I'm Obsessed With Serial Killers

I actually had work the next day, six hours of empty emotions and false concern while listening to stories of people just as broken inside as me. The only difference is that I'm here to help them. They really do nothing for me. Things didn't go any different than usual, a few new people showed up, gave a speech about how they started drugs and how hard their lives have become because of their narcotic abuse. I wasn't paying much attention to their speeches, my primary concern rested with my stomach, as I wasn't really sure if cannibalism caused any digestion problems. It shouldn't, I figured, but you just never know. Maybe steak in its purest form would cause just as many issues, maybe that's why they give cows all of those hormones... Or I could be totally wrong about that, and human meat in its purest is absolutely fine and healthy as well, but this is where I realise that I really don't think these homeless people are pure.
Maybe I should start eating children. But then we have fetal alcohol syndrome. You get what you pay for, I suppose, and until they make slaughterhouses that operate to serve the needs of cannibals, we really don't pay anything for our food, we just hunt it down.
Maybe a better expression would be you get what you kill. But not very many people use that one, so it doesn't really clarify my thought process.

I let my mind wander a lot, it happens when you live in fantasies of your nightlife. Broadway star hopefuls, guitar players who hope to one day make it bigger than the local coffee shop, we all would rather be in the glamour of our nightlife. I won't deny it, I would much rather be killing people all day, it sure beats sitting in an old building listening to addicts bitch about their addictions.
But Bryce isn't about to let me settle with my daydreams of death and blood as I wait in anticipation for the next kill. Not at all. That son of a bitch is determined to make sure I do my work, and so I will. After all, I have to be a good actor if I'm going to make it as a real serial killer. Not just an FBI profile, either, but someone who leaves something behind. Someone like the Zodiac killer.

I felt a poke in my side, and I didn't need to look up to imagine the poster boy face, a slight five-o-clock shadow and perfectly spiked chocolate brown hair. Bryce Maledictus.
"Nyxon! Wake up before they take you away forever! There are good people here waiting for your help!"
I sighed.
"Bryce. I'm just tired. Stayed up too late with Lily last night, if you catch my drift. Can you give the closing speech?? I did it last time."
"You know I have speaking anxiety!"
He looked worried. Typical. Always afraid some demon or something is going to posess him and he won't be able to speak. Some people won't admit to a fear of public speaking, I suppose.
Reluctantly I stood up and took my place at the pedestal.
"Thank you all for coming, I see great promise in the individuals in this room. You are all shining stars in here, and I want you to know that the drugs will never take it away from you. You have the power to change, and we're always here to help."
I stepped down, shook some hands, welcomed the newcomers and gave them brochures. Nothing unusual. Bryce came up to me, again. "Good job, Nyx! I don't know how you do it, fight away those demons that attack me every time I speak."
I sighed.
"It's because they're targeted on you."
"Dammit!"
He clocked out and headed home. After exchanging a few more hellos and goodbyes, I went on my way, as well.

I've always adored acting, secretly wishing I could find time to pursue it as a long lost hobby I gave up when I graduated middle school. I was in a couple of productions during my pre-teen years, I did okay. They always said I was too quiet. Some things never change.
But I didn't give it up, not at all. Actually, I'm something better than the actors you see on stage performing the Crucible for you tomorrow night. Everything I do, everything I say, every time I'm around other people, it's all acting. Really we're all actors, just not quite to the same degree as I. So I don't know why I have this strange feeling that I missed out on some golden opportunity. Maybe it's more of the recognition I missed out on.

Nighttime went as usual. Since my stomach handled the day with nothing bad, or good for that matter, causing a disturbance with my system, I figured I could slice up one of those arms a bit more, cooking those squishy bunches of muscle fibers so neatly cut into sheets by my own hand and making into a rather decent main course. Some fruit on the side, perhaps a bowl of sorbet after it all was done. Who knew it would be this simple, this ordinary?
I spent the lonely after dinner hours watching about three hours of Weeds on the internet. It's a good show, I must say. An area I've never felt any interest in, even if I do deal with drug addicts to make a living, but it makes a pretty good television programme.

If only life were a television programme, and I were Dexter, and everyone could watch me as I followed my macabre routines, killing people and eating them. They'd all love me because I'm a monster, I'd never be caught. Everything would be scripted and life would be so much easier, so much more predictable. Then my acting job would really be fulfilled.

Dreaming only got me so far, though, and now the only dreams I focus on are those that will get me somewhere other than hurt.

And with those racing thoughts, I fell into another deep slumber, my stomach full with the satisfaction of curiousity transformed into compulsive obsession.