To Kill Again

I was with him longer than any man I've ever been with, so I suppose he had to die. He wasn't the most talented man in the world, matter of fact all he could do was work a eight hour shift, and then come home and lay down. Never able to do any of the manly things that I thought a man should be able to do. Like being able to change the oil on the car, fix the leaky sink, repair the carpet, or even doing little chores around the house. He didn’t do anything of these things. If it was to be done, I had to do it all.

I have days where all I want to do is take my life, just to save myself from all this pain and misery. I yearn for a sense of purpose that will define my place in this world. But I yearn for too much. Hope and expectation cloud the mind before delivering bitter disappointment. It is a lesson I have been taught time and again. It is a lesson I keep having to re-learn.

I remember when I first met him. He was thick, but in shape with a nice muscle tone underneath, but I hated the fact that he acted like he knew it all. Still, it was easy to take advantage of him. All I had to do was show him the pussy and he would give me anything I wanted or desired.

I never really seemed to bond well with others when growing up, I mostly prefered to be alone. I would spend hours alone, thinking about ways to inflict a slow death on some small creature I had caught. At 12, I broke down, and told my father that I could kill somebody and not feel bad, he beat me with a belt and sent me on my way. Taught me to keep my mouth shut.

Now here I sit, past 40 years old in my own house, hidden deep in the woods, far from prying eyes, with another fresh corpse sitting next to me. I guess it was partly my fathers fault. Maybe if he hadn’t sexually, physically, or mentally abuse me throughout my life, my life might have went a different direction. Maybe it’s the voices that I hear in my head, that makes me commit these crimes. Or it might be the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the sexual turn-on, or the high that I get from killing. Whatever it is...I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.

Some people might think that I’m sick, a freak, a inhuman creature, or insane, but I don't. I don't feel that it's a normal thing, but I feel completely numb about what is happening. Mostly I enjoy the sense of power that comes from terrifying victims, and confusing the police. I always wanted to prove to myself that I was capable to taking another persons life, but only one thing kept me from carrying out this nasty deed for years when I was young, I didn't want to be locked up for the rest of my life, rotting away in some stinking jail cell. Whether I admit it or not, I do value freedom, but I have become smarter.

I wouldn't do anything really sick, like fuck a dead body, but the thought is still there. I thought about it a lot when I was little, and afterwards I would lay in bed and secretly masturbate. Maybe I am sick, maybe I‘m just willing to admit to my heinous thoughts. I'd like to believe that I'm like a lot of other people, but that's only a fantasy. I’ve even been told that I’m as normal as the girl next door, but the truth is ..... Well, no one knows the real me.

Everybody has the power in themselves to kill another. I remember sitting alone in the big barn behind our house when I was young, with a black cat in my arms, thinking I could take its head and crush it with one quick show of strength. Or I could throw it on the ground with all my might and stomp it to death. I suppose talking about killing an animal is wrong, but I can’t help thinking about the feeling of warm blood splashed across my skin.

Things weren't easy for us when I was growing up. We weren't rich, so most of the time I found myself going without, while others would be proudly showing off their trinkets, I stood alone in the background. We grew food in the garden in the summertime, and hunted down and killed any other food we might need to survive. There wasn’t much, but at least we had a roof over our head, (that leaked when it rained), and food to eat every night (even if it was the same food two nights or more in a row).

At 17, I was out on my own. I bought a car, got an apartment, and supported myself in my own way. I suppose others would feel a sense of accomplishment in having their own apartment, I didn't actually care. I never needed much space to live in, just a small kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms; one room to sleep in, and another to put my collection of souvenirs. I lived like this for years.

Then he came along. Sex with him was great. I couldn’t seem to get enough of what he was offering. He would hold doors open for me, enjoyed going out to a fancy restaurant, or just spending a quiet evening at home entertaining me. Eventually he moved in with me, and we then we moved to a bigger place. Things changed. I changed.

It's been said that people don't care anymore, but I tried. People just never gave me the same respect that I was giving. Were they too dumb to understand? So fucking stupid that they didn’t understand that when you treat people like dogs, eventually they become the meanest dog you’ve ever come across.

Sometimes, I don’t mind being treated like trash, but at times I want to be treated like princess.

