Taken
1/1
His letters were just a paragraph. And the style was always changing. Sometimes, he would use magazine cutouts, sometimes he would type them. Sometimes he would tell one of his victims to write it for him before he took their life. Serial killers had always fascinated me. I used to sit in school and browse through biographies and mug shots of Charles Manson, BTK, Jack the Ripper, Son of Sam, and a crap load of others. I don’t condone it or anything; I’m just…fascinated by it.
Anyway, back to the letters. For some reason, he made two copies. He would send one to the police department, and one to me. Why me, I have no idea. It kind of scares me in a way. This time, he used someone’s handwriting.
“People would think the NYPD would’ve found me by now, considering they ‘know how to deal with my kind’. The detectives all went to college, and they’ve tracked down sooo many serial killers. So why haven’t you caught me yet, New York? Maybe you just don’t care. Maybe that’s it. Maybe as the years have gone by, you’ve grown to stop caring about innocent lives (mothers, children, fathers, lonely spinsters…) being taken. The body count today is fifteen. Let’s see if you find him.”
Sincerely,
James. (Not my real name, but I’ve always liked this one better.)
This was about the third time I’d read it. Receiving these letters made me feel like I was being watched constantly by someone other than my foster parents and the ten kids living under this roof. Do I know him? It couldn’t be anyone from school, seeing as I have no friends, enemies, or acquaintances. It’s just me, an outcast.
I snapped out of my train of thought when my foster mother turned up the volume on the television. It was official. They’d found James’s 15th victim.
“It seems that since the police couldn’t track him, he figured he would just give himself to us,” The owner of the morgue by the police station said, running his fingers through his hair.
James was his own victim. He’d killed himself in the apartment right across the street from the station. I upset me a little. Not because I don’t think what he did was immoral and wrong, but I wanted to know why he thought I was so significant.
According to the news, he was only 33 years old. So he wasn’t from my school. They wouldn’t reveal the details of his death because they were too gruesome and children watch the news. I’ve seen disgusting things on this channel and if they wouldn’t tell us how he died, my imagination started to spin out of control at the possibilities.
A picture overtook the screen; a picture of James, or whoever he really is. I’d never seen that face in my life, but I couldn’t look away. Even though I’d never seen it, it looked incredibly familiar. Like I knew him from a dream…or somewhere.
“A letter was gripped in James’s hand before he died, and we were able to retrieve it. It seems to be addressed to a lover, or perhaps even his daughter,” the co-anchor said, once she appeared on the screen and at her desk next to the other anchor.
“My baby girl, I bet you’re not exactly happy to have someone like me be apart of you. And I can’t fully explain why I took so many lives and hurt so many people. Part of it is because you were taken from me, and I didn’t have a choice. What I wouldn’t give just to see you once as you are now and hold you in my arms, to kiss you, and hug you, a love you like I was destined to love you. I felt that if I would never be happy with you, then others should suffer too. I may be on the insane side, but at least I know that. I love you. You probably hate me, but I will always love you. Even now, watching you live your life while I burn in hell.”
Love,
Guess.
“What a horrid way for you to find out,” my foster mother said, shaking her head and wiping her eyes.
My eyes were watery from the reading of the letter, but I pulled my self together enough to ask her what on earth she was on about.
“Your father, sweetheart. That terrible man was your father.”
Anyway, back to the letters. For some reason, he made two copies. He would send one to the police department, and one to me. Why me, I have no idea. It kind of scares me in a way. This time, he used someone’s handwriting.
“People would think the NYPD would’ve found me by now, considering they ‘know how to deal with my kind’. The detectives all went to college, and they’ve tracked down sooo many serial killers. So why haven’t you caught me yet, New York? Maybe you just don’t care. Maybe that’s it. Maybe as the years have gone by, you’ve grown to stop caring about innocent lives (mothers, children, fathers, lonely spinsters…) being taken. The body count today is fifteen. Let’s see if you find him.”
Sincerely,
James. (Not my real name, but I’ve always liked this one better.)
This was about the third time I’d read it. Receiving these letters made me feel like I was being watched constantly by someone other than my foster parents and the ten kids living under this roof. Do I know him? It couldn’t be anyone from school, seeing as I have no friends, enemies, or acquaintances. It’s just me, an outcast.
I snapped out of my train of thought when my foster mother turned up the volume on the television. It was official. They’d found James’s 15th victim.
“It seems that since the police couldn’t track him, he figured he would just give himself to us,” The owner of the morgue by the police station said, running his fingers through his hair.
James was his own victim. He’d killed himself in the apartment right across the street from the station. I upset me a little. Not because I don’t think what he did was immoral and wrong, but I wanted to know why he thought I was so significant.
According to the news, he was only 33 years old. So he wasn’t from my school. They wouldn’t reveal the details of his death because they were too gruesome and children watch the news. I’ve seen disgusting things on this channel and if they wouldn’t tell us how he died, my imagination started to spin out of control at the possibilities.
A picture overtook the screen; a picture of James, or whoever he really is. I’d never seen that face in my life, but I couldn’t look away. Even though I’d never seen it, it looked incredibly familiar. Like I knew him from a dream…or somewhere.
“A letter was gripped in James’s hand before he died, and we were able to retrieve it. It seems to be addressed to a lover, or perhaps even his daughter,” the co-anchor said, once she appeared on the screen and at her desk next to the other anchor.
“My baby girl, I bet you’re not exactly happy to have someone like me be apart of you. And I can’t fully explain why I took so many lives and hurt so many people. Part of it is because you were taken from me, and I didn’t have a choice. What I wouldn’t give just to see you once as you are now and hold you in my arms, to kiss you, and hug you, a love you like I was destined to love you. I felt that if I would never be happy with you, then others should suffer too. I may be on the insane side, but at least I know that. I love you. You probably hate me, but I will always love you. Even now, watching you live your life while I burn in hell.”
Love,
Guess.
“What a horrid way for you to find out,” my foster mother said, shaking her head and wiping her eyes.
My eyes were watery from the reading of the letter, but I pulled my self together enough to ask her what on earth she was on about.
“Your father, sweetheart. That terrible man was your father.”