Every day, when I wake up and look into the mirror, I don’t always recognize myself. It’s very easy for me to blend in- be the good samaritan, who stops and gives you a ride to your place. Or the neighbor, who helps you move some furniture. The guy you call to walk your dog or watch your kids. That quiet coworker who smiles at you and occasionally makes small talk. It’s just that sometimes….I’m not that person.

But where does being nice get you, anyway? It gets you nowhere, I’ll tell you that. I’ve always taken the backseat in life because of it.

The first time it happened, I really lost control. It was a horrible mistake. I really, truly loved her. She was so amazing and captivating, like no woman I had ever met in my life. But that was just a facade. In fact, I was too good to her. She didn’t deserve my love. It wouldn’t have happened if she had just realized that we were perfect together. Instead she was a whore. Smiling and talking to other men. Too naive to see what was right in front of her. She didn’t even acknowledge me properly, aside from the occasional “hello” as we’d pass each other in our narrow apartment hallway. And her smile, it was always so fake, almost like I made her uncomfortable. I’ve never even done anything to her. She was always so judgmental.

The second time, well, things were really perfect. She noticed me. I doted on her, and she adored it. She was so loving and sweet, yet different from the rest. But things quickly went from perfect to a nightmare. She was too clingy, wanting to spend every day of the week together. She would get jealous if I made simple conversation with other women. She would cry and beg me not to leave when I would walk out after an argument. Really, who could deal with that? I no longer had any time to myself. It was getting harder and harder to see her as the perfect woman I thought she once was. This time, it wasn’t a mistake. If I didn’t do it, I would have never gotten away from her. She was incredibly deranged and delusional. She wanted to control me. I needed a way to escape, and I don’t think she would have been able to live without me. She begged me not to, but I had to end our misery.

But there won’t need to be a third time, because I found you. You are so beautiful, with your silky, soft hair, your bright, charismatic eyes, your musical laugh. From the few interactions we’ve had in passing, I can tell that you aren’t like other women. When you smile at me shyly, it’s genuine. You smile with your eyes, like you really mean it. I’ve watched you unpack your belongings after helping you move into your apartment. I even took the liberty of grabbing one of your spare apartment keys out of your bag, just in case you ever need me. I just want to prove to you how good I am, how much potential our relationship could have. You are the perfect woman I have been looking for.

The apartment was my sanctuary, my control room. It overlooked her building, a silent sentinel watching over Amelia's every move. From this vantage point, I was a god, orchestrating the symphony of her life without her ever knowing. It was a distance that I cherished, a necessary buffer between my obsession and the potential for disruption.

Each day was a meticulously crafted ritual, a dance of precision and surveillance. My mornings began with a thorough review of Amelia's daily schedule, a document I had painstakingly pieced together from fragments of information gleaned from her social media accounts, the local newspaper, and my own surreptitious observations. I knew her work hours, her lunch breaks, her grocery shopping trips, even the times she walked her dog. I was a ghost in her life, a shadow that followed her, unseen, unheard, yet omnipresent.

My arsenal was not one of violence, but of technology, each tool a testament to my dedication to understanding Amelia. My apartment housed an array of surveillance equipment, from discreet cameras with high-resolution lenses to sophisticated audio recording devices. The walls were covered in a network of cables, connecting my devices to a central control panel where I could observe and record Amelia's every move, every utterance.

I became a master of the digital world, using every available resource to map her life. I tracked her online activity, her social interactions, her emails. My meticulously crafted spreadsheets contained a detailed record of her every phone call, every text message, every online purchase. Each piece of information was a jigsaw puzzle piece, slowly revealing the intricate patterns of her life.

But my obsession extended beyond the digital realm. I ventured out into the real world, a silent observer lurking in the shadows. I watched her from afar, blending into the crowd, observing her interactions with others. I knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the way she smiled, the way she held her head. My notes became a chronicle of her life, filled with intimate details I’d collected from my silent observations. Each entry was a testament to the depth of my obsession, a testament to the power she held over me.

