The mind of an American Serial killer

There I lay, untenably engulfed in the hopeless wallow of my deep thoughts. Or at least in the wallow of the thoughts I tried to think. The pain, it completely took all sense out of me and filled me with more of itself. It had somehow merged with my blood and coursed through my body in a somewhat well ordered attempt to turn it against itself. I can still see them now, the satisfying look in their eyes. Before the spectacle took place, the shadow of their expectation was evident. I saw it in their brows and eyes, the way they moved and talked, their auras but most especially, my sense. You see, I had always had a sense for these things ever since my first “incident.” It never occurred to me as paranoia, but more of a strength born of necessity. The necessity to live by the death of others. This sense I chose to ignore however, in the excitement of my soon coming release. I consider it a good mistake as you will soon come to find out. In due time I was knocked unconscious by the pain as a large crowd proceeded to surround me. More of them wishing for my slow death, well preferred over survival. I cared not, but could greatly do without the great noise the ruckus made.

My days in the ward were mostly spent cleaning and tidying up the desolate place. Most would have easily said it was as a result of me having nothing to do or “ to prove his non-existent sanity,” as the psychiatrist would’ve said. Only I knew why. Now it may come as a bit of a shock, but the dismembering and disposing of two bodies both weighing no less than a hundred and ninety pounds each is tough work. The toughest of it all is the cleaning of the scene. It had to be cleaner than it was before the so-called “incident” occurred. In the minor hour or two I spent cleaning the area surrounding the front door, where it had happened, I had seemingly picked up a habit. I found it entertaining, the steps required to achieve a final result resembled that of my favorite hobby and when anyone asked why, especially the psychiatrist and his assistants, I always told them, “it is because I see blood everywhere.” I did this to intrigue them, and intrigued they were. The looks on their faces, pathetically resembling those of people who think they are getting somewhere. I couldn’t laugh enough.

To their surprise and disdain, I was treated and recovered. I demanded to proceed with my planned objective. A motive they strongly vetoed under the false premise of remaining there for “further recovery.” I listened to them not, and escaped from the hospital when the opportunity arose. An attempt on my life? One they had already made, and I undoubtedly wasn’t going to give them another chance. Besides, they had already failed miserably.

I had escaped, with a lingering score to settle. The psychiatrist, I had always known it was him who planned the attack with the help of his cowardly minions and so I collected as much information on him as I could and forged a plan to dye his white coat dark red. I did all this while living out of an abandoned warehouse, as a fugitive(apparently the assistants had reported a murderous man of unstable mental condition having escaped his site of treatment), and stealing from an orchard and goat farm to survive. Both of which were poorly protected, therefore providing me with a lifetime of supplies in food and water as they were on the outskirts of the town, meaning their owners found it unnecessary to invest in the places’ security. This would prove to be a costly decision however, as I proceeded to pick the orchard clean and feast endlessly on chevon.

Among what I had learned about this psychiatrist were his address, bus route and home telephone number. I had accumulated this information through a series of undercover trips to town posing as a government official conducting a survey of some unreal sort. I however planned to use this information to murderous effect. After making a few phone calls to his house (all of which were picked by his gullible old aunt) with inquiries in order to gather information on his schedule, I lay in ambush for him just behind the site of the customary right turn he made into the street on which his house lay. I waited three hours for his appearance, yet not a single fiber in my body yelled “fatigue.” Instead it was a stampeding excitement.

At eight in the evening I caught sight of him, heavily betrayed by his overly gloomy eminence. Incidentally he had taken sight of me too, almost as if he had been expecting me very eagerly. To the greatest of my surprises, he did not run. The sheer sight of me had killed his meager hope. You see in that moment his thesis was proven right, but he was to be the first victim of whatsoever he had “prophesied.”

“No,” he said repeatedly, with a great stutter in his voice, looking in both belief and disbelief.

“The pestilence my dear friend, has chosen you,” I said in a voice so demonic, it may have driven chills down both our spines, but his twice as much.

I waited not. As he stood there like a tall tree about to be cut down, I grabbed a brick from a nearby construction site and proceeded to flatten his face to about the thickness of a sheet of paper. I had originally planned to strangle him, but in the heat of the moment it could be said that I had caught wind of some inspiration. I had only ignored my “sense” in order to create the perfect circumstance to rid the world of this horrid beast. The “moment” was greatly relished by the demon in me, but in the end it was neither worthwhile nor satisfying to the human. He died quickly and his blood was more of a light red color.

As obscene as it may sound, in the beginning the psychiatrist had in some way given me great hope. Hope for a complete change. A banishment of my urges. This hope was unfortunately non-existent for the personality the man bore was of one possibly more possessed than I. In essence my time spent there was more than enough for my demons to place a seal on their work. I was out and feeling a heightened urge to kill, worse than it had ever been in the past.

