You know humans are strange creatures. Full of strange things, like love, hate, pity, dread, terror, horror. And full of power. Strange to hear a deep thought coming from a serial killer isn’t it? But I suppose that’s why I did it. For power. The thing that every single human wants in its life. 

I didn’t kill people I knew or had a history with. No, that would have connected us. It’s much easier to kill people that you know nothing about. Simple fact. A soldier can dehumanize himself by saying, “it’s not an human, it’s an enemy.” I did the same, just turned it into, “It’s not a person I know or care for, it’s another power gain.” 

I can see their faces, in my mind. I don’t think it makes me crazy. I think it shows that I’m still a human. To a point. I remember how most of the kills happened. In fact, the first one was an incident. 

That night I had been driving just outside of the city limits, had a few beers, but I wasn’t to the point to where I was out of my own control. A kid, only around sixteen ran out in front of my car. I was going fast enough to where it at least broke his legs. He hit the windshield and put a nice spiderweb into it. I got out quickly, then I realized I wasn’t really all that concerned. I thought about calling 911. But I decided not to. He lay on the hood of the car, groaning. When he saw me, he said. “Sir, help, please?” he has obviously had too much to drink, and smoked a little to much, from the smell of marijuana. 

I put him in the back of my car, stretched out on the back seat, asking distantly where we were going. He was just a tad bit out of it, adrenaline, marijuana, and alcohol all cluttered up in his system made him just a little loopy. I drug him out of the car when we came near some woods. I sat there, wondering what the hell I was doing. It seems that something else was controlling me. Power, I have decided after all of these years. I slowly stood grabbing a large stick laying on the ground and approached him. He looked at me, yelling obscenity at me. I took the sharpest point of the stick and stuck it into his lower abdomen. He screamed, thrashing in the ground, flopping his useless, broken, ugly legs around. He screamed more, blood running from his mouth. I just leaned on the large piece of wood. I took it out. I think that hurt him more than it did than on the way in. He shuddered and convulsed. I could smell feces and urine. That became normal after a while. He lay there for a while. Breathing ugly, irregular breathes. I decided I had had enough and I took the stick, pushed on his throat with all my weight and heard him gurgle weakly and then stop. I didn’t bother to bury him, I just took my shoes off, grabbed the stick, burnt it when I arrived home, and had the window repaired the next day. 

It’s strange how it seems like it was another person who did it, and I was just the one sharing the memory. It was a while before it happened again, I saw a man who looked strong, large, like a MMA fighter, in a bar. I thought, wouldn’t that be something. to bring down a man who thought he was indestructible. Well, on his way to his car in the parking lot, parked nice and alone, he was just beginning to open the door to his car. I slipped the knife in between his ribs twice and once into his kidney. He was surprisingly strong and turned around grabbing my wrist, almost breaking it, before realizing his body doesn’t like so much strange with blood pumping out of the new holes that had arrived there. When he slumped to his knees I grabbed his shoulder length hair, slamming his face into the harsh cement. I didn’t bother to do anything with the body. Let someone see how powerful I was. I dared them to do something. 

It was a long road. The more times I killed, the more it took to get that wonderful powerful feeling, then finally I couldn’t get it anymore. Finally I stopped. I lost count of all of the people I killed. I want to say twenty. But of course, you already know that, I suppose you know all of this. Life seemed to get dull, boring without blood on my hands. And even duller when I did and it didn’t satisfy me. 

Now all the memories get jumbled around. I can be at work, providing tech support for confused customers then, I’m back in the clearing with the women I had just strangled, wondering idly, what would she look like on fire? Or sometimes I’m the person that had just had their face smashed into oblivion, but the eyes are still functioning, and I’m fearing what this crazy bastard will do to me next. Now it happens so often that I don’t even bother going to work. I can barely eat a whole meal without flashing back to bitting another human’s jugular and feeling the blood wash into my mouth and spitting the blood out wondering how long it takes for all the blood to drain out of a body or feeling the pitchfork inside my intestines and drooling blood. I suppose this is why I’m praying to you Lord. I’m not ashamed of what I have done, I know I’m going to Hell. I am proud of the fact that I have done something perfectly. Without being caught. Without being held in suspicion. I’m proud of my power. But now, after nothing gives me joy and I’m haunted by all of these horrible people… I must. I must use this gun to commit the last crime against your Kingdom. Suicide. I don’t like to call it that. But I suppose that’s what it is. I like to think of it as a mean to an end. 

Amen.