"I didn't set out to be a serial killer," Mommy murmured. "It's just a high you wouldn't understand."

"So why didn't you kill me?" the four year old sitting across from her asked.

"Sweetie, Mommy loves you. Don't ever forget it. Mommy just needs to kill sometimes to get all the stress out."

"What if we're the only people around?" he asked.

"Timmy, I would never hurt you. Believe me, baby. I would never lay a finger on you."

"What about LoLo?"

Mommy rubbed her belly. "No, I couldn't hurt him either."

Timmy blew bubbles in his milk through his straw. His mother watched with mild interest. Suddenly, he stopped and gazed back at her. Worry had washed over his face. "What if I do something you don't like?"

Mommy chuckled and slides her hand over his. "Can I tell you a story?"

Timmy pondered the connotation of her words before nodding.

"Well, some people get things from their Mommys and Daddys. You got your daddy's hair and his lips, and you got my button nose and dimples. LoLo looks like he got his daddy's cheeks and my eyes. I got my feelings from my grandfather. He was like me, and when I was little, he told me I was the most special of all his grandkids because I understood him. He said one day he wouldn't be here to guide me, but he always taught me that my feelings were okay and I should never be ashamed of them. Even when my mommy and daddy would tell me I was bad and put me in home after home to try and fix me."

"So if I was like you, would you be mad?"

"Of course not," Mommy says, squeezing his hand. "But I hope you don't. I hope you and LoLo both get to be normal and not have these thoughts."

Timmy smiled. Before him, a little girl was screaming for her mommy. Timmy clutched the knife hard as he remembered what his mommy had said to him at dinner. She wouldn't be mad, but just in case, he had laid a tarp down so the little girl's blood wouldn't get everywhere. Vainly, she screamed and tried to crawl away, but he had tied her to the table in the shed like he'd seen his mommy do to LoLo's daddy. The little girl looked back at him. Tears were streaming down her face and snot bubbled out of her nose.

"So you thought you could push me at recess and not get away with it?"

"I didn't mean to! I'd never hurt someone as cool as you! Just please let me go! Mommy!"

Timmy grinned evilly. "They always scream before I take care of them."

The little girl continued to beg and scream. Suddenly, Timmy kicked her down and plunged the knife into her throat. The little girl's eyes widened as she gagged on her last breaths. Timmy watched with glee. Won't Mommy be proud!

I honestly didn’t set out to be a serial killer. It was all Mara’s fault because she kept taking serial lovers. And I loved her so much that I was unable to bear the thought that she was not mine. Every time I got the nerve to ask her to go out with me, she replied that she already had a boyfriend. Well, I’d fix that!

The first time, I watched the movement in the backseat of Mara’s car in disbelief. I crept even closer to make sure they were doing what I thought they were. I knew Don was taking advantage of her so I pulled up my mask, opened the door and yanked him out, shooting him in the head. Mara cowered in fear for at least an hour before she called the police while I watched from behind the old oak tree.

As soon as she got over Don, she took another lover, Dave. I watched as they lay on the beach in the moonlight, moaning and groaning and tossing and turning. Soon, I saw Dave sit up and go to his car to get birth control before he finished. But I finished him with a knife to the belly as I held my hand over his mouth. Mara didn’t hear a peep until she walked naked to the car to see what was taking him so long. I was already walking away when I heard her terrified screams.

Mara waited a while for the next beau. Since we were employed at the same place, I saw that flirtatious little minx sneak into the closet with her boss and knew what was going on. This time, I waited until Mr. Simon walked back to his office, tucking his shirt into his pants and slicking back his hair. I walked into his office telling him I needed to show him the latest financials, strangling him with my tie, until he was blue in the face. What a shame he had a heart attack, everyone said.

Well, I just knew that Mara would go out with me now because she wouldn’t care if I got murdered in the throes of passion with her!

“I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth,” she said. “Didn’t I make myself clear the first time you asked?”

Well, what could I do? I took my razor knife and slit her throat. Never let it be said that I didn’t believe in equal rights!

