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._

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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"_

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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.