Confessions of a Killer

By Lioncat84

 

 

From the time I was born, I always had a bit of a problem fitting in with other people.  Hell, not being able to fit in was the reason I was born.  I was perfectly happy swimming around inside mother, kicking back and getting all my food through a tube.  Then I got too big and all of a sudden I was squeezed out into a world of bright lights and my cord got cut.  I wasn’t really too happy about this, no, but it was just a minor setback.  Someone as brilliant as I am would surely be able to get food some other way.  I was starting to feel better about this whole birth thing there for a moment.  Unfortunately, a minute later I was given the lesson that powerful strangers can cause you pain for no apparent reason.  How did they know I wouldn’t want that foreskin later?  Why didn’t they ever consult me?  I was still brooding over this when I got taken home.  Things only went from bad to worse, because at home I was exposed to relatives.  Ugh, relatives were those mouth-breathing imbecilic plebeian buffoons who thought the only way I could understand them was if they squealed and spoke nonsense.  Fuckers.  I hate them all.

Eventually, my mouth caught up with my brain in terms of language ability.  People decided they could lay off on the idiot talk and I was moderately happy.  True, the only intellectual stimulation I had at the time was Sesame Street, but at least it was better than having to listen to baby talk.  I was able to enjoy Sesame Street somewhat. Okay, so I enjoyed it mainly by imagining Big Bird killing Snuffalupagus and dragging his body out so people would know that he wasn’t made up, but I did enjoy it.  Heh, I even wrote a sketch for it.  Big Bird laid out some of Snuffie’s internal organs and a chicken gizzard, and then that stupid “One of these things is not like the others” song played.  Now that would make for exciting television and teach kids about anatomy at the same time!  I’d have to say those years were some of the happiest of my life.  Sad, really, since I wasn’t all that happy, but look at it this way: If you normally had AIDS, you’d think of a time when you only had herpes with fondness. Then I had to go to school.

Ah, elementary school, that time in one’s life when one learns to read, write, do math, and have all independent thought crushed.  Since I was already able to read, write, and do math, they were able to just go right into crushing my independent thought.  Oh man, is it just me or is elementary school just a giant indoctrination into becoming a mindless drone?  Whatever the case, they made us walk everywhere together in single-file, and we all had to go to the bathroom at the same time, and of course they made us chant things together in class.  Now, I knew perfectly well at the time that being able to memorize something and being able to understand it were two very different things, but they certainly wouldn’t change their teaching methods for one tiny detail like the fact that they didn’t work.  I guess I put the entire establishment on red alert when I had the audacity to question whether this was the best way to learn.  But that wasn’t what got me in trouble.

In my defense, it wasn’t my fault all the other kids were a bunch of retarded jackasses.  But noooooooo, since I was more inclined to read or stay by myself rather than subject myself to having to listen to the other kids, I was “antisocial and lacking the interpersonal skills necessary for public school.”  So with the kind of logic that can only be found in a brainless bureaucracy, I got sent to a “special” school.  If they really thought I needed help developing my people skills, this sure as hell wasn’t the right place to send me. 

The kids at the “special” school made the kids at the public school sound like Albert fuckin’ Einstein.  Most of these kids couldn’t even control their drool or bowels, much less engage me in intelligent conversation.  I tried to get through the hellish experience by mocking my less intelligent classmates, which was all of them.  This might have worked at public school, I suppose. (Hmm, if I’d tried it at public school, I not only would have enjoyed myself, but I wouldn’t have ended up at the special school.  How crazy is that?) Unfortunately, I hadn’t, and at the special school nobody was intelligent enough to understand my insults, even after I tried my best to dumb them down to the sub-primate level.  But no, even then, they just stared at me, with the drool running down their chins.  Where’s the fun in comparing a child’s mother to a female dog when they just stare at you and offer to share their letter blocks with you?  There isn’t any, let me tell you.  Eventually I had to get away from the verbal humiliation and just rely on heavy physical beatings. 

Shit yeah!  I had finally found something I could be happy doing at this awful place!  I could beat these kids almost to death, and then when an adult came by, simply tell them that the kid fell out of a chair.  They always believed me, of course.  After all, most of these idiots had no motor skills to speak of, and fell down all the time.  Also, the adults were normal people, and therefore pretty stupid themselves.  Even so, I was still cautious.  I had nothing but scorn for the adults in this place, but I knew even they would figure out that something was wrong if every kid who ever “played” with me “fell out of their chair.”  I was able to hold myself to only beating up one kid every month.  It was far less than I would have liked, but it was enough.

I was in the special school for several years, but eventually I swallowed my pride long enough to act “functional” like they wanted me to.  In other words, I had to act like a total idiot who could never think for himself, but who wasn’t as stupid as the other kids.  My reward was to be sent back to a normal school.  By now, my age said I was ready for junior high and my IQ said I was ready for college.  You can guess which one they used to determine my grade level. 

I had an idea that I could get through school by simply being quiet.  No matter how I longed to tell the other kids, the teachers, and the administration how asinine they were, I knew by now that pointing out idiocy could only get me in trouble.  Also, it would have made my voice hoarse, and I hate that.  I denied my feelings through junior high and made it into high school.  Strangely, even though high school seems to be a time when a lot of people are miserable, it was the second happiest time of my childhood.

Okay, I still found lots to hate, such as cliques, idiotic obsession with school athletics, and having to get up way too early.  But I’ll leave those subjects for the Goths, stoners, and other losers to whine about.  High school was good for me because I got to pick my own classes, instead of having to learn the same thing as all of the other kids.  You’ve probably figured out by now that I like learning, and hate having to slow down to wait for others to catch up.  In high school, I didn’t have to.  I took lots of advanced courses, but my passion was anatomy.  I made perfect grades, and the teacher even told me I should become a doctor.  I’ve always wondered what they would have done if they knew the real reason I wanted to know so much about the body.

