I'm Obsessed With Serial Killers

Another day as an actor on set, six more hours at a narcotics rehabilitation clinic.
"Nyxon. Nyxon! Nicky, wake up! Seriously! Before the demons get you!"
I felt a rather rough shove after being shaken a few times. My lungs malfunctioned and I coughed before I could react to being woken up by such events.
"Dammit, Bryce, I was enjoying that dream."
He stared at me curiously. "Why?"
And here is where my mind broke off and the acting began. You see, my mind was thinking something along the lines of "Well, the federal government legalised cannibalism, so instead of the grungy hobos I generally eat for dinner, I got to devour a deliciously bloody child-steak."
My mouth spoke otherwise. "... I forgot it now. You woke me up too abruptly and I couldn't process it."
He rolled his eyes and walked away.

I don't think I sleep at work too often, but I can't remember. Really, it's too mundane of an atmosphere for me to actively pick out the times I've nodded off to sleep.
I do enjoy sleeping, though, when it graciously comes to me. Generally, I lie awake, mulling over my manic thoughts, but I do like falling asleep and dreaming far more. It's a new world, one free of worrying about real-life restrictions on the things I do. Granted, I don't actually kill people in my dreams. On the contrary, I am generally being killed by people in brutal, torturous ways.
I have a lot of dreams about acupuncture treatment, actually. They tend to be the clearest pictures left in my mind from the library of dreams I manage to remember, this one in particular.

I was still in high school, struggling with insecurities and the notion that I would never be thin enough (not that those details will add or detract from the dream's events).
Shopping in an open-air market, I ran into my old German teacher. I told her about how Byron really loved these T-shirts that were sitting out and she asked me where he was and I panicked because I didn't know. I left her to look for Byron and the scene flashed.
I was in a plain room. Sensory details were absent save for the cold, steel table I was face-down on, stripped down to only my underwear. Needle pricks lined my back, hitting the nerves, numbing my skin and sharpening my mind to the pain felt with them.
I couldn't tell you why the scene flashed so abruptly or why I was even in an acupuncture room at all. I guess I'll leave it to your own criminal profiling. You've probably already started one, reading the horrors I am leaving for you in this story. (Just let it be known that I don't want a lame name like "the Boston Strangler" or anything, just my name will suffice, like Jeffrey Dahmer... only my name's Nyxon Zephyr.)
Trying to remember the details of my own murder jumbles my brain sometimes and gets me off track. There I was, face down, almost naked on a cold, steel table, needles piercing into my skin. Some sort of deranged stress relief therapy that only made me tense up more, as much as you can tense up in a dream state. Closing my eyes and leaving my body to a third person viewpoint, I can't begin to describe the things I saw.
There was a hammer. Pound, pound, pound, it drove the needles through my body. The small silver slivers pierced through my flesh, binding me to the table forever as they tore miniscule holes in my muscle and brought up small trickles of blood. So many needles, so much blood, all on my own shirtless body. I didn't move, I didn't scream, I didn't even speak a whisper. My corpse lay there, lifeless, bleeding out, staining the cold steel and turning it warm with blood that splattered, dirtying the white background.
I never saw the face behind the hammer, I never needed to. I guess with all the people I know I'm going to kill, I never felt the need to know my murderer.
All I can say this time is that it wasn't me that was doing it.

The funny thing about dreams is that they never have a real conclusion. It's like waking up, and then realising that something happened, but never finding the complete picture. I don't like when I get like that because it makes me think that there's something important I'm missing, some crucial piece of information that would give me some insight in to what I am or what I'm doing to myself.
Maybe I should spend less time on what I'm missing and find meaning in the parts I do remember, but I just don't know. Sometimes I think that maybe Bryce is right and maybe the demons are just taking over. Sometimes I can be an idiot.

I really need to kill again. It hasn't been very long but the compulsion is eating me alive and I don't know how to stop it.
This whole thing just started as a desire to eat others and it turned into a battle of mind, controlling my urges to step in front of a street vendor and slit his throat in the middle of the city with a million witnesses just because I can and people are starting to get on my nerves.
I couldn't do it though. Johnny the Homicidal Maniac might be able to get away with such horrors but there's no way in hell I could do the same in the real world.

Things feel like they are slipping from my grasp onto the real world, like I need to live in the dream world because my compulsions and my bloodlust are outrunning my rituals. I need to find a woman. That's part of the ritual. Male, throat, female, vagina, over and over again. Only three kills and I already have this much figured out, it's just a question of the body count now.

Why won't my mind shut up? Why can't I focus on anything anymore?

This is all becoming too much to bear. I can't keep it to myself. I can't tell anyone.

I'm a SERIAL KILLER.

That felt nice. Maybe if I just stop thinking, force myself to stop feeling the desire for company. I'll be okay. I just need to kill again.