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Nine times I’ve done it. Nine times I’ve watched the life drain away from my victim’s eyes; each time a little more euphoric than the next. I live for the moment their heart stops. That’s the best part for me. The moment the light leaves their eyes is the greatest thrill of all; a sweet relief, if you will. But nine is only a small number. I would have done it more if I could, but it’s not an easy exercise. It’s not just about the kill, you see. Each one takes weeks of planning.
The first step is to select the victim. This is perhaps the hardest task in itself. God forbid you simply pluck any old bimbo off the street. No. She has to be perfect. It’s very hard to find the perfect girl—she has to look just like her. Blonde hair, hazel eyes, those cute little dimples in her cheeks. Oh how I love those dimples. But it’s still not that simple. No, there’s so much more to this complicated process that your uninformed minds would struggle to understand.
And now that I’ve finally found her, that’s when the real fun begins. See, it’s important to take your time planning your next move. I observe her for days, sometimes even weeks. I wait until I’m familiar with her daily routine and she becomes predictable. They’re always so predictable. But she never suspects. No, I’m careful. Lurking in the shadows, always just a few steps behind; I’m like a lion stalking its prey before he pounces.
I’ve never enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed the last girl. After two weeks of observing, I was finally able to make my move. As soon as she left the house that morning, I went in through the kitchen window—the one she always leaves unlocked. She was going to work so I had all day to prepare. I probably didn’t need to do it so soon, I could have waited a few hours. I was far too excited for that though. I took my time laying out the tools and the plastic sheets to cover the room and then all that was left to do was wait.
Four o’clock soon came around. A rush of excitement pulsed through my body as I heard that all too familiar sound of the key in the lock. Showtime.
You know, it’s funny. They always try to run. I don’t know why they run. I mean, where do they expect to go? I have them trapped. I guess it’s nice, though. The fact that they manage to hold onto a glimmer of hope.
It was the frenzied panic in her eyes that really got me going. It filled me with so much joy. Her eyes bulged as she realised what was about to happen to her. There was no escape.
It didn’t take long to secure her onto the table I’d so carefully prepared. I unzipped my tool kit and ran my hands over the cold, metal objects that lay inside. Which one to use today? I couldn’t decide, so I asked for her opinion. Her pathetic pleas caused a laugh to slip from my mouth as my hand hovered over my favourite knife.
The pleasure overwhelmed me as I made the first cut. I felt euphoric as I watched the terror in her hazel eyes. The sight of the blood trickling down her soft, pale skin was almost too much. The screams only encouraged me. They sounded like a heavenly song to my ears.
Unfortunately, they soon disappeared. Instead, I was left with a motionless girl beneath me. Her lifeless body was covered in blood and bruises. I could only sit and admire my handy work.
So there it was. The fun part was over, and now it was time for the disposal. I did it the same as always:
- Cut the body into more manageable chunks
- Place the chunks in a bag and clear the plastic from the room
- Dispose of the chunks in the incinerator
It was foolproof. The plastic sheets ensured there was no evidence to find and the incinerator completely got rid of the body. Genius.
I bet you’re sat there wondering. "Why does he do it?" You may ask. Maybe your think it’s for power or to get back at her? Well, that’s partially true. It was definitely true of the first couple. But that’s not why I’m still doing it after all this time. No, it’s become an addiction. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.
My addiction is my master. It controls every inch of my being: my body, my soul and my mind. I tried to quit once but the urges were too strong to resist. It’s a part of me now, this is who I am, what I’ve become. Some people are addicted to drugs, others are addicted to alcohol. Me? I’m addicted to murder.
So, what do you want to call me? A psychopath? A murderer? A torturer? They’re just some of the most common misconceptions people like to make about me. But you see, I am the real victim here. I’m a slave to my addiction.
But believe me, I am not my master's only slave. Others exist just like me.