Serial killer. I think of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, and Hannibal Lecter. I imagine my name on that billboard in bright yellow lights.
Am I a serial killer? The FBI insists that I am and this applying of labels and definitions falls under their jurisdiction, but I must admit to not knowing the first thing about all that. I have killed, plural, or multiple, I can never get the grammar to agree or work.
Did I kill in a similar fashion or choose my victim for certain reasons? I don’t see any of that in the definition so I can’t tell you if it’s part of the whole sordid affair.
It all started with my father, but if you’re reading this book you likely know that fact. But, the first kill doesn’t make you a serial killer, my dear readers. One must kill again, in a separate event to be labelled under the FBI definition.
I make no attempt to explain any of it in these pages. These are my stories that may or may not help you to understand how I came to be named serial killer by the FBI. Was it nature or nurture or some combination of both? I can’t answer that and leave it to the clinical psychologists and professionals to argue the semantics.
This book contains some of my earliest writings, the pieces that survived my capture and incarceration. Take a journey into my mind and try not to go crazy, dear readers. Some have said my stories caused them nightmares. I won’t lie, that makes me happy. I hope to carve a space in your brain and occupy it for later use. Consider yourself warned. Enter at your own discretion.