I... How do I say this without making it sound terrible? I suppose there's no pretty way to do it.

I was a serial killer, a psychopath without restraint who killed purely for pleasure and excitement. The blood, the exposed organs... all of it brought me a satisfaction as visceral as it was sickening.

I was fully aware of my actions. I knew they were wrong. But the need never went away. Until, well, I had to run.

I managed to evade the police for quite some time—until I made a mistake. A woman I took to my room noticed the stench lingering in the air. Her instincts screamed that something was wrong, and she tried to escape. I attempted to stop her, but I didn’t expect that a single blow from a wax lamp would be enough to send me crashing down. She ran out screaming, alerting the entire neighborhood about the 'psycho' trying to kill her.

I ran. My mind worked at full speed, searching for an exit, a temporary refuge. I ended up in a cabin in the woods, but my food supply ran out quickly. I tried to restock, hiding my face as much as I could. It was useless. The moment I stepped into the convenience store, my face greeted me from dozens of 'WANTED' posters. The man behind the counter recognized me instantly, even with the hood and dark glasses. Nosy bastard.

And so, my life became an endless chase. I measured every movement, every possible hiding spot, but the city had turned into a cage. Any wrong step would expose me. So I made a decision. The riskiest one of all.

I had to flee the country.

I couldn't use my bank account without alerting the police, so I withdrew cash. I ran to the airport as if hell itself were on my heels. I bought a ticket—any ticket. I just needed to get out. By the time I boarded and took my seat, my heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

An hour later, the plane took off. I was surprised no one recognized me, as if luck were on my side.

And then, fate decided my escape wouldn’t be so easy.

The turbulence hit without warning, shaking the plane violently. Screams erupted. The flight attendants tried to calm the passengers, but no one was listening. From my window, I watched as the engine caught fire.

And yet, I felt no fear. Only a strange, almost absurd sense of calm.

That was when my mind decided to revisit the disaster that had been my life.

My parents. Men hardened by war, who believed discipline came with beatings and locked doors. If I cried, they threw me into the closet. If I did something wrong, they left me without food for days. When they died, I didn’t celebrate. I felt empty. I still saw them as heroes, even when their teachings had left me nothing but scars.

I was fourteen when I ended up alone. Two jobs to pay the bills, grades that didn’t reflect my intelligence, and a spiral of self-destruction where alcohol was my only solace. Until I discovered the one thing that truly excited me: killing.

It wasn’t normal. I knew that. But the pleasure of having a lifeless body beside me, of possessing it even in death… it was intoxicating. I tried human flesh, but it didn’t taste good. Maybe, deep down, I lacked one final step to becoming the ultimate monster.

It didn't matter. 

I was about to die. 

The plane was tearing apart. Passengers were sucked into the void. And then, a light fell from the sky, consuming those in front of me.

For the first time, I felt fear.

But there was no time for that.

The ground rushed toward me in a blink.

I had no family. No one to say goodbye to.

It was then that I died, completely alone.