I always had a fascination with the human body.  How the muscles work, the different parts of guys and girls.  The usual stuff.  So, the week before my twelfth birthday, I went to a house in the neighboring town, where I knew there were a set of twins, brother and sister, always stayed home alone on Thursday nights from 10 pm to 1:30 am, give or take 17 minutes.  They were almost sixteen years old.  Tomorrow was their birthday.

I wanted to give them a present they would never forget, for the rest of their lives… which would only be about twenty more minutes.  I had watched them for a total of three weeks now, and they seemed to follow an almost exact pattern, other than Saturdays.  Their father seemed to travel for work, and only came home on Sundays and every other Saturday.  On Thursdays, the mother would tell her kids she was going to a friend’s house.  In a way, she wasn’t lying… other than the fact that her friend was apparently living in a hotel in the shady part of town on Thursdays, male, about 15 years older than her, and seemed to enjoy a bit more touching than most friends usually do.

I had a plan… well, more a semblance of a plan. About a year before, I found an old flip phone that still had minutes on it.  I kept it, along with a charger I took from my school teacher’s purse – she still thinks it was Jimmy Garfunkel, the class clown from 5th grade - and waited for a time that I would have to use them.  I decided to leave an anonymous tip to the police about a few screams from the house I was soon going to be entering.  I would make the call about 5 minutes after I left the house, use a recording that I made using a voice changer, a recorder, and then recorded the sound of the recording through yet another voice changer.  Then, once I sent the phone call, I would put the phone, wiped clean of all traces of me whatsoever, in the back of a car going down the street.

To get into the house would be easy… I had done it for the past 2 weeks that I had been watching them, using the hide-a-key under the doormat on the back step.  For the past 6 days I had been watching them sleep.  They had looked so peaceful, so ignorant of the fact that their pathetic little lives were about to be claimed by eternal darkness.

My lust for their deaths was overpowering, the realization of the fact that they would be powerless before me only making the feeling consume my dreams.  The time for their deaths was now.

I took an old pair of gloves I got from the school lost and found box, as well as the phone, a six-inch bladed kitchen knife my mom always used for cutting up chicken, a short length of rope, a black handkerchief, and a bottle of Oxy Clean Bleach.  The dark blue hoodie, sneakers (covered in black cloth booties), and my blue jeans would be accompanying me as well.  Before I left my house, I made sure my 2 older sisters were asleep, or at least texting, and that my dad was in his usual trance massaging his wife in bed.  That would last well into the morning, so I didn’t have to worry about them.  I left the house the way I always do; via the back door.  Our front door was stuck, due to the crappy workmanship carpenter that didn’t take into account the expansion of the door when it got colder.  And let me tell you, it was cold. The brisk fall day had turned into a butt-nipping chilly night.  The actual temperature wasn’t so cold, but with wind-chill, it felt like it was just nigh of freezing. 

This means it’s the perfect time for a murder, the cold allowing the bodies to freeze and give less evidence to time of death or DNA, few people out on the streets to see me, and the ground would reveal little to no evidence as to who was there.

I made my way down the barren streets, confident in my ability to defend myself, as well as my ability to stay unseen.  In the middle of the night, with no streetlights, cars, dogs, or people out, there wasn’t a lot to hide from.  Even as I placed my cloven foot onto the concrete back porch that led the way up to their door I had no fear of being caught.  The moment that I opened and closed that door, however, I wasn’t so sure.
There was something right in front of me.  Something that I couldn’t quite place in the dark, smudgy world their kitchen had become.  I stood there, attempting to process the information I was given.  There is a large… something, that I feel like I recognize but cannot place.  I am in a house that I have been watching for several weeks now, and that I have been sneaking in for the past several days using the key under the welcome mat in front of the door on the back porch.  The house is owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Ashe, with a son and a daughter that are twins.  Mr. Ashe works as a lawyer all over the US, and Mrs. Ashe is a stay at home mom that cooks and makes or sells dresses in her free time… Ooooohhhhhhh.  That’s what it was.  The mom’s mannequin for making the dresses was placed directly in front of me.
 
