"We fear rejection
Prize attention
Crave affection
Dream, dream, dream of perfection
Just another pop confession."
-Salty Sweet, MS MR
They say that serial killers are psychologically compromised. That they have snapped mentally and believe that they are justified in what they do. Maybe that's right, but who am I to judge? I lost count of how many throats I've opened, how many times I expertly butchered the body, how many places I hid the pieces. I hate the cliche, but I believe that in this situation I'm in, the typical phrase to be said is "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." I suppose this is me seeking redemption.
I may have lost count of them, but I remember each and every one. I remember my first. Savannah LaCroix, a French exchange student spending her senior year in the United States. She went to our school. She was in my class. Everyday it was the same routine. I would walk into class and be the subject of some cruel prank of hers, and that smug little cunt would smirk at me with her smug little bitch eyes boring into my own. I remember going home and seriously considering suicide. I had an Ethernet cable hanging from the ceiling, tied and ready for my neck. All it would've taken was a step onto the chair, one step, and then release.
But something clicked for me. Why kill myself, I thought, when I can just destroy the root of the problem? I remember taking the hunting knife out of my dad's closet. I remember getting in the car and driving to the school. I remember seeing her sitting against the wall, smoking a blunt and sobbing. I remember the look of surprise in those smug little bitchy eyes when she saw me, and the shudder that rolled through her body when I stabbed the knife into her throat and cut down her chest. I remembered smiling at her as the life faded from her.
I remember the car burning in a field, with Savannah's body buried ten feet in the ground. I remember the satisfying ache of the physical labor it had taken to dig that hole. I relished in the feeling. I had power and control.
I loved it.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, right? Oh, boy have I sinned. Jason Mantague, Geoff Halsey, Diane Flint, Paola Denarin, Haley Colt, Charlie Rogers, and so many more. But I'm supposed to be turning over a new leaf. I've grown beyond killing. The veil that was held over my eyes, that of anger and frustration and retribution, has been lifted. I'm a new man. A changed man. I am a lover and a confidante. I am not a murderer. Not anymore.
But I remember it all. The actions themselves didn't matter. I didn't care how they died or how I disposed of them. All that mattered was the control I had, the grasp over their delicate lives that was constantly mine. I remember killing David Blage and watching him struggle. I had thought at first I should be humane about the whole thing, but that was a thought lost after four days of manipulating his worthless little thoughts. He was a broken creature before I finished him off. I loved it.
I don't anymore. Not the way I used to. Their bodies are just that; bodies. There is no glee when I think about them anymore, no euphoria when I imagine their blood on my hands. Only momentary flashes of happiness. That's not enough to sustain me. I need to pursue something else. Some hobby or habit that will bring life back into this pitiful existence that I have become.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. And I truly believe that I am done with that life. I will move on. I will become different, no, I am different. I am not a killer anymore.
But I miss it. Just a little bit. Enough of a twinge that I wish I could do it again.
Maybe I can.
What's stopping me?
