I was four years old when I decided to become a serial killer. There’s even physical documentation of the event that cemented my decision. I believe a picture of a young man flying through the air over a populous beach is circulating on the Internet. I was building a sandcastle at the time. Four turrets, a portcullis, and two flying buttresses were covered in blood and spinal fluid when he fell.
The young man landed with his neck bending the wrong way not two feet from where I was sitting in the sand. The cracks and pops of his vertebrae shattering upon impact would reverberate within my head for years. A beautiful symphony of the fragility of life. I just wanted to hear it again and again. What would a snapping femur sound like? A fractured patella? An impacted pelvis? I wanted to know.
As I got older, I learned that what I was doing was morally reprehensible. Not that it really mattered to me though; I loved it. By age eight I had killed a toddler, two dogs, and an elderly Vietnamese man named Ming. Ming had sounded beautiful. Like the tinkling of antique bells housed in calcium church towers. It was exhilarating. Intoxicating.
Of course there were others I had broken, but they had not died. Nor did they see me because I had worn my brother’s gorilla mask. I cut out the ears though. They muffled the sound that I needed to hear. My ears peeked through the sides and tickled the wind while my face grew sweaty under the latex. There were pieces about me in the news. A midget masked killer. A simian psychopath on the rampage. A sadistic child-sized butcher. I didn’t like that last one though. I never cut people up. I only broke them. People came apart in such musical ways. Sockets dislocated with a scrumptious sucking sound. Lungs collapsed with an airy sigh. Cartilage crumbled with a susurrus of crackling. I lived to find new ways to break bodies. I was an aural explorer in the field of human destruction. Dogs were good too though.
At age sixteen I was caught. The police found me halfway through splitting open Ms. Jefferson’s skull with my trusty sledgehammer. They made the mistake of sending me to juvie. I found new subjects for my educational procedures on a weekly basis. Two months later they tried to send me to jail. I had heard of solitary confinement and knew that I needed to be on the outside in order to learn. So I killed my guards during transport and left to pursue my studies elsewhere.
I ended up in Dunsmuir, California. I love it here. It’s so secluded and forested. Nobody can catch me. I work in the retirement home as a caretaker of the dying. I offer a quicker demise to those who wish to further my aspirations. I transport the bodies to the morgue and nobody suspects a thing. Ever since Ming, I’ve had a certain propensity for elderly men. They break so purposefully.
Tonight I am going to try a new method of dismantling. I have a date to the prom, and his name is Jack Panetti. His dad owns the local lumber mill. I heard from Jenna that sex makes everything better. I can’t wait to see if she’s right.
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