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.