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!

“They called me teacher’s pet. That didn’t bother me, really. I always got along better with adults than my peers. I enjoy different things. For example, I take no pleasure in making fun of other children or bullying the different or weak. Apparently, I am an odd sort. Everyone else seems gleeful in their collective unkindness. I prefer quiet, solitary endeavors. Teachers, adults in general, like that about me. Heretofore – isn’t that a lovely word? I learned it quite recently in a book I was reading. Anyway, heretofore, I’ve been no trouble at all. Children…well, let’s just say I’m no one’s BFF.

“My mother always said to ignore them, and I did try. I read incessantly, even, or especially, during lunch or when we had play time in the school yard. Nose buried in a book, I could ignore the taunting children pointing and laughing, occasionally pushing or poking. Even hair pulling, shoulder punching and ‘accidental’ tripping could be relegated to the outer regions of my consciousness.

“This, um, this incident, was an aberration, I assure you. Ask anyone. Lily? Quiet, mousey, Lily?”

“Lily, you stabbed Johnny 25 times with an ice pick.”

“Well, that’s easily explained, doctor. Johnny has pulled my hair 25 times since school began.”

“You counted?”

“Well, yes, of course. I know exactly what each child in my class has done to me and how many times. I like numbers, you see. I can’t help but count.” Pause. “And remember.”

“I see.”

“I guess the 25th time was the…was the… how does that saying go? The straw that broke the camel’s back?” Giggles. “Or just the last straw.”

“Hmmm.”

“May I go home now?”

“Home? Lily, you will be with us for quite some time. You do realize that you killed Johnny?”

“Oh, well, yes, I suppose. There was an awful lot of blood.” Pause. “I do hope the children are better behaved here. I would hate another camel’s back to break.”

I call it a hobby

You call me a freak.

I call it dreams

You call it sick.

I wanna see them die-

Imagine ripping out their spines,

Slicing their meat like an animal's.

I seek out their reactions

Every twist and turn, twitch of their face.

You call it taking advantage,

I call it taking a chance.

Because sometimes my mind gets a little lonely

And the dead are easier to talk to.

Yes. You are right. I am a killer. And I, like my victims, deserve to die... at least in my opinion.But my view isn't objective and neither is yours or anyone else's. It's a view, and there are different views, thousands, sometimes. However, there are times when only one point of view is relevant.

We all have an addiction. For some, it's coffee and for others, it's alcohol. Some can handle their addiction, some don't even know their addiction and others are surrounded by their addictions on a daily basis, which makes it hard to resist. Imagine it being like sugar. If you were addicted to sugar, could you stop? Sugar is almost in every product you consume. And now imagine that you can smell that sugar wherever you go. It would drive you crazy, wouldn't it? And now imagine the sugar saying stupid things that don't even make sense, and all you can think is "shut up."At least that's what I think about right now.

The guy standing in front of me had no idea what he was talking about. And when I look around, I see that everyone else knows. But he is the boss's son and, apparently, that gives him the right to waste our time. Well, maybe after tonight, he will think twice about the time he is wasting. If he had the ability to waste anyone's time after tonight...Or if he could think. I wish I could kill him right now. My hands began to shake, and it took all of my energy and focus not to kill him right now. Not to cut his throat.

When I looked away, I saw her. She was beautiful, but that wasn't why I admired her. You can see the brilliance in her eyes. And all my senses were calmed when I smelled her perfume in the air. For a moment, I forgot my wish to kill the people in this room and I focused only on her. Nobody had ever done anything like what she had done for me. It was simple, but beautiful. A small gesture that meant everything to me.

For a moment, I wish we could be two people who are driving around at midnight, going out for a snack or driving into the woods on the weekends. But that will never happen. She would never want to be with me.