Now, I enjoy lurking in the shadows, watching other people, madly laughing to myself, making people wonder what I’m going to do next. I get off on the pure joy of telling someone something so bizarre that it fucks with their mind.

I love being around certain people. But what I love more, is when the people like being with me. I was a social recluse for quite some time, now I can never get enough of people. Maybe this is what drove me to do what I did. Maybe not. Society is warped, I see it all the time, but I can't blame society for all my actions or re-actions.

When I'm tired, I can be very disrespectful. "Fuck off," is mild for me. Don't get me going, because once I start, I'm not going to stop until something really bad happens.

They never understand my moods. MOODS. What a strong word, more powerful than most. Perhaps it's the fact that I have different personalities at times, so there is always a different reason for what I do. Hell, I'm still trying to figure that one out myself.

I hate it when he yells and threatens my life, telling me I worthless and good for nothing. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to leave, but he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stand there like a fool and argue. I face reality and realize I can find another person just like him. He just makes me so crazy that all I can think about is killing him, and burying his body in a deep hole in the backyard.

Sometimes I get in this weird mood where all I want to do is listen to sad, dreary and depressing songs. Not happy songs. He hates this, and only wants to listen to his favorite type of music, calling my music nothing but crap, and giving me this look of hatred when he turns mine off and turns his on.

You know the letter 'y' in the word 'happy' makes the word look happy. Happ. That looks better. Like someone was trying to say 'happy' and their throat was slit in the process.

I could easily break someone’s bones, because the sound of the snapping bones drive me over the edge and sends me into a frenzy of inflicting pain. I want to make them curl up in the corner, and beg for their life.

I could easily cut a person. Blood doesn't bother me like it does some people. I've sat for hours, putting scars on my legs, arms, and stomach with one of the many blades that I own. I suppose that I'm rambling again, but I'll be strong and not apologize for it, because then I'd be weak.

He yelled at me, and read me like a book. He saw right through my moods. Saw the inner me. I don’t like that. I don’t want people to know me like that. We’ve been together to long.

What is the problem? You really want to know? I just wanted him to shut up, and stop telling me what I did wrong, over and over again until I want to throw up. I‘m not a dumb ass, I know I fucked up.

Then later, when I’m still mad, I didn’t want him to make believe everything is okay, and then tie me down to the bed and fuck me with all his strength...well maybe that was okay. I just wanted a word or two about how ‘the house looks nice’, or ‘dinner was good’, ‘your hair looks nice’, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of things’, that’s what I want him to say at least once.

The gun barely made a sound when it went off. I had put on the latex gloves, and wrapped a pillow fully around the gun before I placed it against his left temple. I was expecting a much louder noise, and at first I worried that it didn‘t really go off, and he would wake up shouting at me to leave him the fuck alone. But then I saw the blood beginning to pour from his mouth and quickly soaking into the sheets. I knew he was dead.

The blood meant something. It meant it was over. I didn’t have to deal with the way he treated me, ever again. I could move on and find someone new, someone better, someone I wouldn’t want to kill.

It feels good to scream, loudly. I felt like a God, standing in my big house waving the gun around in the air. Maybe I went back to some primal instincts of kill or be killed. I took the first step. There are no tears. I feel nothing.

So, now I sit here writing this, and I’m beginning to realize what I’ve done to him. He was my life for the past 20 years, and I've just altered that way of life forever. His death will mean my freedom again if anyone finds his body. But he has no family, no close friends, he won‘t be missed for a very long time. It will be time enough for me to move on, to begin again what I started so many years ago. I can’t let anybody find out. It has brought back all the old memories of when I killed years ago. Once again I am free to go out and freely kill and fuck at will. Some people might not understand this, but it is a part of me.

After I buried his body in a deep hole in the backyard, I took a long hot shower, blow-dried and straightened my hair, and now I'm deciding how to finish this story.

If a murderer moved next door, would you know it just by looking at them? Could you tell from your interactions with a person, that they were capable of committing unspeakable acts against other human beings? Could someone you love and have regular contact with, be a serial killer without you suspecting a thing?

