I am a serial killer.
I am not sick. I wasn’t abused. I flung the newspaper aiming for the waste paper basket at the corner of the room but missed. If they are going to write about me, they should at least get the facts right. No-one understands me; not even me…
The major challenge of being a serial killer is that you need to stay famous yet anonymous. I have created a signature, yes, they have noticed a pattern and that got their attention; but I must keep things interesting, keep them interested. The vultures need dead bodies to feed on; juicy stories for the front pages.
“He calls for help yet he doesn’t know…” a long-haired middle aged lady was saying as I turned on the television “like he wants to be caught and yet does not” behind her, beyond the yellow tapes of the crime scene, a corpse with a missing thumb.
“The pattern of his poetry…the wordings point at the victim yet the missing thumbs actually point in his direction…save me if you can he seems to say” the print on the screen tells me she is Setuntun, a psychologist and police consultant.
I know her game. She is trying to strike a chord on the strings of my soul. She understands me and she’s calling out, trying to bring me into the open. As much as I would love to have a chat with her, I still want to remain in the limelight.
Blood addict. That is what I am; therefore mere conversation would not be able to satisfy my cravings. Now in my head, as I flip the TV to another channel, I formed the lyrics I would write with the blood of my next victim. Bold on the wall I will write my confession…
“I am a serial killer
trapped in this maze.
I seek a healer,
please show the way…”
