Seven

My childhood was about as far from normal as you can get. My mother never loved me and told me every day how much she wish that she'd gotten an abortion. My father was a rapist, tried and convicted when he confessed before the judge. He's spending the next 30 years in state prison.
I had to raise myself, spending most of my time on the streets, only going back to that house when I knew that my mother was passed out drunk or out fucking some guy so she could pay the rent.
The places that I went when I couldn't stand her any longer varied depending on my mood.
If I was angry, I went to the local bar to see what trouble I could stir up. If I was depressed, I would sit on the edge of the bridge hanging over the highway, watching the cars pass below me and wondering what it would be like to drop down head-first onto someone's windshield.
Most of the time, though, I would wander the dark streets, looking for the perfect victim.
I lured them into a back alley with my childish looks, pretending to be frightened of the more busy streets, asking for help. When someone finally comes, I pick up my hatchet, disappearing into the shadows for a moment, and swing.
I've got the whole routine down perfectly. I even know what to do when the police are called––not that that has happened in years, anyway.
The whole business (if you can call it that) is so... routine. It gets boring sometimes, but then I hear their blood-curdling screams....
But here––now––it's time for a change.

~~Inspired by the song Seven by Boondox