Who Am I? - Criminal Minds

Chapter Nine

Just putting it out there that if you see any tense errors, it's because I'm trying to get used to writing in a tense I don’t usually use (to help myself improve, you know?), so I may subconsciously switch back to past tense. I try not to, though, trust me.

I thank those of you who are being considerate and complimenting how I'm writing this story. Thank you so much for understanding. :)

Amnesia...? But...how? I try to remember anything that could explain it, but again, nothing. Except for statistics. And profiling. 

I had finally gotten some answers. My doctor didn't want me to know this sooner for fear I would 'panic'. Of course I would panic! Who wouldn't?

I asked how I could have attained dissociative amnesia, but the best I got for an answer is a head shake along with a, “We don’t know. A truck driver saw you lying in a ditch on the side of the road and brought you in. That’s all we know. But I'm going to take a good guess it's because of your severe head injury.”

I hate the fact that I am clueless. It feels as though everyone else knows what happened except me…but, they don’t actually know, only I do. It’s a vicious circle in my thought process.

I am a small, naïve child again. But with the intelligence of an adult. It’s frustrating, really.

It makes me feel helpless, lying in this bed all day doing nothing. The only thing I can do is think, and my thoughts consist mostly of confusion and irritation.

~~~~~ . : . ~~~~~

I'm crouched, waiting. The world is dark and silent. The moon is full, but doesn't provide much light. It doesn't matter; I've done this in worse lighting. Something is clutched in my hands. What is it? I don't know, I can't see. But it feels heavy. My skin brushes up against brick from the wall I'm hiding behind.

Wait, someone's coming. I can hear footsteps. The echo of the stilettos is unmistakable. I tense. Waiting until the sound of her footsteps is as close as possible, I slowly stand up.

She's still walking, clicking her heels on the pavement, unaware of my presence. Silently, I walk up behind her. She doesn't know I'm here...until I step in a small puddle I wasn't aware of and cause a small 'sploosh' sound. 

I freeze, but she whips around. I've made a mistake, but I know she won't escape anyway, so I strike. Her scream is cut off by the sound of my weapon clashing into her skull. She immediately falls, but I'm not done here. I squat down and check for signs of life. The breathing is rasped, but it'll do.

I know my pattern. I know my signature. The media loves it; I'm famous. The authorities just don't know who I am, or how to catch me. I am invincible and in control. And I love it. Why? Because I'm one of the most notorious serial killers the nation has ever seen.

Fresh blood from the result of my own hands gives me pride and happiness. The only other thing I love more is the fear that could be clearly shown in one's eyes. The fact that I didn't get to milk the fear out of her longer is depressing, but there's still time for that, once she comes to.

The sight of her unconscious body, barely alive, puts a smile on my face.

I awake in a fit of heavy panting and wriggling around in my bed. After a few moments, I stop myself, glad no one saw me.

Was that...a memory? The thought scares me. I can't be a serial killer! I don't enjoy others' suffering! Or..uh...At least I think I don't.