Status: In Progress
The Not-Love-Letters of a Serial Killer
Chapter 1
Before I start, I'd like to apologize for everything I did, Daddy. Not because I regret the actual acts, but because you're the one that was punished. You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry that you had to rot in that hell-hole for seven years before I found the balls to get you out. I love you.
I was not born an unhappy child. You always told me that I didn't cry a whole lot. I guess everything started on June 3, when I was four years old. I never told anyone, not even you, that I was actually there when Mom died. You knew about Mom's drug problem, but I didn't.
I came home from Sarah's, the neighbor girl, because I scraped my knee and got blood all over my favorite blue dress. The one that Grandma had gotten me for that birthday. Mom sat me on the old grey comforter that used to me on your bed to clean me up. It stung.
When Mom heard "the boogy man" knocking down the door she told me to hide under the bed. I did. And I regret it every single moment of my life. She didn't scream, or beg for her life before he killed her. I do admire her for that. She was the bravest woman I've ever known. I still have nightmares, you know, about that man.
I actually learned from someone at school that Mom was a user. Joey Bran, his dad was a police officer. That's kind of when I decided what I wanted to do with my life. I would become a killer. That was when I'd turned five. I got Joey to tell me the guys name, too. Bruno James.
I hated Bruno with all of my heart. More than I loved or admired anything. I hated him more that I thought it was humanly possible. Especially for such a small child. I grew a strange fascination with killers and other criminals, and horror stories, and morbidly written novels. Edgar Allen Poe was such an inspiration to me. The killings that he concocted in his work were so methodically written. Realistic, in some cases. Was he still alive, bless his soul, he would write about the monstrous happenings that I would bring to life. I believe, what with all the despair that was thrust upon him, he would have understood me greatly. He's really the only man- that's ever been alive- that I've been attracted to . Ever. Sad, considering he was dead far before my time. Unlike Edgar's masterpieces, I read about all these murderers that were caught by the police. Yeah, I wouldn't have been able to read about them, but really? After making it so long, and killing so many people, how did they allow themselves to get caught?
I never understood how a killer could choose a pattern. Some people can't help it, but it just seems much too obvious to me. And doing it for fame just seems pathetic. It's about the kill, isn't it? That's what it's always been about for me. The thrill of holding someone's life in your hands and taking it away. Forcing the heaviness of life to slip thickly through their fingers.
You, though- you are such an amazing man. The fact that you were convicted for Bruno's murder just shows the idiocy that has infected our justice system. All of these morons didn't take the time to see the intricate planning I'd played, instead they only looked at what it looked like. Imbeciles! All of them!
Hopefully, after these letters are screened, as I'm very well aware they will be, the government will be much more careful on appointing it's warriors. Of course, we both know they wont be. But you and I are much smarter than that, aren't we? We know that just because you can take a test doesn't necessarily mean you're qualified to see the difference between guilt and innocence. We, as men, cannot say that we know the inner workings of the quirky teacher's, or the sketchy bank teller's mind. Nor that of your friendly neighborhood child molester.
Oh, look at me, getting off topic, as always.
I am not sorry I killed these ninteen- soon to be twenty- people. I was not put up to it, and I have no mental illness that inclined me to do so. I've been tested. At first, the killings were driven by my thirst to avenge dearest Mumsie. But I learned early on the real reason I kill.
I like it.
I know that you will never understand, Daddy, but I hope in your much-too-generous mind you will still see me as your sweet little girl, not as the disgusting monster that will be portrayed.
I feel the need to, again, tell you I love you. Truly, and honestly. As difficult as you may now find that to believe.
Love,
Baby Girl
I was not born an unhappy child. You always told me that I didn't cry a whole lot. I guess everything started on June 3, when I was four years old. I never told anyone, not even you, that I was actually there when Mom died. You knew about Mom's drug problem, but I didn't.
I came home from Sarah's, the neighbor girl, because I scraped my knee and got blood all over my favorite blue dress. The one that Grandma had gotten me for that birthday. Mom sat me on the old grey comforter that used to me on your bed to clean me up. It stung.
When Mom heard "the boogy man" knocking down the door she told me to hide under the bed. I did. And I regret it every single moment of my life. She didn't scream, or beg for her life before he killed her. I do admire her for that. She was the bravest woman I've ever known. I still have nightmares, you know, about that man.
I actually learned from someone at school that Mom was a user. Joey Bran, his dad was a police officer. That's kind of when I decided what I wanted to do with my life. I would become a killer. That was when I'd turned five. I got Joey to tell me the guys name, too. Bruno James.
I hated Bruno with all of my heart. More than I loved or admired anything. I hated him more that I thought it was humanly possible. Especially for such a small child. I grew a strange fascination with killers and other criminals, and horror stories, and morbidly written novels. Edgar Allen Poe was such an inspiration to me. The killings that he concocted in his work were so methodically written. Realistic, in some cases. Was he still alive, bless his soul, he would write about the monstrous happenings that I would bring to life. I believe, what with all the despair that was thrust upon him, he would have understood me greatly. He's really the only man- that's ever been alive- that I've been attracted to . Ever. Sad, considering he was dead far before my time. Unlike Edgar's masterpieces, I read about all these murderers that were caught by the police. Yeah, I wouldn't have been able to read about them, but really? After making it so long, and killing so many people, how did they allow themselves to get caught?
I never understood how a killer could choose a pattern. Some people can't help it, but it just seems much too obvious to me. And doing it for fame just seems pathetic. It's about the kill, isn't it? That's what it's always been about for me. The thrill of holding someone's life in your hands and taking it away. Forcing the heaviness of life to slip thickly through their fingers.
You, though- you are such an amazing man. The fact that you were convicted for Bruno's murder just shows the idiocy that has infected our justice system. All of these morons didn't take the time to see the intricate planning I'd played, instead they only looked at what it looked like. Imbeciles! All of them!
Hopefully, after these letters are screened, as I'm very well aware they will be, the government will be much more careful on appointing it's warriors. Of course, we both know they wont be. But you and I are much smarter than that, aren't we? We know that just because you can take a test doesn't necessarily mean you're qualified to see the difference between guilt and innocence. We, as men, cannot say that we know the inner workings of the quirky teacher's, or the sketchy bank teller's mind. Nor that of your friendly neighborhood child molester.
Oh, look at me, getting off topic, as always.
I am not sorry I killed these ninteen- soon to be twenty- people. I was not put up to it, and I have no mental illness that inclined me to do so. I've been tested. At first, the killings were driven by my thirst to avenge dearest Mumsie. But I learned early on the real reason I kill.
I like it.
I know that you will never understand, Daddy, but I hope in your much-too-generous mind you will still see me as your sweet little girl, not as the disgusting monster that will be portrayed.
I feel the need to, again, tell you I love you. Truly, and honestly. As difficult as you may now find that to believe.
Love,
Baby Girl