This week is very important, dear readers, for one very special reason:
On Monday I did my 500th kill. I know, it seems a ridiculous number – too large to be real – but I did it. I’ve been doing this – killing – for nearly 20 years and I’ve kept track of every single person. From my very first kill at age 17 to this most recent, bloody murder; I remember all of them. I didn’t mean to keep track but curiosity got the better of me and I now have notebooks of victims. I am one of the most successful serial killers to have ever lived and no one even knows it. Not once in the 19 years that I have been taking lives has the media as a whole discovered the connection between 500 victims.
It should be a point of pride for me – the police are looking for 500 different killers instead of just one – but it just bothers me that people can be so clueless. It’s baffling, really. No one has ever thought to call me ‘serial killer’ and it bothers me.
Even James who has been nothing but loving and supportive is putting me off. He was so proud of me on Monday; I love the way his eyes light up when I tell him about a kill. He made me this amazing dinner and we watched the news as the 500th body was discovered and it was so sweet and romantic; but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. He even picked out victim number 501 in that sexy voice that he does but my mind was somewhere else.
We had been dating for about three months when we finally used to term “serial killer”. Even back then he could light up a room with his smile when I talked about gutting some poor bastard on the street. But he said something to me that night that I’ve never forgotten.
“Honey, you don’t behave like a serial killer. I don’t know what you are.”
I’m not entirely sure what he meant, I couldn’t read him as well as I can now, but I do know one thing:
I. Am. A Serial Killer.
You want to know how I know that? Because I follow the damn guidelines.
According to the Federal Bureau of Investigation the definition of a serial murder is: The unlawful killing of two or more victims by the same offender(s), in separate events.
That’s it. Nothing about means or motive; nothing about wetting the bed or lighting things on fire. Just. Death. You know, not all of us live in our mom’s basements or are sociopathic criminal masterminds. Most of us are just in between.
And before you ask, no, I am not in some serial killer chat room. In fact I’ve never met another serial killer – for good reason, those people cannot be trusted – but I keep up with current events so I’m familiar with most active serial killers in the country.
It’s not hard to find this information. People are obsessed with death – murder specifically. In a way I’m just feeding the masses. So yes, I would like a little more credit for the things I’ve done over the last 20 years. Am I suddenly going to start turning into some anti-social freak and develop some distinctive killing pattern? Hell no.
A thank you or maybe some flowers would be nice.
That’s all I’m saying.
As always, dear readers,
This is a work of fiction. Any persons or events that resemble real life is unintentional