Confessions Of A Serial Killer

I would love to say I've lived a fairytale life. That my childhood was perfect and that my parents were a great source of compassion and love. This, however, is not the case. For if it were, do you really think I would be sitting here with you now?

You come to me in hopes of understanding what makes someone kill. Let me tell you something, detective, every human being on the face of the Earth is a ticking time bomb, waiting for that eventual moment that will cause them to explode in utter chaos. 

Don't believe me? Then let me ask you this. Do you ever wish that a perp would just confess to his sins, making your job easier? Do you wish that the one that got away on account of a good lawyer would wind up dead in the gutter being pissed on by a homeless bum? You're as much a time bomb as me. The only difference is, I exploded years ago.

So, detective, does this mean you want to hear my life story? Shall I begin at the start like David Copperfield “I was born, I grew up,” or would you prefer me to cut right to the chase and tell you about my first victim? 

He was a lovely young man by the name of Bradley T. Sherwood. I never knew what the T was for, but he was a hunk of hot man meat. Yum. He was my high school sweetheart. Tall, dark, brooding, handsome. All the things that make a girl weak at the knees. But then he turned into the typical male that I knew he would. You see, it was right before Spring Fling and I caught him hanging around Daisy Jenkins. Daisy Jenkins, can you believe that?! Anyway, Brad had made plans to attend the Spring Fling with me, but then I caught him asking that two-faced lying bitch out for the same night. He thought he could walk into the gym with two of the hottest girls in school on his arm.

I made sure he wouldn't be walking anywhere. I followed him home from school one day, pretending to need help in math. In reality, all I wanted to do was snap his neck. So I did. First I broke his leg by pushing him down the flight of stairs that lead to the basement. As he was lying there, crying like a toddler, I told him how pissed I was that he was fawning over Daisy Jenkins and how he had better apologise for hurting my feelings and breaking my heart. He swiftly did, grovelling at my feet, begging for forgiveness. It was then that I placed my hands on his cheeks. I kissed him goodbye then snapped his neck.

It was a quick death, painless almost. Hey, I said almost. Not my complete fault that he was a chauvinistic pig that deserved to be slaughtered.

You know, I blame the parents. If parents knew how to raise their children properly, I wouldn't have to kill the no good sons of bitches. If parents raised their sons to respect women and not to treat them like sexual objects of affection, then I wouldn't be sitting here now, dining on what will be my last meal.

Who was next? Tom Sheldon, bank manager. Then came Donald and Ray Beaumont. Trusting souls they were. They tried to help a poor woman in distress, but last I looked, I know how to change a tire and don't need no beatnik feeling me up while I get the jack from the trunk. They put their hands on my ass, which I did not welcome by the way, so I put the tire iron through theirs.

But no kill sticks in my mind like that of Robert Barton. Robert was a gentle person. He was polite, friendly and was always ready with an off-color joke. Ahh yes, there was something special about Robert. His quiet, majestic manner in which he conducted his daily routine was magnificent. He always held his head proudly. Married for forty years, you know.

Married for forty years. Can you believe that? That's a huge achievement. Of course, when a young, lovely lady walks past with a short skirt, forty years means nothing. He followed me out to the pool and offered to put some suntan lotion on me. His hands were not the hands of an older gentlemen. Nor were his lips when he eventually kissed me. They were just as soft as a younger mans, but his tongue held more experience than any man before him. 

I suggested that we continued our raunchiness inside one of the poolside cabanas to which Robert agreed and greedily dragged me inside the closest one. Once we were inside, his hands became furious, running all over my taut body, pulling at my already erect nipples. His mouth enclosed over mine, his tongue doing things I can't even describe. He stripped off and that's when I realized that he was certainly an older man. His ass was so saggy and wrinkly I could have sworn that elephants had firmer skin. And his dick? Oh, it's no wonder he was married for forty years, his wife was probably banging the pool boy in order to stay happy.

But he was a gentle lover.  He popped one of those blue pills that causes a 'rise' and we were good to go. I mounted him, feeling his old, wrinkly cock push inside my young, firm body, and I began riding him like he had never been ridden before. My palms were flat against his chest, grasping onto the stringy white hairs that covered his chest and ran down the plain of his beer belly. Slowly, without him noticing, I moved my hands up and down his chest, inching closer to his neck. I grabbed his shoulders, digging my nails in. That was those marks that appeared unconfirmed in the autopsy report. Then I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed the life out of him.

It was the most intimate thing anyone could go through. Watching his eyes bulge then roll back in his head, as his hands grasped my hips, attempting to lift me off. Pure poetry. It's something I shall never forget. Watching someone's life slip away is a thrill that no words can explain. You see, in that brief moment before Robert passed on, I saw right into his soul. I saw the fear in his eyes, the pain that his body felt. I felt everything he felt, including the fact that he ejaculated inside me. I think the choking helped him come faster.

But you see, detective, once you choke the life out of someone and you see into their soul, nothing is as good. Nothing is as intimate. I tried guns. I didn't care for them. It was over too quickly. I tried copying those torture porn films that you can hire out, but pulling off someone's fingernails then slitting their throat from ear to ear just didn't give me the same rush.

I even tried strangulation with rope and appliance cord, but I had problems with that too. No, it wasn't a strength thing, but rather the fact that I couldn't see their eyes as they gasped for their last breath. You see, it's that single moment, just before their life slips away that I enjoy the most. That magical moment when my anger for the male gender explodes in a blinding hatred for the man that's touching me, and results in me sitting on them, riding them til they burst in a creamy white load of excitement. That's what I enjoy the most.

The fame? Oh please. How shallow do you think I am, detective? I didn't do this for fame or infamy. I did it to prove a point. Mothers, make your sons take responsibility for their actions and maybe, just maybe, they won't be prematurely deceased.

Is our time up already? That's a shame. I was just getting to the good parts. Don't worry detective, you'll find out everything in due time. I shall see you tomorrow before the execution.

Oh, and detective? Before you go, there's something else I should probably tell you. You won't find them all. Not whole anyway.