I'm a really good person. No matter what you hear or read about me, at least know that. I was a Girl Scout. I was a good, upstanding citizen, damnit. I have always been a really good person. Occasionally, I'd fanatsize about running the person who drives five miles under the speed limit off the road. We've all been there, though. So when I started my new job, I was expecting a normal, good, upstanding experience. My boss was a woman, but I had no problem with that. I love a lady in power. My credentials were good, so I was pretty high up in the company right away. On my first day, I was asked to go speak with my boss. That's nothing unusual, happens all the time. I walked into her office and immediatly any goodness in me was left outside her door. She wasn't young, or even pretty, but she still wore skirts. She stood to greet me, and I wanted her more than I've ever wanted any 20-something college girl. I stared at her legs, varicose veins and age spots crawling up her calves. Her knees bent inwards, making her look wobbly. But her thighs...her thighs called to me. They were dented with cellulite and covered in moles. The most exquiste show of hideousness I have ever seen. I wanted to saw her legs off and hump them until I had withered to nothing. Everything else about her was ordinary. Her aura of power didn't turn me on, and it didn't turn me off. We had a quick chat about my job, and our weekend plans. I said nothing, but in reality, I had big, BIG plans. That night, after locking my door (there are lots of freaks out there, you can never be too safe), I got started on my plan to murder my boss and eat her Achille's tendon. It's simple, really. I walk in and kill her. She lives alone, and is doing nothing this weekend. So, I did just that. I'm no psychopath, and I didn't enjoy killing her. There was simply no other way. I cut her calves up into small pieces and made a nice stir-fry. It was delicious and very filling. Then I wrapped her thighs in saran wrap and took them home in a paper grocery bag. I know what you're thinking, but I am NOT a bad person. Seriously, you should just see the way her blood pooled on the surface of her skin. It looked like she was blushing, but in her thighs. And don't worry, I used a payphone to call the police about a gruesome murder at her apartment. But back to her thighs; I took them home with me and put them in my freezer. I have one of those big freezers you have to open from the top. After her beautiful, razor-burnt thighs had been frozen for a while, I took them out. I spent my Saturday night humping them and rubbing them on myself for a good hour, then wrapped them up and placed them next to my old boss's thighs. I suppose I'll have to find a new job. The same thing happened when I lived in Miami, and before that in Detroit. Maybe this time I'll go to California. Can you imagine the sunspots on some middle-aged CEO's thighs? I'm hard just thinking about it.

So I had been trying to get my work published for a long time. I write novels that fall into the genre of fiction (mostly), thrillers, and mystery, but I always keep it fresh and mix in elements of romance, horror and self-help. I decided to go the self-publishing route, because it made the most sense to me. None of the publishers out there really understood how different and iconic my work is, and why should I have to share any of the profits with them anyway?

I set up wifi in my isolated cabin in the woods, bought a phone, published my work on Amazon and sat next to my phone, just waiting for the phone calls to start coming in. Publishers calling to tell me what a mistake they made, news outlets falling over themselves to have me on to discuss my book, colleges extending me honorary degrees for delivering lectures on my work and my contributions to literature. A week went by, two weeks, a month, 6 months, I lost count. Sitting by my phone and laptop, just waiting for some form of communication from the outside world. I began to despair. Am I to be like Van Gogh? Poe? Kafka? Fated to live in obscurity and perish, only to be surpassed by my memory? Museums and libraries chasing down my manuscripts that were not worth a single cent to them while I was alive (and in debt due to paying Verizon to extend wifi to my isolated cabin). That was until... I received a notification.

I received an electronic email stating that someone had ordered a copy of my book. Someone by the name of BKfan69. A pseudonym, no doubt. Who could this mystery fan be? He or she had to have a mind like my own, a fellow genius, who could understand the weight behind my novel's title ("The Cabin Dweller's Hand Maiden"). I felt like a survivor on a desert island, marooned without campionship, finally spotting a giant yacht on the horizon. Every word I have written, every rejection letter received, every job I've been fired from for creating a hostile work environment, was suddenly not only worth it, but somehow destined.

I knew one thing, and one thing only: I had to hand deliver my book to this mystery fan, my beloved reader. Imagine the surpise on his visage upon hearing the doorbel ring and opening the door, only to see the great author in front of him, extending his work to him like God extending his finger to Adam in the Sistine Chapel. Better yet, I could let myself in, and surprise him when he comes home. How greatful would he be for the privilege of a lifetime? I felt I owed it to him. He would be among the first of my flock, like a literary apostle. I could also stay with him, and use his couch as a base of operations since they turned the water off to my cabin.

