Read Short Stories :: A Teenage Guide to Being a Serial Killer Parts 1-5

Now before we start this long and drawn out excuse as to why I did what I did, I would like to make one thing abundantly clear: my goal was never to aggrandize myself and become some rich and famous dick head who only cares about himself. Despite what you might think of me now, I was once an average kid with the respect and the deference for societies ‘elders’ that I was told they deserved. Dare I say, I held them in pretty, high esteem. But as I looked at the world around me I noticed the corruption of the leaders and the rich who would use every method at their disposal, every chicanery, bribe, blackmail, and exploitation. It engendered a feeling of rage in me. Then one day, when my father was going on one of his drunken, esoteric rants involving whatever legal jargon is related to his current case, I lost it. He and I rarely conversed. So, when he spoke to me that day, I was shocked. But, I was not surprised when it turned out to be just another lecture about how I ruined his life. He threw something at me. He started swinging. And then when I walked to the kitchen to get a snack, he fell on my knife five times. I dropped the bloody knife to the ground. I ran. I ran and I never looked back.

Now, let's be real here, abstemious if you will; for a crime of passion five stab wounds is pretty tame. Looking back on it, what I would've liked to do at that moment is much more gruesome. But, I am getting ahead of myself, so let's circle back a little bit. I ran fast, and I ran far. I ran until my feet bled and I collapsed in the forest. For a couple moments there I almost convinced myself I had to expiate for my actions, that turning myself in was the best course of action. My inner disputation was actually quite intense, until my self-preservation won that argument. However, my conscience was still a minor foible of mine that kept me from killing again for years. Back then though, I still felt the need to reprove myself, so I stayed in the forest amongst the moss, trees, and animals far from human civilization. I taught myself how to hunt; I taught myself how to survive.

It was a ponderous way of life, simply surviving from day-to-day. While I was alive, I wasn’t really living. I always assumed the authorities would come after me, but the juggernaut that is the US government never did. The intense trepidation I felt for being caught faded over time. I became sad and lonely. I craved companionship even though I didn’t think I deserved it. As months passed I had a dream. The air was lucid and sparkly. A hazy figure was in front of me. They were spewing some verbose, unintelligible rant, but for some reason it made me feel warm inside. A warmth I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

When I awoke, I was at peace, so I laid there for some time. Just thinking. The more I laid there, the less at peace I felt. My conscience deprecated how at peace I felt, despite what I had done. It screamed at me with much asperity about the fact that I didn’t deserve to be at peace. It told me that the dream was meant to be conciliatory, to confuse me and to dissuade me from my self-inflicted isolation. For a minute, the ambivalence overwhelmed me; my mind raced with contradicting thoughts. My mind suddenly quieted when I remembered the kind figure in the dream, so I made up my mind to leave the forest. I had a firm credence in the guilt I had following my father’s death, but I could no longer take the loneliness.

I walked in silence. My feet ached, but I kept walking. When I reached the local police station of the next town over, my mind attempted to hamper me from entering. My thoughts reminded me that I am not a loveable reprobate, but an evil bastard. While I walked inside, I pushed said thoughts out of my head. I would not disparage myself any further. When I sat down at an officer’s desk, she looked at me, but I could not meet her gaze. Because, I was still ashamed. The quiet guilt was almost palpable. I finally looked up when she spoke: “Hello.” She had such a kind voice, one that created figments of happy lifetimes and a loving family in my lonely imagination.