My fascination with Amelia wasn't solely about her beauty, though her captivating smile and mesmerizing eyes drew me in like a moth to a flame. It was her intelligence, her wit, her independent spirit that truly captivated me. I admired her strength, her ability to navigate the world on her own terms, yet I felt a profound need to protect her, to guide her away from what I perceived as her inevitable mistakes.

My love for Amelia was a dark, possessive force. I was convinced that I understood her better than she understood herself, that I saw the world in ways she never could. I became her self-appointed guardian, her unseen protector, her confidante, her lover. I justified my actions, believing that I was acting in her best interests. I was saving her from the world, from herself, from the inevitable pain that I believed would come her way.

My love was a twisted, possessive thing. A love that could not tolerate the possibility of another man touching her, claiming her attention, stealing her away from me. Mark, with his effortless charm and confident smile, represented the very threat I could not abide. He was an intrusion, a stain on the pristine canvas of my carefully crafted world.

I convinced myself that I understood her better than anyone else, that I knew her desires, her fears, her hidden truths. I saw her potential, the brilliance that was obscured by the limitations of her social circle. My obsession, I told myself, was a noble pursuit, an attempt to guide her toward a brighter future, a future I had meticulously planned for her.

In my distorted mind, each act of manipulation, each subtle push and pull, was a step toward her liberation. I removed her from the frivolous parties she attended, the shallow gatherings that I deemed beneath her intellect. I controlled her phone, her social media accounts, filtering her interactions, protecting her from what I considered to be harmful influences.

I was the architect of her destiny, the unseen hand guiding her through a carefully constructed maze. I believed that I was saving her from a life of mediocrity, a life that I, in my arrogance, deemed unworthy of her brilliance. But with each act of control, the line between love and obsession blurred. My reasoning became a twisted echo of the truth, a distorted reflection of reality.

I brushed aside the growing unease in my heart, the nagging doubt that whispered in the darkest corners of my mind. "I am only protecting her," I would reassure myself, "She will thank me later, she will see the truth behind my actions."

But the truth was a beast, lurking in the shadows, growing stronger with each passing day. It manifested in my sleepless nights, in the paranoia that gripped me, in the endless stream of scenarios I played out in my mind. The fear of losing her, the fear of her choosing him, the fear that my meticulously crafted world was crumbling around me, was a constant, suffocating presence.

The fear was a constant companion, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. It whispered insidious doubts, twisting my perception of reality. Every interaction she had, every casual conversation, every glance shared with another soul, was a potential threat, a sign of her slipping away from my grasp.

I began to see enemies everywhere. The barista at her favorite coffee shop, the coworker who walked her to her car, the seemingly innocuous delivery man who left a package at her door - each became a potential rival in my warped mind. The lines between reality and my feverish delusion began to blur, and the shadows of suspicion stretched across every aspect of my life.

My isolation deepened. The world outside my apartment walls faded into a hazy backdrop, devoid of meaning or relevance. My phone, once a tool for communication, now served as a conduit for my obsession, a lifeline to the virtual world where I could track her every move.

My social life, once vibrant, withered away. Friends and family became distant figures in a fading memory, their concerns and affections lost in the overwhelming tide of my obsession. My world had become a prison of my own creation, a solitary fortress built on the foundations of possessiveness and fear.

Sleep offered no respite. My dreams were haunted by visions of Amelia with Mark, their laughter a mocking echo in the stillness of the night. I would wake in a cold sweat, my heart pounding against my ribs, the weight of my obsession crushing me.

The fear was a constant companion, an unwelcome guest in my mind, whispering insidious doubts in my ear. It made me see conspiracies in every interaction, hear whispers of betrayal in every conversation. I was trapped in a spiral of paranoia, a victim of my own twisted desires.

My actions became increasingly erratic, fueled by the frantic need to protect my fragile illusion. I would follow her, a silent shadow in the anonymity of the city, my heart pounding in my chest with every turn, every glance. I’d leave cryptic notes, whispered confessions of love and warnings of danger, hoping to sway her, to make her see my love as the only salvation.