Working dilligently, I immediately went about trying to discover my mystery fan's identity. Amazon has put up a few obstacles to keep sellers from discovering the identities of buyers, but I would not let Jeff Bezos stop me. I went on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. It was like searching for a needle disguised as a straw of hay in a stack of other needles disguised as straws of hay. How was I to cut through the anonymity of this blasted internet and be united with my twin in mind and spirit?

I went to a coffee shop and began sobbing, deeply. The baristas and customers could not ignore my cries. Eventually, a teenage girl came up to me, like an angel delivered from the heavens to answer my prayer. "What's wrong?" she asked. I used my imagination and gift for story telling, and I told her a noble lie, for it was the only way that the greater good could be achieved. "This guy who bought your book, he really said such racist and bigotted things to you? And you just had to sit there, and take it while Amazon did nothing to address his behavior? I'm not going to stand for that. I got you, I know how to find this nasty piece of work! TikTok will know what to do!"

I ceased my crying. I did not know this "TikTok," but, somehow, I knew everything would work out just as I wanted it to... I knew you would end up reading these words. I am in your home and I am ready to meet you. Now turn around.

Sincerely,

Your favorite author

The smell burned the man's nose as he walked through the dark halls. Why do these people have to be Italian? the man questioned, covering his face with his cloak. At the end of the hallway there was a door with a small pool of light illuminating the wooden floors of the townhouse. Silently, the cloaked man glided his way across the floor toward the light. The smell became sweet, his nose twitched. A thin smile spread across his face as a surge of power ripped through his body. He came to a stop, just mere inches from the door. Long pale fingers crept out from the cloak towards the door handle and closed themselves around the cold metal. Skillfully, the man opened the door allowing the light to fall across his body. The woman sitting up in her bed reading did not notice him, "go away Jimmy" she said, annoyed, and without looking up from her book.

"I'm not Jimmy," the man replied before lunging across the room to the woman.

A muffled shriek slammed out of the woman's mouth as the man's hand clasped itself across her face. The man's eyes turned red, and his sharp teeth morphed into long fangs protruding from his gums. All he could see was various shades of red as his animalistic instincts kicked in. He wanted food. He wanted her blood.

Laughing, he bit down on her throat, piercing her skin and allowing the warm blood to trickle down his throat. The woman's struggle became obsolete as the rush of adrenline and power increased with each bite. Her kicking became weaker as her life was beginning to fade.

When the man drank his fill, he sat up reached for the blanket and cleaned his face the best he could. He felt powerful and he wanted more. Quickly turning around he jumped off the bed and dashed out of the room searching for his next victim. Apparently that would be Jimmy. Jimmy was already asleep in his bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. The light was out, but the moon was illuminating the room. Again, the man opened the door and pushed his way into the room. He stood still, cold, yet he could feel the blood rushing around his body, I want you he thought as he looked at the boy. Moving closer he reached out for the boy's throat and closed his hand around the boy's neck. His long fingernails cut into his throat. Jimmy's eyes shot open in horror just as the man threw himself foward to sink his teeth into the boy. The boy reached for something on the table, but it was easily knocked away by the man who had a deathgrip on Jimmy's throat. Jimmy was growing weak, tired, and eventually the man felt Jimmy's body go limp as he drained the last of his blood.

The man stood up looking at his handiwork before turning to finish the job. Now all I need to do is light this place up and pretend nothing happened. Which is exactly what he did. The man went to the kitchen and unscrewed the cover of a lightswitch, exposing the wires and held a match to the wire until a spark ignited a fire. The man stood up and waited for the fire to spread before making his exit into the dark.

When the man woke up the next day, he went to the door to retrieve the local newspaper. The headline read, "Another Fire Destroys Townhouse." The thin smile appeared across the man's face. I enjoy reading my handiwork in the newspaper he thought before closing the door behind him. The man walked into his kitchen, "Breakfast dear?" his wife asked, smiling from the stove. Eggs and bacon. It's absolutely disgusting. "No thanks sweetie. I'm trying to watch my figure," replied the man as he sat down at the table. "I'll just take some toast."

"Daddy!" a small voice exclaimed from the next room, "come watch this video with me! It's funny!"