I assure you, I didn't set out to be a serial killer. In fact, I was set on attending college, and the necessary courses to become a nurse. Well, you see, I guess that wasn't what the universe had in store for me. But there is a breaking point in every single person. Maybe you haven't reached it yet, or maybe you have, but I went over my limit. That stupid dog wouldn't shut up. So I took a shotgun, and bang, problem solved. My brother wouldn't do his homework, and kept trying to run to his room to play video games. Bang. My mother called pulled out her phone to call the police and get me help. Bang. My father tried the same thing. Bang. My life was getting so much easier. Then, I tracked down this one teacher, Mr. Porter. He failed me last semester. Bang. Bang. The next day at school, all the annoying kids, the ones who irritated me every single day, well, guess what happened to them? Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The police came. Bang. Bang. Bang. The gun was wrestled out of my hands, I was cuffed. But in the van, I bent backwards, and suddenly... Bang. I ran, and changed my identity. But don't get on my bad side, for all the people who bother me... well, they're invited over for dinner, but I somehow always forget to mention that I serve death as a side.

I have felt this way for some time, this urge if you will to put pen to paper

and explain why I must do what I must.  It began as early as I can remember, 

this urge to...do things.  It started at six years old, I think or it is one of my earliest memories about what I do.  

I saw the bird's nest in the pine tree outside our kitchen window.  I heard the young birds and I just wanted to see them.  I remember grabbing a broom, I could barely hold it up right.  But when my mother was sleeping, I went out and started to try to hit the nest.

It took a few times, but I was able to get it down.  The nestlings hit the ground,

and I picked one up...and I stared at it.  I stared at it, wondered what made it chirp like that.  The impulse to quiet it came over me, so I did.  I quieted it, and the others with it.  I put it in a shopping bag and kept it close to my bed to look at them.  But my mother found them, yelling at me that it was wrong to hurt things.  But I didn't hurt them, I just quieted them.

When I was twelve, I was tired of catching strays out on the street.  I had this way of being able to have cats and dogs come to me.  It was simple you see, I was able to hold out my hand with some food and then... I quelled my urge.  Animals could sense my urge before it even came to me.  I had to find a way to silence it.  When I learned this, it made things easier.  Easier to see the life leave their eyes.

At eighteen, I was in the park one evening, the one by the school.  I saw the little girl, Annie Hubbard...what was she, 11-12?  She was out picking up acorns, at least that's what I found in her bag.  I had practiced walking, very quietly in the parks and forests.  If you can't be quiet about it, what good are you?  I came up behind her fairly easy.

It was what to do with her after I got her.  Like the others before her, the urge just came upon me, and I quieted her, too.  This time, I don't know what it was something made me what to see her insides.  When finished, I took her back to the tree where I found her.

That was forty years ago, I should have been writing this down much sooner, so I had a record of what this urge does to me.  I should have started much earlier, but this urge to document this just came over me.  I have to go now as I have been watching this brunette, should length hair, incredible lips...

You see, I didn't set out to be a serial killer, it just evolved that way...until next time.

I didn't set out to be a serial killer... Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis and

hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia had ruined my life. The serious cough and the name of the disease itself had led me to despair, and no doctor alive had a cure to this stage of my disease. I had tried everything, doctors, astrologers, what not. It drove me insanely mad and madly insane. I had lost control over myself, and started to have hallucinations. And I couldn't differentiate between reality and hallucinations. And I used to believe whatever I saw, real or imaginary. And I did so when a hallucinated Dracula told me to become one myself. And drink blood instead of water, and eat human flesh instead of food. And my only source was the common man. So I started, with two meals a day, and then it increased to three, and subsequently to five. Newborn for breakfast, child for brunch, teen for lunch, adult for snacks, and seniors for dinner. And occasionally unborn fetuses for supper. Every meal, I used to leave my mark on the door of the house of the victim, and some restaurants, the residential complexes, were my favorite. My mark was simple, yet elegant. It consisted of a dot. A normal dot. But made with blood. Not the delicacy's blood. Not mine either. Yours.

No one starts out intending to be a serial killer. Killing is a very sensory exprience, and it takes time to develop your senses properly. You continue to kill for many reasons, but mostly because it pleases you to do so.