The world, once a source of beauty and inspiration, now felt like a stage set for a horror show. Amelia's laughter was no longer a melody to my ears, but a mocking reminder of my powerlessness. Her touch, once a dream I yearned for, now felt like a poisoned chalice, a reminder of the life that was slipping through my fingers.

The fear was a monster, feeding on my desperation, driving me further into the abyss of my obsession. It whispered that I was losing her, that Mark was slowly stealing her away. Each day, the fear grew, twisting my mind, blurring the lines between reality and delusion.

I was a captive in my own mind, a prisoner of my own creation. The world had become a warped reflection, distorted by the lens of my obsession. And in this twisted reality, the only thing that mattered was keeping Amelia safe, from herself, from Mark, and from the world that I perceived as a threat to our fragile bond.

I needed to keep her safe. I will never regret it.

Someone has to do the job. In a world where governments fail to protect their citizens, I believe I’m heaven-sent. All my victims deserved it and none of them is missed. How do you kill your own children to hurt your ex? How do you open fire on your own people to protect your position and title? How do you enjoy the luxury you buy from the money you don’t pay your employees while their children cry and starve? How do you set forests on fire knowing it will burn entire lives of hardwork? Above all, I ask: why does justice fail to punish? Why are these people deemed psychologically unstable rather than who they really are: evil?

That is why I’m here. To do what others don’t. I befriend them. I get their trust. And I kill them in the same fashion they killed and hurt. Burn the arsonist. Stuff the rich man’s mouth with his own money and riches until he chokes to death. Poison the poisoners. Shoot the shooters. Stab the stabbers. Let them suffer like they made suffer.

I am Justice. I kill the killers. They don’t deserve to live.

When I was little, I never dreamed of being a killer. I was a normal kid. I wanted to be a marine biologist, or a doctor. I think it all started when I was seventeen. I was involved in a hit and run, and damn did it feel good. I only thought about it one or twice every day.

That kinda thrill never leaves you. It consumes you. There’s this itch, it chases you, haunts you until you satisfy it. Eventually, I killed again. It was a mail carrier in an alley. They didn’t know who I was, nor the other way around.

There were so many other people. I killed my best friend. She figured out what I’ve done. I had to stop her. Soon they had a nationwide search for me. They would never find out who it was though. I was to good at what I did.

I never chose anyone close to me. There was never a similarity in how I killed them. It was different every time. I didn’t even leave marks. You know all those old school serial killers that leave something behind every time they kill? Not what I do.

If you think about it, it makes sense. That itch that’s in me, it’s inside everyone, hidden, deep, deep down. We all have animalistic instincts.

Some just more than others.

Nobody understands. I don’t want to do this. I have to. If I don’t, then I’ll die. Now, some people may try to argue that. “It’s ok for these people to die so you don’t have to? Wouldn’t it be better if you died?” Right, maybe, but I don’t want to die. And every day I don’t kill I get worse and worse. The longest I’ve been able to make it is 13 days, and by that point I couldn’t eat or sleep and I felt like I was on death’s door. That was between Melanie Park and Spencer Dalton. See, I want to remember these people, I want to know them and honor their sacrifice. They died so I could live.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. And the more I kill, the less time that passes before I feel ill again. I don’t know how and I don’t know why. Maybe… I was cursed! Maybe it’s something to do with a weak heart and the adrenaline kicks it back into gear. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to keep killing as much as I can to live as long as I can. And if I run into you, and decide in that moment that you’re my next sacrifice to whatever god or devil may be doing this to me, I sincerely hope you’ll understand.

fourteen pieces you tore me into fourteen goddamn pieces and for what, set? a throne? a crown? a title?

how’s it feel to bite when you got rotten teeth?

you killed me you let my wife find me; she hid me did you pretend not to know? did you hide while she tucked me into those reeds, like a coward?

she could kill you easy, you know. 

i wonder what you used a cleave, an axe or did you rend me limb from limb with your bare hands? i wonder what that feels like

not being torn apart; nah, i know what you did to me. felt all of it. i wanna know what it feels like to rip the flesh from the bones of my very own brother chop him up into fourteen little pieces maybe tear your jaw from your face, that ugly, long-snout mug split your arms at elbow and wrist, your legs at the hips, then knees, then ankles, then your head ain’t that fourteen pieces?