I graduated from high school with honors.  Really big surprise there.  I was valedictorian, but my speech isn’t one that you would see quoted in the local newspaper.  The crowd hated my speech, and some people even rushed the podium in a wonderful example of exactly what I was talking about.  I wasn’t too surprised; since I gave a lot of good advice, and good advice is something nobody ever wants to hear.  With my high GPA added to my perfect ACT score, getting accepted to a college was a cakewalk.  So of course I went to college.

I had high hopes that college would be full of other smart people.  I would have even settled for people of average intellect.  Unfortunately, I was pretty dumb when I had these hopes, and I soon discovered that the whole place was infested with imbeciles, idiots, and morons.  Even the professors would have lasted about as long as France if I had engaged them in a battle of wits.  Even that didn’t push me over the edge.

You know, I’ve always hated snoring.  I don’t know what it is about it, but it just makes me mad.  I know I don’t think it’s too noisy, since I go to sleep every night wearing headphones, listening to loud music.  It doesn’t really matter what makes it so annoying, though, it just is.  Something about the sound of someone struggling to breathe makes me want to end their struggle so I can finally get some sleep.

With my roommate, snoring was just the beginning.  He also moaned and groaned, talked, and even yelled in his sleep.  Now, you know how I think most people are idiots and therefore hate listening to them talk?  Well, just imagine how annoying it is to me when the thing directing their speech is the subconscious mind.  I tried to put up with it, I really did.  I even made an analysis of what he was probably dreaming about based on his incoherent yells, but I grew tired of that as well.  One night, I happened to have a terrible headache and wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep.  I was just starting to get into that stage where you’re not quite awake and not quite asleep when he brought me out of it with some idiotic ramble about drug rehab.  I knew perfectly well that he didn’t do drugs and never had, so this was especially maddening.  So I got up, grabbed his pillow, and held it over his face.

It’s amazing how active one becomes when you’re threatening them with their life.  I don’t think he had ever done anything more active than walk to the refrigerator and back to his recliner, but he tried to resist.  Fortunately, I’m stronger and knew exactly where to apply pressure, and he soon lost the fight.  At that moment, I felt very good.  I had solved the problem, and as soon as I took care of a few things, I could go to sleep.  I had taken my first step into what would be a very long journey.

From my understanding, some dorm rooms these days have windows that you can’t open very far, to prevent suicides.  Sounds pretty stupid to me, since if someone is really going to kill themselves, they could easily just break the glass and cut through the screen, or just do it some other way.  However, when I was in college, our windows opened all the way.  That’s how my roommate was able to leap to his death after the stress of college living got to be too much for him.  Of course, I had already killed him before I shoved him out of the window, but that’s not the conclusion that the coroners came up with.  As I watched him plummet to the ground, I realized how much I missed beating up the retarded kids in charter school.  Then as I watched the blood spill out of his body, I realized this was much, much better. 

My first kill was very satisfying, but it would pale in comparison to the ones I would do later.  For one thing, the murder had been relatively clean, and he didn’t bleed any until he was already dead.  Fortunately, others would put up much more of a fight.  Bloody murders are my favorite.  I’ve used guns before, but it’s never been something I enjoyed as much as getting up close and personal with a knife, and later a katana.  Nothing gives me more pleasure than to dominate someone who is trying their best to resist domination.

As I killed more and more people, the police began to take notice.  I read in the newspaper that they thought I was a rapist who killed the girls so they couldn’t rat me out.  This just plain pisses me off.  For one thing, I kill just as many guys as girls.  I guess you could say I’m an equal opportunity murderer.  The big reason, however, is the fact that I am NOT a rapist.  I would never mix sex and murder, because I think it would cheapen them both.  I am able to get a big rush off of the physical act of murder, yes, but it is mostly a mental thrill, as I dominate their soul and mind at the same time as I dominate their physical bodies.  Apparently this is also how rapists feel about what they do, but murder is a far nobler act than rape.

       I eventually graduated from college, once again with honors.  I moved to New York City and started working at a butcher shop.  It’s great work, but I don’t know if I should really mix business with pleasure.  I know it isn’t using my degree at all, that’s for sure.  Oh well, things can’t always be perfect.

I haven’t really been having as much fun out of my little hobby as I used to.  I had to change my style when I moved.  I used to be able to invest a lot of personal attention into each deadly scenario, and the end result was a body that even the police had to admire as a macabre piece of art.  But now I just don’t have the time, and even if I did have it, I still couldn’t do it with quite the same style anymore.  It’d be kind of a dead giveaway if all these marvelous pieces of art started turning up so soon after I had graduated and moved over here.  Still, a little piece of me dies every time I stifle my creativity and simply kill somebody instead of enjoying myself.    

            I’ve enjoyed talking about all of this with you, but I have to tell you now that you’re one of the dumbest people I’ve met.  Shouldn’t you have run away after I told you about killing all those people?  I wouldn’t have let you get away, no, but running away seems to be the logical thing to do.  You have to die now.  Oh, don’t look so upset.  It’s an inevitable part of life.  Everybody dies.  It’s nothing personal in your case.  I actually rather like you, but I just can’t have you telling anyone about our little chat, now can I?  I’ll even make it a painless death, just for you.  Close your eyes, and it will all be over soon.

Oh, by the way, I lied about the painless death part.  If I learned anything in junior high, it’s that denying your identity will eventually drive you crazy.  I think it’s time I was true to my own self again.