You start by drowning the neighbor's cat. You snatch it from their yard and stuff it into an old pillowcase, knotting up the end. You hear it hiss and mewl and feel it thrash, extending its claws through the pillowcase to leave bloody trails down your arm. You smack it silly before taking it down to the stream and holding it under the water until there is no struggle, no life. As for your arm, you've learned your lesson, and you know that won't happen again. You tell your mother it scratched you for no reason, and when the neighbor comes looking, you say you haven't seen the little bugger since.

You move on to torturing stray dogs, offering them scraps of food, then pulling them away at the last moment before their jaws can take them away from you. You wield a large stick that you use to engage them in a frenzied "game" of whack-a-mole, waiting until you've either knocked them unconscious or, more delightfully, they retreat, whimpering, with their tail between their legs.

Your first human kill is entirely unexpected. You're hanging out at a bar, knocking back the beers, and a gorgeous redhead sits down on the stool next to you. I mean, she is stacked, and her legs ... You offer to buy her a drink, but she looks at you and laughs, saying "You? I don't think so." "Why not?" you ask. "Because you're not man enough." She looks you up and down as dismissively as you did those dogs. You storm from the bar, but the cold air outside slaps you in the face harder than her words did. You resolve to do something about the situation. You wait. When she comes out, you grab her, clamping your hand over her mouth. "Am I man enough now, honey?" you snarl.

It's a short drive to the woods. She begs and pleads with you, but that only eggs you on. You wrap her head in some old cloth sacks, push her into the stream, and hold her under. After that, she's no more to you than the cat, but you feel a rush. You bury the evidence and head back home.

The next time you actually look for a mark, and you've made sure to stock your car with the bags, a shovel, and some duct tape to make the screams sound more like the cat's mewl. This time it feels much easier. You feel another rush but want still more. The police have started to get interested, too. They're noticing you without knowing who you are. You're important, wanted. It's become a high, and here you are, serial killer extraordinaire ...

Thistle lay quietly in his room-watching all the other kids-through the window. He hated being in an orphanage.

One day he was finally in a new home, with a young couple who failed to have their own child.

All his days of happiness and cheer faded away the minute he heard the 'good news.' His parents were expecting a baby girl.

Grey and Sterna adored their little ray of sunshine. They named her Daisy.

Daisy grew to be full of joy, and she had a warm heart. She loved her brother, Thistle. But Thistle was never fond of his the new setup. He tried to be joyful. That didn't end well.

When their parents were away, Thistle left the door wide open. He set a trap for his sister.

As Daisy walked onto the front porch, she slowly turned back to call her brother, in a bolt move she was hit with an iron pan-right to the side of her head. Thistle gave a slight grin, and he quickly glanced to check if anyone noticed what he had just done.

He cleaned up the splatter of blood around the front doorway and the spots of red that was on the white paint, like tiny polka dots of horror. Thistle chuckled and gave a croaked giggle.

Daisy's body was cleaned and left in her room. He made it look like she hit her head by the door leading out of her room.

Then he made a call.

Grey: Slow down. Thistle what happened? I can't quite hear you son.

Thistle: (slower and calmer) It's Daisy....she's.....i...think she's dead..

Grey: What? But? How did that happen? We're on our way home. We'll see you soon, alright.

Thistle went into the kitchen and prepared a poisonous gas leak. It filled the house and went straight into the air system.

When Grey and his wife arrived, they stormed through the front door and called Thistle.

Grey: Thistle!

Sterna: Where's Daisy?

Thistle: She's upstairs-in her room. I'm so sorry. I think she's dead.

Sterna: How dare you say such a thing? You were supposed to be taking care of  her. Where were you when she apparently was in trouble. Thistle?

Thistle: I, urr, (a tear moves across his face).......

Grey: Sugar. Sterna. Don't be hard on him. Let's go check on Daisy.

The parents rush upstairs to Daisy's room. There they find that she's not even breathing. She's gone.

Sterna: I'm going to call 911.

Grey: Okay.

Thistle runs out of the house, and his timing is perfect. The second he's out of the house, there is a BANG.

His former home is in flames.