The room he was in, now smells different. It's not the usual smell of his body odor, or his cologne that I bought for him last year at Christmas. It smells strange, and I feel like I don’t belong here any more. I cut up the mattress and buried most of it with him, but the smell of dead blood lingers, like dust in the air after a storm.

A gallon of bleach and a bottle of pine-sol should do the trick. I like to be clean, I hate it when things are dirty. Everything has to have its own proper place, and it is a must that things smell nice. Smell is very important to a woman. But they wouldn't listen! I'd like to take their words and shove them down their throats.

I figure people kill themselves because they feel they have nothing to live for. Nothing. Their life was wasted early, and that affects them later. So, they sit in one place, and look at all the dirt and filth around them, never finding happiness until the day they die. Nobody cares for them, and they don’t care for anybody. That's the reason. Maybe. I know how they feel now. I know, I understand.

My life is wasted, but his death fixed that.

I kissed him lightly on the forehead before I dumped his body in the hole. It sent goose-bumps through me, and made me wonder if I had done the wrong thing. Was it time to begin my plan? It felt like the first time all over again. The adrenaline rush like I got from my first kill was back. I had quit so many years ago because I was no longer getting the thrill that I had received the first time I took a life.

Society is going to hate me as much as I hate them. But I’m going to do it anyway, and not anybody is going to know the truth. Even if there was somebody who KNEW how I was feeling, what I'm thinking, and what I did, I would still deny it. It's like a disease, and it's not stoppable. Afterwards, I will feel bad, but right now, I don't care anymore. I feel alive, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster.

Who gives a fuck anyway? I should die. I am a sinner, and no one can save me now. What I’ve done is sick, disgusting, immoral, and I should die for my crimes. If somebody else had done the same thing, I would not hesitate to kill them. But, I am me, and so I am above the laws? No, I should die, and die I will by the hands of another...someday. That almost sounds poetic. I always wanted to be a poet, or a writer, but I don’t have the talent. I could have, but people are always telling me how much better they are than me, and how I'll never be anybody. People with more talent, more ideas, more feelings...normal people. People I don’t like. People that need to die.

This next weekend might be a good time to start this planned thought. Planning is important part... I don't want to make a mistake. Maybe I'll wait until my court date and explode in a violent frenzy, and not stop until I take my last breath.

If there is a hell, then surely I'll be there,

laying in my bed of hot coals, staring aimlessly at the ceiling,

unable to sleep.

Killing for Pleasure

My boyfriend at the time was just getting off from work, when he spotted two Rottiweiler dogs roaming the parking lot near his car. They were very friendly so he petted them both, and then walked back inside to pick up his jacket that he had forgotten. A friend of his arrived for his shift, noticed the dogs, and decided he wanted to take one of them home with him. My boyfriend of course had to have the other one, and quickly put him in back of his car and brought him to my house. It was a complete mistake from day one.

The dog was a nice looking Rott and very friendly, but he was already full grown, so I felt no emotional attachment to the dog. My boyfriend was the one who wanted to have him, but unless I took time to feed him, he never got watered or fed. Eventually I began to hate the dog because there were always arguments about the dogs care. Instead of buying or building the dog a doghouse, my boyfriend used the money to try and build a large stereo system to put in the back of his car. So when it rained the dog would howl for hours and hours, which began to bother the neighbors and they would come complaining to me.


My next door neighbors hated him, because every time they tried to do anything in their backyard, the dog would bark at them and jump up on the fence. One day the neighbor got to close and he jumped up on the fence and somehow scratched her on the arm. I never got to see the wound, but she claimed she had to go to the E.R. and have stitches. To avoid any more hassles with my neighbor I agree to pay her hospital bill of $181.00.

We had a fenced in back yard, but somehow he began getting loose everyday and roaming the neighborhood, which made people very uneasy seeing a big Rott running around loose. The cops were called several times, and when they tried to catch him, he would come running towards the backyard, so they knew he was ours. After two tickets I was fed up, and demanded that the dog had to be more secured or I would get rid of him. My boyfriend and I argued for two days until he finally went to the hardware store and purchased a large, long, metal chain. He then secured the chain around the dogs neck and the other end around a clothesline pole. Again this was fine, until it rained and then he would howl and howl for hours.