"Alright sweetie! I'll be there in a minute." The man got up, walked over to his wife and embraced her in a deep kiss. "Did you put garlic on the eggs again?" The man asked, recoiling with controlled disgust. "You know I always do," she replied. "And now you know why I don't like your eggs," the man laughed before turning away and exiting the room. If you weren't my wife you'd be dead.

Looking through the crowd, I scraped my big toe across the cement step. I winced as my skin peeled and small fragments of blood formed around the nail. Without thinking, I did it again, harder. Pain radiated from my toe to my eyes like a lightening bolt. The cement was cold and inviting on this hot humid day. I could barely breath the humidity was so high, but the city kept churning. People pushing past one another trying to get to their next life event like they might miss it. The stoop was more than just a place to cool off. It was where I watched. Sometimes it would take weeks for me to pick the right one, but they had to be exactly right. Sighing, I flicked a small bug off the step.

“Toderick, it’s time for lunch sir.”

I looked up to see our house maid Sandy towering above me. I nodded. Pausing, I scanned the crowds once more before standing up and wiping the butt of my trousers. My family was rather daft when it came to affection. As I entered the dining hall my mother barely glanced at me. My younger brother and sister were fidgeting with their plates of food, and my father was, of course, nowhere to be found. Probably off doing whatever it is he does. Pulling out the old ridiculously heavy wooden dining room chair, I glared at Sandy. The staff knows better than to force me to pull out my own chair. She lowered her head and quickly disappeared towards the kitchen.

“Mother,” I said sternly.

“Yes, dear,” she said still not meeting my eyes.

“I take it we are to handle our own seating arrangements now?”

“Toderick, please,” she said annoyed I had begun a conversation with her.

“Please, what?”

She rolled her eyes and continued to pretend to eat. My mother was close to six foot weighing just over a hundred pounds.

“Toderick your such a snob, that’s why you have no friends,” shouted Lily.

“Children that is enough! Eat your lunch respectfully or I will tell your father.”

My brother ignored her, flicking peas across the table towards Lily causing her to snicker. My mother unamused, began gnawing on the same cucumber slice she’d been eating since I’ve arrived. I sighed again yanking the wooden chair closer to the table. I chose to sit at the opposite end away from those miscreants. This family was a joke. I could feel the stress and tension building in my lower back searing towards my shoulders.

“Sir,” Sandy said delicately reaching a plate of food over me. Startled by her presence, I swung the back of my hand up to the plate knocking it to the floor. It shattered spewing perfectly pink cooked salmon across the Persian rug.

“Christ, Sandy!” I said aggressively.

Standing up, palms heavy on the table, I pushed the wooden chair back into her side. The impact caused her to let out a small shutter of pain. I kept my face down to hide the smirk that had begun to form.

“Toderick!”

“Oh, shut up mother!” I said storming off, “the food is subpar these days anyway!”

Marching down the hall to the front door I knew I needed to decide. The longer I waited between picks the more violent I would become towards everyone, including the family. This is the longest I’ve gone to date. Three weeks, one day and eight and a half hours. My body longed for it. Just like that, I was back on the stoop staring out ahead. My stomach rumbled, but not for food.

“Hello.”

Looking up to the left of my shoulder was short, chubby middle-aged woman, not much to look at. I inadvertently scrunched my nose in disgust of her face.

Noticing, she said, “sorry to have bothered you sir, but could you help me?”

Rolling my eyes, along with a large sigh I said, “sure, what could I do for you?” My brains felt as though they were melting through my ears thinking about how she has interrupted my hunt.

“I’m looking for an old giftshop.”

“A giftshop?” I said rolling my eyes again. At this point I didn’t care any longer about feelings. This was New York City and there is, I’m sure over a million “giftshops.”

“Yes, I don't think it's far from here, but I can't seem to find it,” she said handing me a brochure.

Looking down at the paper, a small tinge of pleasure pinged my fingertips.

“Ah, yes. I know this gift shop,” I said using my right hand to pull on my left ear lobe, “let me take you there.”

"Oh, no I don't want to trouble you more. Just point me in the right direction."

I stood up brushing off my trousers again as she smiled, “it’s not too far,” I said, "no trouble."

The woman is far from my type, but maybe I'm turning a new leaf. A big web may be all I need these days. Plus, a long hunt can be taxing.