Several days later, Thistle is back at the orphanage, and he goes to speak with Sister Jen.

Thistle: I think I'm guilty.

Sister Jen: Are You doing fine lad?

Thislte: No, I -didn't mean to do it.

Sister Jen: You didn't mean to do what Thistle?

Thistle: I didn't set out to be a serial killer.

We only wanted the best things in life. I know that you deserve better. It only started out small and it never was meant to go this far. You were sick and we needed the money. You wanted the best in life. You put me through college and raised me as your own. I'm sorry that this is how I chose to repay you. Here is my confession. I dropped out of college. I never became a dentist. Yes I was going to graduate as Valedictorian. I only wanted to make you proud. I had no money and working at McDonalds didn't get me anything. It started with little robberies. I am not proud of it. We needed the money. Your chemotherapy was getting expensive and the bank was taking our house. I was falling into a hole and had no way out. Seeing you on life support was ripping me apart. One day I broke. I lost it. I got angry. I killed a man. An old man. Now please don't be angry. I killed him and his family. Their blood is on my hands. When I look at myself I see their blood on me. I was hungry. I thought that if I killed more the pain would go away. I'm sorry I killed your family. I bombed a city. My best friend is a man that likes to bring GTA to life. I never meant to kill your family I never meant to hurt you. You are ten feet under and I know it is my fault. I ask God almighty to forgive me. I didn't set out to be a serial killer. I only wanted to make you proud. I hope you will forgive me as we set out in two different directions. I know that I have now made the world proud. One less serial killer. Please forgive me mamma.

I didn't set out to be a serial killer, it just happened. It started when a game of truth or dare went too far. Johnny always took things too far. The game wasn't suppose to end like this. We were all just having fun at the party until it was my turn and I made the grave mistake of choosing dare. Johnny never liked that I was the innocent one, the one who could never do wrong. He wanted that to change. I guess that's how I ended up in jail, where I've been for the past 10 years. Here I am, doing what I always do when it's lights out, sitting in my prison cell reminiscing the times before I was the town's first serial killer.

She can't remember her face. Not anymore. The world is photo-bright and faded all at once, voices coming through the air thick and muddled. Distorted and slow. She can't make out the words. The girl is smiling, she knows -- the girl is smiling and laughing and happy -- but she doesn't know exactly who it's for. Or when or how or why, really, because it can't be her. The dead don't do that. The dead don't leave their sisters to cry over pill-ridden bodies or shirts that smelled like her; the dead don't come back just to forgive past grievances or settle stupid arguments. The dead certainly don't reappear night after night, dream after dream -- just to have her finally chase and catch her in the endless field. Dead is dead. So she watches, feet rooted, as the girl constantly plays just out of arm's reach. Laughs at jokes just out of earshot, smiles in that distant way. There's no point to this. The girl isn't real because she killed her, essentially, and so she won't bother humoring the idea.

This is a dream. Dreams end.

It's always the same. The girl realizes she can't bribe her with a voice that sounds like her sister's, or with a body that looks like hers. Realizes she can't make her give chase the way she wants her to. Makes it seizures and breathing tubes and the ICU suddenly, instead of the beautiful field, and paints the walls and linoleum as stark of a white as possible. Plasters third grade essays and sheet music over every inch of the floors, walls, and ceiling; plays chord progressions over the intercom over and over again to a maddening tune.

Look at what you've done to me, her not-sister will seethe, leveling her from across the room. The shaking setting in, fingers curling into the gown. Look at what you've done to us. How could you abandon me like that? How could you leave me to die? How does it feel, knowing you've killed me?

And then she does die. The not-sister dies over and over again, lips blue, while the guilty one stares ahead. It -- she knows this thing is not a person -- glares back with enough anger to distort the room. Asks, over and over again, what it must be like to be her. What it must be like to be a serial killer, what it must be like to have her own sister's blood on her hands. How she could've stopped fighting the battle alongside her, how she could've left her sister in the darkest state she'd ever seen by herself. And her not-sister's face is imperceptible, as always. Even in death the dream does not grant the guilty one a chance to remember.

The morning will come, eventually. And so she sits, stares, and waits.