Another day, one of my sons friends, who was only 5, came into the backyard and began playing with him. I hadn't even notice the boy had come into my backyard, or I could have kept an eye on him. The next thing I knew I heard a blood curling scream, and my son and the boy came running into the house. The boy was holding his ear, and I could see blood flowing down from where his hand was being held. I tried to ask him what happened but he was too upset, so I hurried him over to his house and left him with his parents. I talked to my son about what had happened and he said his friend was trying to take the chain off the dog when the dog jumped up and his paw came down on the young neighbor boy. I found out later that the dogs claw had almost torn his ear off, anyway that's what they told me, and of course they wanted me to pay the $300 dollar hospital bill, plus a couple of hundred for his pain and suffering. This time I refused to pay, because I didn't feel it was my fault since he had come into my backyard, without me knowing.

I hated the dog more everyday and began refusing to feed and water him. If he was to be fed then, my boyfriend would have to be the one taking care of him, and I let him know this. Days would sometimes go by, without the dog getting fed. He looked so miserable that I couldn't even stand looking at him.

My younger son, who was only 2 at the time, began sneaking outside without me knowing. I had caught him a couple of times, in the backyard trying to play with the dog. It didn't worry me that the dog would try to bite him, but the dog liked jumping up on people. My son was a small two-year-old, and the dog was three times his size and weight. Sure enough, one day my fears came true, and my son tried to play with him. The dog jumped up on him, and one of the dogs nails hit my son in the head, putting a large nail hole wound in his forehead. He came running and screaming into the house with blood running down from his head. I quickly picked him up and called 911, telling them my son was injured from the dog.

Within 10 minutes the fire department arrived. I was so furious at the dog, all I could think about was a way to get rid of him. The injury wasn't real serious, but he still had to have 3 stitches in his head, right along the hairline. As they were helping him, all I could think about was what if it had been his eye, or what if the dog had continued jumping on him. After that, I put a lock on the backdoor, so my little boy couldn't go outside unless I was with him.

The next night it poured down rain and the dog howled for hours. I had only a few hours of sleep, between worrying about my son, and listen to the dog non-stop. I was awaken by a noise in the backyard, and quickly went to see what was going on. Somehow the dog had managed to get loose from the clothesline pole, and was dragging the chain behind. He had tried to jump over the fence, but the chain had hung up and it left him partly dangling in the air. I struggle to free him, hurting my arm as I did. I felt such deep anger inside. It was then that I began forming plans in my head about what I was going to do with the dog. I imagined the worst possible torture, and even the quickest most humane way to have it out of my life.

I tied him to the clothesline, and then went back into the house for a bucket of water. As I was letting the water run into the bucket I began adding some rat poison that I had under the sink. Next I found some poison for killing slugs and added that to the water. I wasn't sure if it would kill him, but I really didn't care. I just wanted to inflict harm on it, in some manner. I carried the water outside and sat if down next to him. He quickly drank the water, since he hadn't been watered in days. I turned and walked away.

Without a second thought to what might happen, I got my sons ready for a day of fun, and took them to the park to play. We had a picnic and walked around exploring places we had never been. Not even once did my mind wonder to the dog and think about how it might be doing. I really didn't care. Maybe I didn't secure it to the pole tight enough and when I got back it would escape and be long gone somewhere. I played and played with my boys, pushing them on the swings until we all became tired. When it was close to the time for my boyfriend to stop by my place, we packed up all our things and headed home.

When we returned my boyfriend was already there. He had found the dog dead in the backyard, and again he was free from the chain. He had a suspicion that someone may have poisoned the dog, but I convinced him that something happened to the dog during the storm. The neighbor behind our house saw the dog, and heard us talking about what may have happened. The neighbor quickly put in his two cents and said he thought the dog may have but killed by lightening. He said he had heard lightening strike real close to the house and since the dog was chained to the pole, he probably died of shock. I quickly jumped in and agreed with what he had to say. My boyfriend finally became convinced that was what had happened and took the do away for disposal. In my mind, I completely blocked out the fact that I had given the dog tainted water, and began fully believing that the dog had died because of being struck by lightening.

This happened in the fall of 1995. I just remembered today, in the fall of 2007, that I was the one responsible for killing the dog. I don't know why suddenly the memory returned to me, but I felt compelled to write down the story.