Wednesday, January 30, 2013


October 20th, 2010

I don’t understand why I do it. All I know is that I do. And I enjoy it. There’s almost no greater feeling to me. It’s like a drug. Like the most addictive drug. I can’t stop. I’ve tried to stop. But I think I don’t want to. I think that’s why I can’t. Because I don’t want to. And why should I? There’s no reason to. It makes me feel good.
They say that people like me are sick. That we have no place in the world. Not just the civilized world, but all the world. They lock us away in jails or mental homes. Sometimes they say we’re “insane” and give us the “help we need.” Other times they shut us behind bars and throw away the key. Quarantine us so that our “sickness” can’t claim more victims.
But I don’t think I’m sick. I’m just different. Lie the gays. My mind doesn’t work like everyone else’s, but it isn’t sick. It’s different. Nobody thinks the gays are sick. They may think they’re wrong, or maybe they’re sinners. But nobody thinks they’re sick.
Because the world thinks I’m sick, it’s difficult for me to get my fix. It isn’t quite as easy as walking down the street and knocking on the door of the local dealer. No. What I need is special, and it must be handled with care. But it’s worth it. The rush is very much worth it.
There is almost no greater joy than watching the life bleed out of another human’s eyes. To see terror shimmer in their tears, and to hear distress quiver in their voice. Sometimes they mince their words, but it’s the best when they can’t say anything at all. They try and try but nothing comes out besides a almost adorable squeak. How it fills me with pride to get this confirmation that I’ve done my job, and that I’ve done it well.
That’s how I felt tonight. I was afraid that the task would leave me hollow. She was so frail that I expected her to break in mere minutes. But she lasted, shaking the whole time. A few raspy words left her lips, but otherwise she said nothing. I played with her a while, wrapping my fingers around her neck and squeezing until her eyes rolled back in her head. Then I’d let go, let her breathe. She looked at me with pleading, beautiful eyes. I loved the way that felt. Loved having that power. Loved watching her beg. But I didn’t tell her that. No. I felt merciful tonight, at least just a little. I told her I was sorry. I asked her to forgive me. Then I broke her neck.
Of course, I wasn’t sorry, and I couldn’t care less about her forgiveness. I don’t expect her to forgive me either. Not after how I’d rifled through her purse and burned her body. The fire is still crackling behind me. I’ll have to feed it soon. I can still make out her face.

October 24th, 2010

Killing twice in the same week, or even month, isn‘t a usual habit, but I’m so excited about keeping this diary that I just had to get something else in here. I’ve relived the night I killed that girl so many times that I can see her in my dreams. She’s even more beautiful behind closed eyes. Mouth hanging just slightly open, gazed fixed on nothing, skin pale and smooth. Infinitely more captivating than the northern lights.
The police are still searching for her, though by now they figure they’re looking for a corpse. Her name was Kelly Anderson. She was on her way home from a friend’s when she mysteriously disappeared. It doesn’t matter how many dogs they bring into the search. They’ll never be able to find her. There’s nothing left to find.
Tonight I saw the report from a small bar downtown. I must have been smiling, because the tender kept shooting me a nasty look. I thought about hanging around after closing and dragging him into the wine cellar, but when I saw the business man drop in, I knew he was the one.
He was down on his luck. You could see that just by the forlorn expression on his face and the low slant of his eyes. He wore an expensive looking suit, but his profession was anyone’s guess. The car he parked outside was pretty nice though, so I figure he was a pretty well off individual.
After a few drinks he started mumbling about Rebecca, whoever that was. I suppose if I waited longer, listened a little harder, I’d’ve figured out why the man was so distraught. But I didn’t care. That grim, broken look in his eye had sparked my guilty pleasure. I ducked out when I thought nobody would notice.
The car looked even more expensive up close. I couldn’t tell what kind of car it was, I’ve never had an eye for that sort of thing, but I know it cost a pretty penny. The door took a little convincing, but eventually I’d managed to pop it open. I ducked into the backseat, awkwardly crouched on the floor, with my legs bent under the seat, waiting for my prey. It didn’t take long.
I’ll have to admit, I was a little concerned when I saw him stumbling across the lot. Once we were on the road though, he kept the car straighter than a high school quarterback. We hit the highway, and I made myself known. The look of terror in his eyes sent shivers of delight down my spine.
We drove for hours, circling the same three towns until it was well after midnight and the roads were empty. For the first twenty minutes or so the man had been close to tears, begging me to tell him what I wanted, and more importantly, to let him go. I didn’t answer. I just smiled and told him to drive.
We pulled over on a dark back road, where the only lamp had been smashed by the pair of shoes that dangled from its post. I shoved him out of the car, more roughly than I’d meant to. But it felt good to watch him stumble and grunt. I assured him I wouldn’t hurt him, eased his breathing with calming words. Then I cracked his head against the door, kicked out his shins, and wedges his skull beneath the tire until his whimpers satisfied me.
Gravel turned beneath his heels as I dragged him to the back of the vehicle. It didn’t take much effort to toss him into the trunk. I took one last look at that salt-soaked face before hiding him from the night. He screamed and struggled the whole way to the harbor, filling me to the brim with excitement each time he punched a wall or kicked the hatch. Miraculously the trunk never flew open. Guess some people just don’t like safety features.
I hope nobody notices the car anytime soon. I don’t think they will. It sunk pretty well.
November 5th, 2010

