On July 17 at 8:37 P.M., I quietly snuck into a woman’s house and killed her. I threw her down, slit her throat, and left. As I ended her life at the blink of an eye, I felt a marvelous sensation run through my veins. It was the feeling of being able to live, and she no longer obtained that privilege. Too bad for her. That poor sucker will never see her family again, or say “I love you” to her beloved son. But, that just isn’t my problem. She deserved what she got and I can finally feel relief. That was the first person I murdered, and they were not the last.
Her murder rocked this idyllic community. The next morning, the same as the last and the one to come, Mrs. Summers walked over to the murdered woman’s house to borrow her duck confit recipe. As she peered into the window, she noticed the woman lying in a puddle of her own blood. Mrs. Summers let out a loud shrill screech. At that second, all the residents on the street opened their doors and ran toward Mrs. Summers. Everyone was asking her what happened and why it happened but she couldn’t possibly answer those questions. She had no idea herself. Yet, they wouldn’t stop because they all wanted the details. Buzzards.
It’s time I tell you a little about me. I doubt you’d want to hear anything about me because no one in my life ever did. I am twenty-four years old and I live in a dingy apartment two blocks over from the street on which I murdered the woman. I didn’t go to college even though I know I’m a genius. I scored one hundred and forty five on an IQ test I took while I was in high school. I guess you could say I’m smart enough to plan a murder. With my ability to think logically, planning exactly what I needed to do to commit murder and get away with it was a piece of cake.
My problems go back as far as I can remember. My mother became pregnant by accident and my dad told her he wasn’t cut out to be a father. He left before I was born. My mother was a heavy drinker, was constantly drunk and would beat me. That started when I was only four years old. To make herself feel less guilty about beating me, my mom bought me a fish tank with twelve fish. One day, I took a fish out of the tank and chopped its head off. I didn’t know why I felt the need to do that, but I did and the feeling I had afterward was quite amazing. One after the other, I chopped their heads off and that made me smile ear to ear for the first time.
I didn’t kill anyone for a while. I wanted paranoia to spread throughout the neighborhood....although one murder wouldn’t signal “serial killer” in anyone’s mind.
That feeling of killing someone I absolutely hated felt like nothing I had ever experienced. That woman made me so angry. She had it coming. After a few months I needed to kill again. I needed to kill the people who ruined my life, so I began to plot other murders.
A month had gone by and I had killed two more victims. Their names were Fred and Hayley Glasco. This couple used to babysit me when my mother went out to parties, which was quite often. They completely neglected me whenever I asked them for anything. Most of the time, I sat and cried because I felt so alone. When the crying interfered with whatever they were doing, Fred or Hayley would simply walk over to me, and hit me. Whether it was a slap or a spank, they hit me. The brutality continued for years. So I stole their lives, but I left their child. I couldn’t bear to kill a child. Now it was official, a serial killer was on the loose in the neighborhood.
Six months had gone by since I killed Fred and Hayley and it was my high school reunion. I saw all of the “wonderful” people who attended my high school. I saw all of my “friends” there as well. When their eyes met mine, they rushed over to where I was sitting, alone.
“Weakling,”, they all shouted at me. Back in high school I was picked on amongst my friends because I was “weak.” They would push me, punch me, and kick me because they knew I would never be able to fight back. This was my chance to get them back. I only wanted to kill one in particular, Peter Reynolds. Peter was the one who beat me the most. He hit me as a joke, but he never knew how much it angered me. I would tell him to stop but he knew there wasn’t anything I could do to make him. Now there was. I asked him if we could talk privately. At first he refrained because it did seem kind of weird. But then I convinced him to walk outside. As we walked into an alleyway, I slipped on a pair of gloves so the cops wouldn’t be able to find my prints. I killed him and threw his body into a dumpster. Again, I felt that feeling. He had ruined my high school career and I had ruined his life. Permanently.
As I walked along the sidewalk the shining sun quickly departed as if it feared me just as much as the people who felt comfort in locking their doors did. I’m sure they knew that if I wanted to get them, I would get them. I loved taking those walks along the sidewalk of that wonderful street. I thought about who I could kill next. I thought about when I would kill them, how I would kill them and where I would kill them. Those thoughts ran through my psychopathic mind twenty-four hours a day. So I took those walks to sort through those ominous and sometimes scary thoughts that frightened me at times. I walked by the calm and tranquil lake by which I used to play by. Watching the water glisten in the sunset made me realize that what I was doing was wrong. I was stealing life from others. I was taking their lives from them so they couldn’t take mine. Then I stopped thinking that way and started thinking the way I normally did. Those people needed to leave this world. They caused pain and suffering and they didn’t deserve to live. I decided to go home and plan my next murder.
It was extremely difficult deciding whom to kill next. I made the decision of who lives and who dies in my own hands. I felt just like God. Then I thought of the next person I would kill. Maryann Pittman would be my next victim. She was the go-to person when you wanted gossip. Sometimes she would eaves drop and look into people’s windows to see what was up, then tell all of her friends about it. She heard my mom and me fighting one time. My mom was giving me a lecture because even though I was the smartest student in school, I could never hold a steady job. I had just been fired for the eighth time in two years. My mom called me a failure and said she was ashamed to be my mother. She said it was embarrassing to call me her son. I was just about to speak up and stand up for myself when her cold and sharp hand collided with my face. The feeling of being hit like that by the woman who raised me infuriated me. After hearing this dispute, Maryann ran off to tell her friends what she had witnessed. When I walked around the neighborhood, everyone stared and pointed at me saying, “That’s the child whose mother beats him.” The funny thing is, none of those people did anything about it even though they knew I was being abused. So Maryann, say goodbye to everyone, because you’ll never see them again.
The next night, I walked by Maryann’s house a few times to scope the place out. As I was walking, Mrs. Summers was taking a stroll with her dog.
“Well hello there,” she said.
“Hi Mrs. Summers. Are you walking your dog?” I asked.
“Indeed I am. You know, I can never remember your name.”
“My name is Adrian. Adrian Cedricks.”
“Are you Linda Cedricks’s son?
“Yes I am,” I replied.
“Well I am so deeply sorry for what happened.”
“So am I.”