Knowing that is the cause for a very confusing and slightly disturbing 15 seconds, I almost awoke my victims before their time with a fit of laughter, which was fortunately avoided with a will power I was afraid that I did not possess.  To get around the cheap plastic form, I would have to go up the stairs, which are intensely noisy when stepped upon.  I cannot afford that.  The only chance I have at getting to the bedrooms down the hall and to the left without being heard is to slowly lift the cold, lifeless form that would have to be placed back down with utmost care, due to the lack of real feet that would allow it to balance.  Once this is done, I slowly creep down the hall, being sure to step only on the boards directly touching the walls, so as not to make noise.  I turn left into the girl’s - Jane’s - room.  Her door is open, just like every night for the past few weeks.  And her boyfriend is sleeping by her side, in bed, just like he has been every Thursday night. 
After I am in the room, by her bed, I pull out my rope and my knife.  With my gloved hands, I placed the blade of my knife in the spine in the back of the neck of the boyfriend.  He barely even flinched.  His death was instantaneous. A soldier’s death for the boyfriend.  The sister would not be getting off so easy.  With the hands of the boyfriend still around her waist, I put the handkerchief around the sound asleep girl that would be waking up to something far less pleasant than the usual wakeup call from her boyfriend.

Instead of just tying the handkerchief around her mouth, I go a little higher.  Her eyes.  That is the way she usually takes it with her boyfriend.  I tie it tight enough that it will stay on, but loose enough that she will think it is part of the usual foreplay.  She moans, saying, “You ready for another round again?  This is definitely my birthday.”  She tries to get up, but I push her back down.  “Just a second, baby. You don’t want to ruin the big surprise!” I whisper in my best imitation of her boyfriend, which isn’t hard for me to do, since I have always been really good at voices.  She purrs, even though she seems a bit confused at the fact that the voice she knew to be her boyfriend’s didn’t seem to be coming from the right direction.  I take my time getting ready, knowing she was still tired from just falling asleep about 25 minutes ago.  In the time it takes me to make the noose the way I want it, I have already decided that she deserves to see the face of her killer before she dies.  With my knife in hand, I lean in close, tell her to take off her blindfold, and wait.  She does as I say, and while she is letting her eyes adjust, I thrust the knife into her throat, directly into her windpipe, severing several major arteries, as well as her ability to scream, let alone breathe, in that one final moment.  She screams as loud as she can, which, in all truth, is little more than a gurgle as she chokes on her own blood.  Her spirit shows as she attempts to revive herself and tries to get at me with her nails. I am already seen in her eyes as the devil. 

It takes her just a few moments to stop struggling, drowning in her own blood.  The fight in her has left, and to think that she was just 16 years and 1-minute old.  I smile at her, and in that moment, she dies.  The world seems to see taking a life as an awful deed, preferring to just leave the thoughts that we all know are there in the wind, never truly considering what happens when we die.  They all seem to think something magical takes place.  All that really happens is a corpse starts to decay. 

I let go of Jane’s arms, taking my handkerchief, noose, and knife with me out of the room.  I head to the room across the hall, knowing that this next part will be much more interesting.  The brother always used the synthetic heroin that his mom takes, which will make this less taxing.  He is staring, dazed, at the ceiling, a smile on his face wiped away when I wrap the noose around his mouth, tightening as much as it would tighten.  Any more, I could break his jaw. 
The next thing I did was make sure his head was propped up.  The pain he is about to experience will be nothing compared to watching what is causing said pain.  I use my knife to cut away his shirt.  He protests in the only way his body can, and that’s glare at me and shake his head.  To be in his position is something I hope never happens, but mine is the position every day for the past few months I have dreamed of.  With my knife in hand, I start low on his abdomen.  I press down.  He moans and struggles to move as I work my way up to his neck.  I then make a second incision going crosswise.  I peel back the skin.  The entrails of this pathetic waste of space are glistening red with blood, his heart beating fast as he tries to scream.  I look in his eyes.  I grin from ear to ear.  His eyes beg for mercy.  He will receive none. 

Looking back down at my handiwork, I decide his kidneys need to go.  The knife enters.  It cuts clean. I take hold of his kidneys and place them by his head.  Next is the liver. Then his appendix.  I puncture his stomach and cut out his intestines.  His moans getting louder by the second, I tell him to stay with me for just a few more minutes.  His lungs are punctured.  “Just one more thing,” I say.  I cut out his heart.  That is the last straw.  He is dead.

I take off the noose around his mouth, clean it with the Oxy Clean, and throw it down beside him.  I pour the bleach over his face and stomach, just in case any of my hairs have come off onto him.  I throw down my blood soaked gloves onto the bed, and they, too, are covered in the DNA wiping substance. 
                                                            
I do not take a token from the victims, as it would be extremely unprofessional.  Many times before serial killers and murderers, as well as rapists and other such criminals, have been identified because of their ownership of the tokens.  To me, however, a token is not important.  My nearly photographic memory, which I have hidden for years, allows me to take along mental tokens, giving me an advantage. 