The diary is such a beautiful thing. One day I’d like to bind it in flesh, like they used to, and share my endeavors with the world. Maybe when I’m too old and decrepit to shake off death, I can make a big deal about it. Have a barbeque or something. Maybe grill up some ribs. I love ribs.
Despite my fascination with reliving these feats, having them on paper like this makes the memories a little too real. Before there was nothing tying my conscience to the slaying, but now I have this eternal admission of guilt. This reminder that I was there, and that I liked it. In someways it’s made me a little afraid to do what I do best, and not because I’m worried the police will find my book. When I kill, it’s almost like I’m not there. Like I’m watching a movie or a dream. But this books makes the dream tangible.
Perhaps the “experts” are right. Maybe people like me are sick. Not sic like with a cold, but sick like heroin addicts. If that’s the case, should I be locked up? Don’t heroin addicts get a support group? Maybe that’s all I need. A support group.
Or maybe I’m tired. It has been a long day, and I am going on thirty. That’s when the midlife crisis kicks in, right? That’s all this is. A midlife crisis. Yeah. And the best way to handle a midlife crisis is with a good ol’ fashioned meat lover’s pizza.
November 20th, 2010

I was asked something today that I’d never been asked before, and I’ve been asked a lot of things. There was a girl at the local pool, she was maybe fourteen or fifteen. An unrelenting love for the high dive had kept her there despite an earlier call from her parents to hurry home. The life guards eventually kicked her out, and she dripped her way into the locker room. Naturally, I was close behind.
Not having anything with me, and finding few tools, I decided it was best to just choke her slowly. There’s few things as satisfying as watching a person’s eyes roll over and to see just the tips of their teeth poking out from behind their purpling lips. I had one hand tightly clamped around her neck, feeling the vibrations of her throat as she swallowed and gasped.
She looked to the side, her eyes flickering open then shut. At this point the only force stifling her words was her own sobbing, so she swallowed hard and said, “Are you going to rape me?”
The thought had never crossed my mind, and was it was appalling to think it had ever crossed hers. Her weak, little body was no more appealing to me than a dog’s ass. Why on Earth would I want to soil my art with such a disgusting thing? The entire prospect is unthinkable! I was so caught off guard, so distracted by her question, that I lost my grip and dropped her on the sticky tiles.
Why is it that women always feel that men are out there waiting to take them every second of everyday? I’m standing there with my hand around her throat, squeezing the life from her lungs, and all the narcissistic bitch is worried about is getting her cherry popped! Is the world really so enslaved by sex that rape is a person’s top fear? What about being killed? Is a person’s life worth less than their virginity? Perhaps it’s just the women, the irrational twats that they are. Men never worry about being raped. They’re concerned with more conventional matters. Usually they at least beg for their lives.
No,” I said, wondering what to do now. The whole situation had become extremely awkward for me. Were I the kind of artist that had a conventional canvas, the amount of anger that had begun to swell inside me would have driven me to tear the painting apart. In a way, I suppose I did.
Then why? Then why?” She cried over and over as I battered every inch of her body. It was as though she had wanted to be raped. As though I had been sent to deliver some twisted fantasy. I couldn’t take it anymore. This vulgar child was an assault on the morals and standards I held dear. No matter how many times I told her to shut the fuck up, she would not stop asking the same question over and over I grabbed her by the bottom row of teeth and ripped the jaw right off her face.
I disposed of that atrocious body in the only place appropriate for such filth: the last stall on the row. Unfortunately I didn’t have an axe, or I would have flushed her safely away, never to taint the world with her lust again. Instead all I could do was leave a folded mess in the corner, waiting for a janitor to clean it up.
It’s really a shame the canvas was so spoiled. It was a beautiful portrait in every other way.
December 14th, 2010

