Dot dot dot

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.