from here; chlorine from the swimming pool. She has a light blue complexion from loss of air. I see her husband, my Uncle Jim. Both of his arms, his left leg, and his back are broken. Shards of glass stick out from his head and neck. My Grandma Rose sits behind them. You can hear a faint beep of a flat line, and her hair stands up with the electricity that coursed through her, that tried to bring her back.

I can see everyone, but I can't move. As far as I can tell, I'm fine. I don't feel anything wrong. Then again, I could've died from poison or bodily causes, such as a heart attack or a seizure.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to welcome our brother James Townsend to join us in the depths of Hell. Like us all, he couldn't handle the thought of killing everyone he could, so he overdosed on alcohol and simple pain meds, much like our brother Harold Townsend.

"We hope Hell shall welcome James with as much pain and punishment as it has brought to each and every one of us as a whole. As a family, we shall all perish the same way. In this case, we shall perish by the pain of suicide." The casket lid slams shut, and I hear everyone nailing the lid closed. I can finally move. I scream as I bang on the coffin lid.

"I'm alive! Open up, let me out of here!" I yell, fear bubbling up in my stomach. I soon start to see the outline of clothes, I look up, and I notice the clothes are hanging off of a rack. I'm in the hallway closet. I stand up, and I try to twist the doorknob. It's locked shut, just like it would've been if I had gotten in trouble as a kid. I bang on the door.

"Open up. Let me out of here! I'm sorry okay? Just please! It's dark in here..." I say. My voice is high pitched, I look down, and I wear a small red T-shirt, and a pair of shorts. The ground is a lot closer though. I look at the door knob, which I've noticed I'm about level to. I'm eight years old, judging my height to the door knob.

"You're a disgrace James! How dare you hit your mother like that!" my dad yells at me through the closet door. I crouch down, and I cower in a corner. The door opens, and I see a gruesome hand grab me by the throat.

I scream as I sit up. Sweat covers my face, and my breathing is heavy. I bury my face in my hands, ashamed to still be so horrified by the same dream. I look at the clock, 3:14 A.M.

"What the hell?!" I yell as I grab the clock and throw it at the white wall in front of me. I look to my right, and I see a huge sliding glass door. I get out of bed, and I walk to the door. The moon shines above me, and I can feel the cold weather of November trying to touch my skin through the glass. I see the trees dance with the breeze I can neither see nor feel, as if it nonexistent. As if the trees are as crazy as I am; have the problems I have.

What problems are those? You don't have any problems. I shake my head. I do, I have voices in my head. Voices that tell me to do bad things, to appreciate doing those bad things. But me, I feel like they make me go against my will. I don't have a say with them. Therefore, I do have problems.

But where would you be without us? You would be living in peace and harmony. Living in some suburban house with some wife who takes pity on your past. A couple kids who would drive you crazy, crazier than you are now. Tell me, where's the excitement in that?

There is no excitement. No excitement in that life, no excitement in this life. I'm practically running around the country due to these voices. If it weren't for them, I could live a much simpler life than this, but I don't. I can't now, after all that I've done. I can't try to live normal. It's either this, or prison.

"That's it, I'm turning myself in," I say quietly, walking over to the nightstand.

Why would you think to do that?

"Because, I've had enough of this. I need to stop hurting people. Stop you from making me hurt people," I say. I grab the gun, and I put it in the waistband of my pants.

You're just mad, just being foolish. You know that's not the way. Perhaps, putting that gun to your head to silence me would do the trick. I grunt, shaking my head at the remark.

"No you're not going to kill me," I say, "I'm a lot smarter than that."

Or are you? What are you going to do after you turn yourself in?

"I'm going to court and suffer the consequences from your actions."

My actions? Please, I was the one who persuaded you to do it. I didn't commit the murder myself, so you see, it's not exactly my fault. It was all you.

"Just shut up!" I yell. "I'm turning myself in, and that's final!"

And then what? Get raped in prison? See if they can help you seek the "medical attention" you deserve? Wake up dumbass, they're not going to help you. They'll just let you die in prison, just like every other psychotic serial killer out there. Right now, you're the top of the list for most wanted. They know your name, they know the people you've killed. If you think they will let you go that easily, then you're wrong. You're going to die in prison. Do you hear me? DIE!

"SHUT UP!!" I scream, but then I realize... they're right. Once they know I'm James Townsend, they will show me no mercy. I would probably get the death penalty. They won't care about the voices, about how they drive me to do the actions I would rather not do.

I sigh a little, and the voices all snicker in unison

So you see now? You'd be doomed to turn yourself in. Just try to keep going with your life, and don't let the cops find you, okay?

I sigh again, and I look down. The light blue carpet looks like a midnight blue in the dark.

"Alright, I will."