It sneaks up on you like a meal deprived panther, staring at your backside through the twisted leaves until you lay down to sleep. Then it appears, ravaging your body with those pristine claws, peeling back your flesh with ivory teeth. I hate Christmas. Most people probably don’t have trouble keeping track of exactly when they get to empty their grandmother’s purse, but I frankly don’t give two shits. Or one, for that matter. To me, the holiday is a whole lot of hustling, pushing, and bitching about Rocking Horse Toys being out of stock.
Of course, I hate nagging as well, and my sister-in-law will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t get something for her precious Cynthia. As if the whining bitch deserves a damn toy. Isn’t twelve a little old to be playing with dolls? Sometimes I’d like to just drown them both, but David would never let that fly. Then I’d have to kill him and Mom would be on my case 24/7. God, I hate family.
I don’t know why I’m complaining about this in here. It kind of ruins the whole point of this little diary. But I’m just so frustrated, and I needed to put all that rage somewhere. If the car weren’t broken I’d go into town and write a whole different story, but nobody’s gonna be out here until Tuesday, and I ain’t walking five miles back and forth just to stain a little snow.
The tow truck driver is damn lucky I’m a nice guy, because the bill he handed me just for a bit of a ride makes me want to scream. Oh well. At least I got the damn doll. Maybe I can get the relatives to pay for this whole car situation. After all, it’s nearly Christmas.
December 22nd, 2010

Motels suck. But I got the room for free, so I guess I really shouldn’t complain. Sure, I had to convince Mr. Tanni to let me have the bed, but after a lengthy conversation with my good friend Mr. Salad Fork, he simply couldn’t say no. Nevermind the duct tape, that’s not important.
Watching the news tonight I saw that somebody finally found that car I drowned a couple months ago. They trudged it up and were hocked to find Robert Silva in the trunk. I hadn’t thought about him in a few weeks, but imagining his panic as water slowly fell in around him. Ah. The only way I can describe such pleasing thoughts is “orgasmic!”
Unfortunately tomorrow is going to be a hell of a buzz kill. David’s already being a little pissnaut about me being a day late for the fucking get together. I don’t see what the big deal is, I’ll get there before Christmas. The guy really needs to put a sock in it. Maybe I’ll do that for him.
December 27th, 2010

Oh, those fucking sneaky little ass blasters. I’m sitting here in a motel room I had to fucking pay for because that cock sucking brother of mine couldn’t take his fucking daughter with him on a business trip. He could take his skanky little wife, though. Rat bastard. Couldn’t even leave her with Mom because Lord knows if she’s ever fucking sober. I can’t fucking believe this. What the hell am I supposed to do? The kid’s a whining little bitch. Won’t shut the fuck up. I just want to kick her in the teeth and leave her under the bed for the goddamn roaches.
To make matters wore, I didn’t get to bring home a pie. The dick left me with his kid and took off with my fucking pie. The next time I see him, I’m gonna wring his scrawny little neck!
I don’t know why I even bother keeping this family alive. It’s not like I’d miss them if they all just burned into ash and blew away. I suppose it’s good to keep them around for the money, but damn, I wish they’d leave me alone for everything else.
In addition to all this bullshit, some “super detective“, guy named Anderson, thinks there’s a connection between all of the recent murders. No shit, Sherlock. Guess I fucked up and left some fingerprints on that one bitch’s jaw, so they’ve linked her and the drowned loser. No word on that chick I killed back in October, but the detective seems to think her disappearance is connected as well. I guess I’ve been a little too prolific lately. They don’t have video footage of me, so I should be safe for now. But fuck, they’re getting close.
January 3rd, 2010