Immediately after I fled the scene, I changed clothes and leapt on the next train to Hampshire. This was where I was to meet and work for my uncle Baron Fitzgerald. I knew little about him except that he had made his fortune in wine distilleries (odd for a man who I never once saw take a sip of wine) and was of prominent position politically. After three hours on the train, thinking about probabilities such as his demeanor and outlook towards my position, it came to a grinding halt. I got off, shoving past people in the process. I then proceeded to begin the lengthy walk to his house while wearing a hat that greatly shielded my face from the eyes of a great many people. Mind you, I was still a fugitive at large and could not afford to risk being seen.

Throughout my trip it greatly surprised me how sanity and insanity could easily be exchanged depending on which was necessary for completing what task. For example, during the process of acquiring intelligence prior to murdering the psychiatrist, I could not have been more sane. My clothing, gait and aura not only exhibited sanity by great legitimacy. I pondered over this all while walking towards No. 52 Elmerson Street. The house, it was no house but more like a castle. It stood on a good hectare(more accurately 2 acres if my exaggeration is to be ignored). I rang the bell and an arid man of average height with the look of an escaped convict (surely I wasn’t one to judge) on his face. He invited me in with just as much aridity as his appearance echoed. It was no surprise to me that he cut straight to the chase, bringing my mind, ever wandering from the scenery of the interior, back to order.

“You are here to work for me as somewhat of a butler,” he said in a very hoarse voice.

“Your work will entail the upkeep of the house while in my general servitude. Your pay will be your food and board.”

I expected nothing less.

“Perfect sir,” I said as he turned his back towards me and walked away.

I resumed work soon after; the man himself was not a workload as he did very little except sleep, eat and work. The house however, was a different story. To be haunted by demons fueling a murderous instinct or to be tasked with cleaning dusty rooms with priceless artifacts, which no harm whatsoever are to befall. I will choose the former a thousand times over. I had started work a week prior and it was no “crystal stair.” The Baron was not a pleasant man. I had taken lives, but him; he took my faith in humanity. The coldness of his gaze, and the maddening effect of his ugly left eye that seemed to be falling out its socket. I had ignored it long, but greatly wondered if I still could further into the future. These factors alone would have been enough for me to put him on the list of death;if only he was not my benefactor.

After a month there, it became clear to me that in some way the winning of his trust was of great necessity. Therefore, I sought the assistance of Ben. A local man of noticeably poor health but good stature I had met in a pub on my well deserved day off. He seemed unemployed, poverty stricken and seemed to have an aura of eagerness. For these reasons I approached him, pitched my idea and in an unsurprising turn of events, got him on board. It was agreed that he would be paid handsomely, in the tune of a thousand dollars. I had no money. Hence, it was my intent to jilt him at the last moment.

I got to work, keenly planning the anatomy of the coming “event.” My plan was simple, and engendered an evil genius. One associable with my glaring intent to murder. This, I however had to keep in check. The mission was to be a clean one. I could not afford a recurrence of my previous flaws. Not there, not then and certainly not near the Baron who had been most gracious in his assistance. I intended to have Ben come into the house through an opening in the garden that I had made. When he was in, he was to steal the Baron’s most prized item, his ate wife’s emerald bracelet. What Ben did not know however, was that the Baron and I would be on our way to the dining room where he kept the bracelet. Here we would catch Ben in the act. I would make a sluggish attempt at catching him and he would make his way to the opening he came in from and escape. I had imagined that the fear from the experience would make him too afraid to come demand compensation. Hence, when it came to the matter of pay, I was absolved. You see, the Baron loved his late wife quite greatly. The bracelet had been his wedding gift to her. He loved to imagine she was him during dinnertime; for this reason he always kept the bracelet within sight while eating his supper. All did not go as planned as you will soon come to find out.

I informed Ben on the details of our objective. His eagerness came through as he did not do as much as bat an eye and agreed quite blindly. Now I doubt it was eagerness, perhaps it may have been hunger. A date was selected and we remained in a continual state of preparation. The day came, all went as planned until the Baron decided to arm himself with a gun when I had informed him of the presence of the intruder. At the moment, I doubted it would have had an adverse effect on my non-murderous plans as I had intended to stop him before he could use it. Besides, I had seen him shoot and could testify that if he attempted to, he would miss the target by a great deal. He was no shot.

We caught up to Ben and in a serious and unplanned turn of events, as Ben was about to make his escape, the Baron lunged forward and threw the entirety of his weight at him. Ben was almost knocked senseless. The Baron stood and fetched the gun which had been knocked out of his hand during his short “wrestling” bout. “You must finish this,” he said as he handed me the gun. I had never known him to be near as diabolical as I was. I mean, I understood he cherished the memory of his late wife greatly but never imagined it would awaken the cold-hearted killer in him. I gazed at him deeply, wondering if my “urges'' were a somewhat genetic, mental disorder of some sort.

“Finish it,” he yelled immediately, calling me back to reality and order.

Ben lay there, desolate and hopeless, staring into the spiraled interior of the barrel. Hoping, just hoping that he would wake up in a pool of sweat and remark greatly about how awful a nightmare he had had. For some reason he did not think to expose me. I believed it was because he knew if he made such an attempt, I would not have let him finish it. I stood straight, gun in hand, mind made, yet clinching to the last bit of humanity I possessed.