At that point, I didn’t want to stand there any longer talking to that irritating woman. I had better things to do. Just as I turned to leave, her stupid dog jumped up on me. His filthy paws wiped mud all over my pants and shirt. My favorite pants and shirt. God do I hate that dog.

“Well I best be on my way,” I told her.
“All right then! I’m sorry about my dog. He can be a bit irritating at times, especially when he is able to get into people’s houses. I don’t know how he does it, but he does. He just wanders right in. It’s quite odd!”

I thought about two things at that point. The first; I hate that demon dog, and the second was the urge to kill Maryann. I had to kill Mrs. Summers next, and her little dog too.

The planned night of Maryann’s death had finally arrived. I was ecstatic about being able to kill again. I left my home at around eight o’ clock at night. I was planning to break into her house through the doggy door. Apparently, when she had it installed it was too big. Big enough for a psychopath like myself to crawl through. I peered into the window and saw no sign of her downstairs. It was safe for me to sneak in, kill her, and leave. I crouched down, crawled through the door, and entered deep waters.

As I walked through her home I saw pictures of her parents, her children, her college graduation and many other precious moments captured in a single push of a button. I passed two lit candles. I had a thought for a fleeting moment to set the house on fire. It would have been very entertaining watching her house engulfed in flames. I realized however, that that would not satisfy my addiction. I needed to see her eyes lose emotion and feeling. I stopped to think and made sure she didn’t know anyone had intruded into her home. She didn’t. As I continued walking, I heard her dial a phone number. I don’t think it was the police because I heard the tone for more than three digits on the phone. Now I couldn’t kill her because she was talking to someone! And who knows for how long? I thought to myself that I had better get out of there, but something drove me to continue and follow through with my plan. I faintly heard a voice on the other line since the room I was in was very close to where Maryann was standing. The voice sounded like Mrs. Summers. I could recognize that nasal voice anywhere. Maryann started yelling at Mrs. Summers, then hung up. I don’t know why, but she did. At that point, she started down the stairs. Every thud of her foot against the steps was like a thud of my heartbeat. My blood was rushing through me. I was losing patience! I needed to do this now.

She could feel my presence. She knew she wasn’t the only one home. That is when I walked around the corner, grabbed her by her hair and threw her down to the floor. She screamed as loud as she could, but no one could hear her. I held back from killing her so quickly because I enjoyed her fear. I enjoyed listening to the sound of her scream because I held her life right in my hand. The feeling is something I could never explain. I needed to end her life before someone actually heard her. Suddenly, she stood up, punched me, and ran into the kitchen. She hit me. She hit me. My blood started to boil. I clenched my teeth, walked toward the kitchen while Maryann dialed 911. As soon as the police answered the phone, I grabbed her hand and smashed the phone against the wall. I took my blade, slit her throat, and there she lay in her own puddle of blood. I felt rejuvenated.

The demon dog wandered in through her enlarged doggy door. I remembered Mrs. Summers telling me the dog arrived in people’s homes occasionally. I guess this was one of those times. The dog ran over to me, barked a few times, jumped up on me, and landed in her puddle of blood. I needed to make my escape so I unlocked the front door, and let the dog out. I quickly escaped through the back door to return home.

A few minutes earlier, Mrs. Summers needed to go over to Maryann’s house for two reasons. First, she wanted to apologize to Maryann after their fight on the phone. Second, she wanted to know if Maryann was okay because she heard screaming. I thought no one could hear the screams, but I guess I was wrong. Mrs. Summers wandered over to the house. As she arrived at the house, her dog was outside on the porch. She picked up the dog and it wiped blood off of its paws onto her light pink blouse. It was her favorite blouse. Now she knew how I felt when her dog wiped mud on my shirt and pants.

Seconds later, the police arrived at Maryann’s doorstep. The police took Mrs. Summers down to the station for questioning because she had Maryann’s blood on her blouse, there were dog prints in the house, and Mrs. Summers was on her property. She was taken to “the big house,” and I got off scot free.

You’re probably wondering where I am now. I’m at home, sitting at my desk, writing my story. Right next to me is a warm cup of coffee and the radio is on. I just love sitting here and writing. I feel so comfortable in my home with the heat on in the middle of winter, while Mrs. Summers is sleeping on a cold, hard, metal bench awaiting her trial. I am so happy right now. There isn’t a thing that could take away my happiness. If anyone tried to, I’d just kill them.

On July 17, at 8:37 P.M., I quietly snuck into my mother’s house and killed her. I threw her down, slit her throat, and left. As I ended the life of my mother at the blink of an eye, I felt a marvelous sensation run through my veins. It was the feeling of being able to live, and she no longer obtained that privilege. Too bad for her. That poor sucker will never see her family again, or never say “I love you” to her beloved son, me. She deserved what she got and I can finally feel relief. She was the first person I murdered, and she was not the last.