Cynthia went to bed early tonight, so I thought I’d get out and have a little fun. Unfortunately I couldn’t find anybody who wasn’t still red-face full of holiday cheer, and that’s just no fun to work with at all. It’s impossibly difficult to wipe the joy out of someone who’s been overcome with optimism. It’s as though happiness breeds the strength of defiance. Without the admission of weakness in an individual, the end result seems soulless and is entirely unsatisfying.
Thankfully, just as I was calling it quits and had resigned myself to a long night of listless smoking, I witnessed an incompetent cashier being fired the old fashioned way: lots of big words with bad meanings. He shambled out of the store, and I practically skipped after him, knowing the dumb as nails lug wouldn’t notice.
To my dismay, the buffoon wasn’t wealthy enough to afford a car, and I ended up following him through the all-too-bright streets downtown. I nearly lost him inside a Chinese takeout place, but his blazing coat was tailor-made for hunting season. The man lumbered over the sidewalk for a few more blocks before disappearing into an apartment building.
This guy was great. He was practically dead already. Just perfect since I was beginning to feel a little out of practice. On any other day I may have been a little afraid of his unnaturally muscular build, but today he was too broken to even hold up his head. And after I’d had my fun, I thought I might just help myself to a couple spare ribs.
He wasn’t a fan of elevators, which brought me much delight, and the stairs were carpeted and easy to pad over without creaking or clacking. His exit was the third, and top, floor. I lingered there briefly, absorbing the arousing aroma of pork fried rice. Glad that I had, because some broad met the guy at his door. Some bimbo named Rebecca, who had apparently been skipping out on her husband. The man was startled. It wasn’t their usual day. The bitch told him it was fine. Her husband had passed away. They slipped into the apartment, forgetting to lock the door behind them.
I waited patiently, slouched against the wall, listening intently. My stomach began to rumble, being violently teased by the smells for so long, but I stayed put. This was something I needed, something I need badly. And I was going to get it. No amount of hunger would drive me away, not when I was this close to sweet, sweet satisfaction.
Their voices eventually faded, then became the sounds of sex in a distant room. Quietly I crawling into the apartment, carefully clicking the door shut behind me. I followed the deep moans, stopping briefly to survey the leftovers. The lewdness of the situation disturbed me, and I found myself beginning to boil. Is this the only way that people can enjoy each other’s company? Pummeling one another’s naked, stinking flesh with parts built for piss and shit?
I was struck with the burning desire to tear the door from its hinges and fix them both, like dogs in a pound, when a more delightful prospect crossed my mind. There were two ripe little fruits in there. I’d never done two at once before. Oh, how wonderful. The things I could do. One was fun, but two opened up a whole new world of possibilities! And here was me, surrounded by all sorts of wonderful toys to bring into the mix. My options were totally without limits.
They jumped as I crashed through the door, splintering the cheap wood with the heel of my foot. The reaction was so jerky I thought he’d break off inside her, but to his relief it slipped out smoothly. They had only seconds before I was upon them, forcing one hand around her throat and tackling her to the ground. Her head cracked off the windowsill as she went down, and I saw her eyes roll back.
The man leapt to his feet after a moment’s hesitation, but off the wrong side of the bed. For him. The knife I had found in his kitchen ate through the flesh of his foot like a famished wolf, burrowing deep into whatever the hell that floor was made of. He grabbed the handle and tried to pull the blade up, but the pain was too much. With the mane safely occupied I turned my attention to the woman and asked if she liked the cold. She managed to choke out a “no.”
Now for the fun part. The moment I had been waiting for. I turned to the man, twisted the knife in his foot and relished in his agony, then yanked the girl up by the hair, making sure he was paying good attention. I pushed the window, which had a wonderful view of some tourist’s backyard, open, and slowly dragged her hand out over the frame. Carefully I curled all but one finger, turned back and gave the a smile to the man on the floor, and crushed her pointer beneath the window. The crack of snapping bone almost drowned out his desperate protests and her frantic wail.
She soon ran out of fingers, but I hadn’t yet had my fill. I grabbed her leg and jerked upward, being sure that her skull thwacked on the floor. Her head lolled as blood rushed from her nostrils and I set to work pounding each of her toes into useless, twisted stumps.
I dragged the whore out of the room, leaving the man whimpering alone in the dark while her screams filled the air. When I returned for him, he’d managed to free his foot and crawl halfway under the bed. I clicked my tongue and grabbed him by the ankle, ripping him out into the moonlight. The glass window shattered under the weight of his skull, carving his cheeks like a pumpkin.
His breathing began to hasten as I pulled him out of the room and hoisted him onto the counter, where he could see his bitch’s face melting over the right side burner. The left one was already nice and red, boiling a pot of water large enough to bathe a baby. The man screamed as steam rose from his lobster-red back. He gave me one last, gloriously fearful expression before I picked him up and rammed his face into the stovetop.
Tonight I think I done well. I even managed to stroll right on by as police cruisers blurred down the street. This night is going to be with me for a long, long time.
January 5th, 2011

