“I guess it all started as a child. My mother was a therapist and my father was a con artist. My mother told me to make a difference in the world. She said I could be whatever I wanted to be. She was all I had.

“Dad was never around. He was always in jail for conning someone out of their money. He soon just disappeared from my life, leaving us with nothing. It broke my poor mother’s heart. I wanted to make her happy again. I did all of this for her.

“When I got to high school, people used to pick on me. They would call me names and make me feel like a freak. That’s when I started noticing little things about people. I could remember someone’s schedule three months later from only hearing once far away. I could remember every detail of a book a year later from only hearing it. My brain became my greatest weapon.

“The bullying got worse and worse. I had started to think about how the world would be better without these bullies. People would feel safer and more secure. People could be themselves. Geeks and nerds could work down the hall without being shoved into a locker every other day. I started thinking about what my mother told me about making the world a better place.

“Then my mom got this new client. He vistited everyday. Every night, she’d come home in tears. I didn’t know why. Then I found out that he was harassing her. That had been the final straw.

“I remembered that my mother had told me where the guy had lived a few months earlier. I paid him a visit. I remember the yelling and the screaming. I wrapped my gloved hands around his neck. He choked, begging for his life. He cried like a little baby. I squeezed harder and watched the lights go out in his eyes and his face turn deathly white.

“I remember my mother finding out. She cried, but she looked so happy. I never told her that it was me. She hugged me still. I felt a sense of purpose for the first time. I learned that I had a special place in this world. I had fo rid the world of people like him.

“I started with random bullies. I stabbed them. Hanged them. Left suicide notes sometimes. I wanted to make it seem like it wasn’t me. I didn’t want to be caught. I couldn’t leave my mother all alone.

“Then I went on to important people. Stabbings. Suicides. Gunshot wounds. Anything, you name it. I did it all. I killed 47 people in two years. I was never caught.

“So why am I telling this to you, dear reader? Because you were mean to friend of mine. You might not remember them, but they hate you. That means I hate you.

“Why am I holding a gun to your head? Take a guess. Goodbye, dear reader.”