It's not every day that a girl wakes up and decides to become a serial killer, but for me it was a pretty easy decision.
Fifteen years ago, my baby sister was snatched from the front yard as she drew with chalk. Five days later, police found her body, bloodied and broken. I had decided I wanted to be a detective when I grew up, I was only eight years old, but I wanted to make a difference. I didn't want anyone else to have to come home from school to see their street filled with cop cars. To walk into their living room and see their parents screaming and crying, wondering what had happened to their little girl.
The police didn't catch my sisters murderer until I was 18 years old, a senior in high school. He had killed seven other girls in those ten years, and justice had finally been served. Harold Johnson, the famous monster, was sentenced to 60 years to life in prison with no chance of parole. After just 4 weeks in prison, he was murdered by a fellow inmate, once again justice had been served.
I kept my promise to my parents and joined the police academy right after graduation, hours after, actually. My best friend, Victoria, and I joined together. We were going to catch all of the monsters, every last one of them.
On my 23rd birthday I was given the opportunity to join an elite task force responsible for tracking down serial killers.
Vic joked that now I was finally a member of Criminal Minds, our favorite show of course.
But it wasn't until the night we went out to celebrate that our lives would truly change.
A typical night out for Victoria and I consisted of fishnet stockings, short skirts, and heavy makeup. We didn't typically fit in with the rest of our coworkers, too grungy and goth, but that was okay with us.
Our favorite hangout was Bar Sinister in the heart of Los Angeles, we would always fit in there. It wasn't unusual for Vic and I to be hit on, or for guys to ask us if we wanted to have a three-sum. There would always be random jocks creeping at the bar who wanted a goth girlfriend, trying to ply us with drinks. I always took the drinks and maybe danced with them for a while but that was the end of it, they were too boring.
On this night and particular, a man had approached Victoria and I, and invited us to an underground club he claimed to be a member of. It was supposed to be a replica of The Admirals Arms in London, hidden as an abandoned store front. The inside was gorgeous, red and black velvet chairs and lounges, a huge bar and dance floor to match. There also seemed to be a half moon bed pushed into the back corner with men and women lounging and making out, under the red spotlights the liquor they were lapping off each other could have been mistaken for blood.
I hadn't noticed we were standing in the center of the club and gawking and everything and everyone until we were once again approached by the man who brought us here, and offered us a drink. Deep red wine in beautiful ornate glasses with a copper undertone, it had to be expensive.
I know now that this man had offered us glasses of his blood, and we had drunkenly sipped away, not realizing the danger we were in until the other patrons made their way toward us. They moved too fast for my comfort and grabbed, ripped, and bit into our flesh; sucking us dry and tossing us out into the cool autumn night.
We wouldn't wake up again for several days, and when we finally did, we were underground.