you’re war, storms, chaos, yeah? lemme bring that back ‘round to you

i remember you said, once, “oh, brother, you will never amount to anything. you might be old, but you ain’t wise.” i’m alive, for one, which is what you won’t be by the end of this

you know, set, the best thing about being reborn over and over again, is that i can kill you over and over again. i see god in all of man, but i see no such god in you

i don't know what you were ever scared of, to kill me like that, but believe me i am worse

your heart is heavy i cannot wait to watch it burn, and feed those cold, charred ashes to ammit freak of nature, just like you

but at least she’s useful

He killed my girlfriend, the love of my life! AND HE GOT WAS A 1 YEAR SENTENCE. That’s all. “Do you really want to do this?” I ask. He walked into MY house wanting revenge on me. Did he know I would literally kill for her? I grabbed the knife, and lightly stroked it near his throat. “Why did you kill her?” I asked. Silence. “You really want to know?” He asked, grinned. “Sick!” I whispered harshly. “How dare you hurt her! My RUBY! You had no business being in that house.” He gave me another sickening smile. “You’re going to regret this.”
I glazed at him, “Tell me now. No games.” I pushed the knife slowly closer to his neck, threatening him. “Fine, fine, fine. My Bestfriend cheated on her, so I had to get back at her, for him.” I looked at him carefully, “Don’t worry pony boy, It was before you.” I almost hurt him, right then and there. “That was your accuse? A serial killer—like you, seems like you’d have a better target.” I almost snarred at him. I dropped the knife, and left him in the room, the police officers watching me. They had him secure, but I wasn’t a killer. Did I want to hurt him? Like he hurt me? Of course, but him living in a cell, with other inmates who’d tear him up—seemed like a much better idea.

It didn't always feel this good, this necessary. It started out just as a fantasy. I mean, I always thought about how it would feel to be that in control. The feeling of being _in charge _fully of someone's destiny. My hands around a neck, squeezing until the light of their essence dimmed. My heart beating excitedly with each force of strength. Smashing metal to bone, hearing the splitting of a skull as someone pleads for mercy. Tantalizing. It gives me pangs of pleasure that I cannot quite describe. A feeling so euphoric, only a few really understand.

I've known for a while that this was a problem of mine, a dangerous hobby I would have to keep secret. So I did. But keeping secrets is hard. You just want to burst and share with the world: I like to kill people. Problem is, that's taboo in this society. I know there are others _like me, _but we have to keep a low profile. No meet ups or support groups for people killers. We just live our lives in secrecy, either resisting our urges or fulfilling them. Usually a bit of both. We become bank tellers, lawyers, doctors. We work regular jobs and some of us even have families. We assimilate most of the time because we have to in order to survive.

I was in grade two when I first learned humans don't all come with a fascination for the macabre. We're not all wired for murder. I personally thought the black rotted carcass of the cat I brought to show and tell would be a hit! Not so. As I excitedly approached the front of the class, grinning ear to ear with my trophy in hand, the gasps and cries from my classmates rang out. "Johnny Sinclair, what in heavens name are you holding?" yelled my teacher Mrs. Jones. Her wrinkled hands cupped her cheeks, her mouth hung open showcasing her overly yellow teeth. She stared at the cat, the colour disappearing from her skin into a greyish hue. "It's a dead cat" I gleefully exclaimed. At this point the dried blood on its matted fur was pretty evident. The stench of days old death even more apparent. An emergency consultation with a child psychiatrist was booked shortly after that days show and tell.