I’ve been thinking long and hard about why I do what I do. It’s wrong and disgusting, according to most, but it feels good to me. Why does it feel good? I think that to myself as I imagine being in their shoes, being beaten and brutalized by myself. Why do I enjoy making others feel that way? What is it about the blood smeared across their face and the withered look of broken bones that makes me so euphoric?
It’s taken me nearly a year of thinking to figure this out. A year of hiding from society, of knowing that I am the lion that feeds on the sheep. Finally I think I’ve come to a solution, an answer to my own riddle. I’m not sure if I’m unsettled or relieved by my answer, or if it’s true, but I can rest for a bit having some conclusion.
It isn’t the killing that fills me with ecstasy. Not the blood, the limp bodies, the fractured bones, or severed limbs. I used to think it was. Play that as some self-justification for what I was doing. But now I realize that it isn’t the death that drives me crazy. It’s the fear.
The vital moment of each encounter, the one thing I look forward to above all others is seeing terror twinkle in their eyes. To watch their loves flow before their very soul at the thought that their fragile existence is about to crumble down into dust is the climactic moment. The rest is a chore. Lugging their bodies around, cleaning up after I’m done, making sure nobody saw what happened. As much fun as tossing off a condom.
No, I live to consume their nightmares. I live to cause more nightmares. I live to be those nightmares. Fear is food, and I am always one to eat heartily.
January 9th, 2011

Darkness must run in the family. Cynthia has a fascination with stabbing the mice that scurry across my floor. Not that I’m complaining. I just wish she wouldn’t leave their limbs on the counter. In a way I feel kind of bad for the little furballs. She never makes it quick. The few times I sat and watched, she threw the little rodents around for hours, cutting slits in their ears and tying their tails to a fan blade. If one was dumb enough to bite her, it was slammed on the floor until dizzied, then tightly squeezed in my woodworking vice until the bones popped out of its thinly stretched skin.
It’s interesting to me that she plays like this while her dolls remain untouched and sealed in plastic. I had always thought of myself as a bit of a black sheep, but to see my niece consumed with the same evil. It almost makes me proud of her, and at peace with myself.
Maybe when she’s older I’ll take her with me. An apprentice of sorts. Someone to continue my legacy when I’m gone. Someone who will carry on my techniques and system. But for now she’s too much of a liability. She’s too likely to brag or tell her parents or rat me out if she gets caught. No, for now she will develop on her own. But maybe someday.
January 11th, 2011

Goddamn I can’t believe that just happened. Fucking bastard nearly got me arrested. Stupid little prick. Oh just. FUCK How did I even fuck up like that? How did I fuck up? I never fuck up! Jesus… How was I supposed to know he had a gun under that counter? Stupid bastard. STUPID BASTARD!
Whatever. It’s cool. I got away. It’s all good, because I got away. All good. They didn’t see me. Only he saw me, and that’s okay. I don’t usually hang around there. Nobody will know me. Nobody will find me.
Fucking Christ.
I’m so fucking screwed who am I kidding? It’s over, it’s all over. I’ll be fucking lucky to get a prison sentence. There’s no way out of this fucking mess. I’m done. My career is done. They’ll be here any damn second to get me. What the hell do I say? What can get me out of this one?
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
So fucking boned.
January 12th, 2011

I really wish I’d slept last night. I really wish I had. Would have made it so much easier to deal with that psychotic freaking detective. Who the fuck does he think he is, pulling a gun on me in my own home? No cuffs, no rights, just a whole shit ton of yelling about paying for my sins, about remembering what I’d done. The guy was a fucking lunatic. I don’t even know if he really new I was the killer or if he just wanted to pump somebody with lead. Damn cops.
He had one of my credit cards, so I definitely fucked up somewhere. Probably last night now that I think about it. Yeah. Yeah. I’d pretended to buy some beer and a pack of ribs. Now I remember. I must have left the card on the counter when the clerk pulled out his rifle. Stupid mistake, stupid mistake. This Detective Anderson guy never would have found me if I just hadn’t fucked up so bad. Ugh. And now what do I do? I can’t leave this asshole rotting in my kitchen. He’s making a damn mess. If I’m not careful about this, shit could get a lot worse.
Before this asshole I had a chance at prison. Not sure how glamorous that would be, but damn, I’d be alive. I mean, they put Manson in prison, and he’s killed so many more people than I’ll confess to. But there’s a goddamn cop on my floor. What the fuck do I do with that?
Maybe they won’t know. Maybe I can hide this shit. Kill his fucking car, get the body the hell out of here. Yeah. Yeah. Shit to do. Fuck. Fuck. Not getting arrested. Son of a bitch. No way. No way. I’ll burn it. Just fucking burn it.
This is it for me. I called the paramedics but they won’t get here soon enough. It’s getting hard to stay awake, and my guts are making a huge mess all over the place. Guess I don’t have to worry about being arrested.
I can’t believe she did this to me. The mice were on thing, but I never thought that bitch would shove a knife into my stomach. Should have slept with my eyes open. Oh well. Too late now. I broke her neck, so at least I got one last kill out of the deal.
Hopefully someone will find this. They shouldn’t miss it, I’m leaving it right on the table. The world must know about my art. My name must be put with such beautiful tapestries. If only I could craft more. If only.
Oh well

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