sithlordjenkins

By then, the world realized they had a madman on the loose.  Everybody was cautious, even frightened.  People were making sure they left their lights on outside, and if they lived alone, staying out as long as possible and making sure they were very well connected with others. It was sort of in vain, though, for two reasons: one, I was resting on killing, and two, I did kill again.  Nine times more.  But you only killed seven times, you're probably thinking.  Not thirteen. Investigators aren't all that great, you know?  I'll tell you about the other unknown six later. Anyways, I took a break, if you will, on killing.  I found a job.  No

I remember laughing at the news reports.  The lights in my apartment were dim, the biggest glow coming from my television screen.  The reports were crazy, each one claiming that only a madman could perform such a grizzly deed as even performing the Glasgow smile.  I remember thinking how the tabloids seemed more concerned about the "mutilation" (aka a few simple cuts that any three-year-old could do) than the actual murder itself and how it could only be committed by "a madman". Oh, society, how wrong you are. Let me set it straight. Anybody could murder.  Anybody could take a knife out, make a few incisions, and they would automaticall

It was quite difficult to find another victim.  I didn't want to choose just anybody, because then it would become meaningless.  If you really wanted to possess another's life, you don't just choose a random stranger.  You want it to really matter.  You want it to belong to somebody you know, somebody you've talked to and mingle with a lot more than just strangers.  You want to feel the satisfaction of that person succumbing to you.  There's no shame with acquaintances, friends, family, peers, clients; but with strangers, it's a bit disgraceful, really. Where's the best place to find somebody?  Places like coffee houses.  A lot of college k

The day after, I was in shock along with the rest of my grieving classmates.  The only difference was that I didn't shed a tear.  I remained silent all day; not because I was upset over her death, but because I was the one who took her life.  My hand kept fluttering over my pocket, as if her soul were trying to break free. A week passed.  Then it was two weeks.  Three.  Everyday, a little of my shock wore off after the sentence I did it kept bouncing around my mind.  After about a month and a half, I sat down in my apartment, and I started crying.  It took that long to finally hit me that I had killed somebody.  They weren't there anymore.

Surprisingly, no charges were made against me.  I don't know how in the world Diane explained her injuries to her boyfriend, but somehow she did. I do know that I never saw her again after that. Around junior year in college, I want bar hopping with some buddies of mine every other Saturday night.  I made a few petty relationships (some of the times I had multiple relationships going on at the same time), but nothing happened really during that time. In my senior year in college, I saw the most beautiful girl.  She had a slim figure, with long, straight honey-colored hair and sparking aqua eyes that would always seem to laugh when she w