I leave the house, the husks of the three teenagers soaked in blood and bleach.  Taking a quick photo of the house on my phone, I send it about twenty minutes after I leave the house to the local authorities.  It is immediately dropped in the bed of a pickup truck over at the local strip club.  The route that I take home is a little longer than my previous, but that is necessary.  I drop off the gloves, handkerchief, noose, and booties in separate trash cans, each at a different neighbor’s house within a mile of each other.  When I came home, it was just after midnight, meaning I that I still had time to read after I cleaned off the knife and took a shower. 

That was my first time killing.  The police never even realized that it was connected to 3 more murder sprees.  Within 2 weeks.  If that isn’t pathetic, I don’t know what is.  It took a journalist to figure out the obvious: A serial killer is in town.  For about 6 weeks or so, news centers, police, FBI, and so many others, crowded the town, hoping to find the killer.  The day the journalist released the news, however, I stopped killing.  To the authorities, this meant that the killer had skipped town.  How wrong they are.

Over the years, I have killed over 237 men and women, as well as 153 kids that were under the age of 17.  The killings, other than in little groupings in an area, were never connected.  It may be due to the fact that I have killed over such a large area, including most of the continental US and a few in Canada (I was on a youth group trip for that one). It could be because I will sometimes go for over 6 months before killing someone; the fact that I kill anyone, regardless of their gender, race, age, or physical appearance, might also play into effect.  Or maybe it’s because of my well rounded methods of killing: Poison, arson, vehicular manslaughter (I did actually feel bad about that one.  I accidently hit my Aunt’s car because she turned when she wasn’t supposed to, so I don’t really like counting that one.), stabbing, shooting (I use a high powered potato gun that I made that is compact and can blow a hole through 5 inches of concrete), and strangulation, as well as many other techniques that I will demonstrate later.  I do not know the exact reason of why I have never been caught, but I do know that, unless I want to, I won’t.

The newspapers have guessed many times at who I am.  The Zodiac Killer?  Jack The Ripper reincarnate?  Satan?  Never have they been close to the truth.  They never will be.

The day I realized that there was a reason for my existence was, in actuality, a rather boring one.  I was making stew out of a couple in a hotel when I realized that I was no longer getting a fix off of the killing.  To kill without purpose was like being gluttonous without having taste.  I now have a much, much more delicious idea of how I want to live my life.  I am to share my destiny, intertwine my own truths with the lives of those that need my guidance.  And I know exactly where to start: foster care.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  What the fudge is this guy doing?  Is he nuts?  Foster care is the last place you want to look for a killer!  Let alone one of such sick and twisted proportions!  But you forget that I can read people like a book, and can see what the lives of others are full of.  I had already met my apprentice-to-be.  Better yet, all I had to do is talk to the local foster agency and she would be with me, having done the required training years ago when my girlfriend and I wanted to adopt a kid; of course, this was a year ago, before we broke up because she thought I was “working to much”.  They should still carry over, though.

I had made my decision; as soon as my little gifts to the motel cleaning lady were wrapped up, I headed over to the foster home and called up the Colorado Department of Human Services and told them about the girl, and as soon as I gave them the name of the little devil, I was put on a direct line with the director.  She kept telling me about the child in question, asking who I was, my connection with the girl, why I would want to take in such a terrible child.  After about twenty minutes of answering questions, telling her that I wanted to give the poor child an actual home and that she had been through hell and back if she had had to live with over sixty foster homes, that I needed a purpose to live, and that purpose was to help this girl that so many had turned down, she fiercely expressed her gratitude.  She said that I could pick her up at the state home for foster children as soon as I wanted to.  All I had to do was fill out the thirty-page application and the girl was mine.

I did just that.  Having just parked a little way from the home, I filled out the paperwork and drove up the road to the home.  Walked into the home, talked to the foster parents, gave them the form, and asked if the girl could come out.  They were only too happy to comply. 
She came out of the room she shared with eight other girls, looking like an angel-- albeit an angel of painful death.  It wasn’t so much her clothing or appearance, as she was simply wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top.  It was her… let’s say her ‘presence’, that told a story no one could read but me.  Even for those that do not have this ability to feel the shift in the forces of the world it is obvious that something was different about her.  For most people, the feeling seems to be that of predator/prey, with the exception of those completely ignorant of their senses.

To me, she was a thing of wonder and beauty, just a butterfly hiding away in a cocoon, waiting for the moment to strike.  She was not used to being seen in such a way, and, like me, she could sense the feelings of others. She turns to me, and immediately she grins like the Cheshire cat.  We had met before, and she knew who I was.  What I was.  And I knew, at that very moment, that we were going to have some fun together.