"Your son displays strong characteristics for sociopathy and psychopathy" the matter of fact words spoken softly to my mother, her hands bunched tightly in fists as she listened. She bit her tongue, causing a small drop of blood to appear. She wiped it away, looking frazzled as her thoughts began to race. Dr. Marshall was a seasoned child psychiatrist, he worked alongside specialists in the field of psychiatry and wrote his thesis on childhood psychopathy and the risk factors that lead to serial homicide. The doctor glanced down at his folder, jotting down notes as he spoke. His gold Rolex watch shimmering from the glare of the window. He looked up, locking eyes with me, then my mom. "Typically, children with these characteristics begin with a fascination with the death of animals" he paused, watching my mothers expression as he continued "We don't fully understand the mechanisms in the brain that lead to this fascination but we have found direct correlations between this behaviour and the potential for more extreme acts down the line. Killing people, I thought to myself. He must be referring to the act of killing people. __ He was bang on, I mean, he did specialize in this kind of disorder of the mind. I had already begun fantasizing about the kills. A real kill, a human being kill. My eyes darted from the doctor to my mom, noticing the discomfort my mom was experiencing. She was nibbling her fingernails to nubs. She always did this when she was nervous. I felt bad that she now knew her son was severely troubled. I wasn't one for empathy, even at that young age..but I could understand that it was difficult for a mother to hear. "I would suggest an intensive program at our boarding school for disturbed children" Dr. Marshall unfolded his legs from under the desk and stood up, a tall man with a looming presence. "My son is not disturbed, he is eight years old and a curious child!" My mother rarely raised her voice. She was a delicate lady, petite and soft spoken. I rarely saw her upset. "Maam" the doctor interrupted. "Don't maam me! My son is a good child and he will not be sent away to some school for fucked up children!" Grabbing my arm, my mom pulled me up from my seat and pointed to the door. "Johnny, go wait outside" she demanded of me, her eyes welling up with tears, her face reddened by her anger. My face outstretched into a wide grin as I looked at the psychiatrist and walked out the door.

Mother and I didn't talk much about that day with the dead cat. We didn't really discuss why we had to move. I knew it had to do with everyone feeling unsettled by me. They all saw the darkness in me. I felt the way they glared at me, judged me. "You're my good boy Johnny, but you have to act more like the others" she told me on the day of our move. She patted my back and kissed me on my forehead. "Don't let the thoughts win" she whispered to me as we headed to our new home.

When we arrived in Maryland from New York, it was quite the shift in our surroundings. New York, with its bustling city life and plumes of haze from pollution was a far away land in comparison to rural Maryland. The majority was farmland, with mom and pop stores and small family businesses that had been around for generations. Mom and I liked it. It had small town vibes and was a much deserved change. I knew I'd have to try and be like other kids my age and for the next few years it worked. In fact, I managed to make some friends and suppress my urges, atleast until high school began.

Maybe it was the hormones, with their excessive surges of testosterone. Or perhaps it was the change in dynamic of starting at a new school. The moment I entered St. Joseph's High School it's like something within me reemerged, something that had been dormant for many years. The darkness. Each night after school I pull out my journal and write:

"Dont let the thoughts win" mom told me when we first left New York. But, why not? I held them in for this long and if I'm being true to myself, I don't want to pretend anymore" I scribbled frantically in my journal, feeling a rush of tension as my pen wrote out each letter._ I need a release, I need a fix"_ __ __ Every night I fight with my urges. I lay in bed each night, the sound of the wind twirling outside my window. I dream of the girl in my science class. The popular girl with the wavy blond hair who had a voice that grated on my nerves. A twang so bothersome I didn't know how anyone tolerated her. I long to destroy her. I imagine myself grabbing her mound of hair from behind. Startling her to the point she freezes in fear. I wrap a dark black blind fold over her eyes. She tenses as she feels the fabric tighten against her eyes. She screams, the terror echoing through the night. I cover her mouth with my trembling hand, muffling the sound of her cries. _This feels right, I _think to myself in the midst of my fantasy. I drag her to a wooded area where I finally get to fulfill my desire. I grip her neck firmly with both of my hands. Her skin is clammy with sweat, her heart pounding so strongly I can feel it through my fingers. She starts to kick furiously at me. Her legs scissoring at me at a frantic speed. "Fuck" I grunt, as she kicks me hard enough to knock me off balance. I stumble backwards and trip over a rock lodged in the dirt. She pushes her hands into the ground, gaining her balance to try and run. My adrenaline rises, the energy propelling me forward to grab her as she tries to escape. She's breathing hard, loud gasps escaping her mouth. I can taste her fear, it fuels me. Each breath of her terror , laced with pheromones that ignite the desire deep in my soul. I catch her, pulling her towards me as she shrieks with despair. Strands of her hair threading through my fists as I pull her head towards my face. "Shouldn't have wasted all your energy" I mutter into her ear. She writhes in my grip, whimpering as she realizes her fate is in my hands. Literally. I twist my knife into her back, feeling the rush of blood drip from under her shirt and onto my hand still gripping the knife. She gags as the blood bubbles into her throat. Her body releases as I let go of my grip. Her blood staining my palm. Slowly, her body slumps down to the ground. I kneel down and peer into her face, staring deep into her eyes as the life fizzles out. I know it's twisted that I want my face to be the last one she ever sees. But, that's part of the power. I open my eyes, expecting to see my blue bedroom wall, posters of hard rock bands glued to one another. But, I'm outside. I'm in the woods. I seemed to have lost touch with fantasy vs reality. My hands, covered in blonde strands of hair and dried crusted blood. I looked down at my shirt, it was ripped. She had pulled it desperately when she tried to escape. There, next to the tree lay her body. She had shifted slightly to the right. Her limp body still in the dirt. The knife still twisted in her spine. "Is this real?" I asked myself. "Sure as fuck looks it" I replied back. The lines of fantasy and reality were now blurred and I was conversing with myself. My fantasy now a reality I couldn't escape.

An endless cycle of right and wrong, justice and injustice, yes and no, and even life and death. That’s all that living is. In this world you are one or the other. The latter are seen as criminals, villains and scum while the opposite is seen as heroes and those that can do no wrong. But what if right was actually wrong, and justice wasn’t justice but a facade. A way for those “heroes” those “good guys” to feel or even seem trustworthy. They just want you to believe in them more than anything or anyone else. Once you put your faith in something you tend to block out the facts and ignore the logic and reason behind their true motives. You become blinded by your delusional fantasies of who they are. But not me. I can see through their smiles. I too was once like you. I used to believe, I used to trust, I put my faith in someone I didn’t know someone I saw on television. Deception. You’re all being deceived, what I did was real justice! What I did was right! The relief I felt as I watched the life leave every single one of their body’s was real. The dimming of their eyes, their strength growing weaker and weaker; as I rid the world of all that taints it black I begin to feel alive once again. Those monsters! When I close my eyes I can still hear them tormenting me I can feel their eyes on me, their fingers outstretched toward me. They all laugh at me, call me a fool, call ME the monster, I can’t stop until they are all gone. Every last one.

 The truth of my proclivities is varied and multifaceted. Few would suggest it some strange derangement but that is short sighted; a judgement conclusion predicated upon norms born of preservation of humanity. Life as a precious gift deserved by all is a disallusioned pretense made obsolete by medicine and understanding of human biology. No linger can we call it a gift when life spans expand beyond any similarly large mammals, and the social institution constructed around the species is, at best, derelict. 

Instead I would argue my predisposition to terminate life is that based upon the realization that not all are created equally. Moreover, not all should be afforded the same opportunities as everyone. So much so that some deserve to have their lives removed to make space for potential, opportunity, and innovation.

Stagnation of the human race is apparent, if not overwhelming.  We have long hindered evolution to the point of absolute stagnation!  And so, I decide.  I gather the collective volume of information and examine the profile.  The broken and malignant, the cancerous, the lecherous.  Any that detract from the evolution of humanity will not be given the opportunity to move forward.  Any that do harm unto those unable to protect themselves.  Any that retard the progression of positive development in others.  I will serve as judge and condemn them, as I am too keenly aware of that harms that can be done and will not stand for the the continue deterioration of the human race.  I am the hand of the gods, noble and just in my quest to purge the blight of failing humanity.  I am the executioner sent to right the course of humanity and save us from the failings of the gross inequity created by failing beliefs.  

It is my task to cure humanity.  I am the shaman. The medicine man.  Healer of humanity.