“This way,” I said pointing her down the alleyway up ahead.

When he saw the Siren, his first thought was that she was beautiful. His second thought was that she needed help.

Shadow Sands was deserted by this time of night when the moon cast its pale luminescence across the black sand. Theo was walking barefoot in the shallow of the waves, knowing he was sure to be alone in his thoughts. The water was cold, the tide starting to come in high, sweeping far past his ankles, scattering seashells in its wake. Theo couldn't help but pity the waves for they could never escape their lunar pull. People always spoke of the ocean as strong but the moon controlled the tides. He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to fall into the same trap; better to be the one pulling the strings rather than the puppet.

Perhaps his anger was getting the best of him. Theo knew he'd show them all someday, all the bullies who didn't believe in him. He just had to believe in himself. Idly, Theo washed his hand through the shallow water, grasping a tulip shell in his grip. It was too light in his hand for him to believe it was once a creature's sole protection. "Guess it didn't work out," he laughed bitterly to himself.

That's when he heard her screams. Scream may be too crass a word for the falsetto that pierced his ears. It was a beautiful melody, but it also hurt, like music played too loud too close. Theo covered his ear with his free hand; when he withdrew it, his palm was wet. Blood.

Another wave crashed towards him, violent and ceaseless. Theo shielded his eyes as the salt water sprayed across his whole body. When he opened them, the girl was there, half on the beach, half still in the water. When her tail flipped up, splashing him between her wails, he had to blink again. But it was no hallucination. The tail was the same coral color as the forgotton seashell in his palm.

Her wet blonde hair shielded half her face, but she still looked up at him with amber eyes. "Please," she whispered, voice raw from her high-pitched notes. "Help me."

For a moment, Theo didn't register her words--he was too struck by her beauty. Well, not her beauty exactly. But the grotesque wounds she carried. Whoever had created the beautiful carvings upon her, though was an artist. Half her head was matted with blood, and the mixture of red and yellow created the illusion of rusted cold. Some bit of shrapnel pierced her bare side, but it looked like it was always meant to be there. Like a statue calling a warning to the world.

And her tail. Oh, lord, her tail. When she flapped it up, she shrieked. A combination of art and music that Theo couldn't help but love. The siren's coral tail was split nearly in two, creating a symmetry so perfect.

Theo could hardly breathe. Was this how an artist got his calling? Finally, he crouched in damp sands, no longer caring if his shorts got wet. "I'll help you," he said lowly, in tune with the girl's whimpers. "But I need your voice."

"What?" The girl blubbered, but Theo knew she was in too much pain to question further. Without waiting for a response, she gripped his arm, the nails like talons digging into his flesh. Even his own blood that dewed seemed like a masterpiece. He was nearly euphoric.

"Your voice," Theo repeated and opened his palm to reveal the shell. The siren's eyes widened as he pointed the sharp end towards her chest. Oh, how he could paint portraits of that fear.

As he pierced her heart, the scream that followed was a song that would never end. Not for Theo.

With a tune in his head and a shell in his hand, Theo walked off the beach, intent to pull some strings.

Clarice Starling was a fitting name, she was like a bird recently fallen from the nest who couldn’t quite fly, mindful of nearby cats who would consume her as a tidy snack.

She strolled past Miegs and the others, obviously terrified. Surely there were more seasoned FBI agents Jack Crawford could have sent, he thinks that dangling this fledgeling inches from my lips will coax this this old feline to tell him what other cats nipped the cream. Well played, Jack, well played.

“Dr. Lecter.” Came a shy voice, the bird most sonorific before it dies..

“My name is Clarice Starling. May I talk with you?”

She was slender and not especially tall for an FBI agent, in the outside world she wouldn’t be much of a challenge, not enough meat to feed a cat, not even worth the effort, barely a quart of blood in her. I arose from my seat to examine this avian explorer outside my cage, perhaps my claws could somehow snag her and draw her inside, but the plexiglass prevents that; it only had small holes.

Remind me to kill Chilton for this.

* * *

Raspail was my ninth victim, part of a final dinner I gave for the conductor of the Baltimore Philharmonic, it was more of a participatory meal, a gastric sing along where the guests and the food got to join along, Kumbayaa.

The police never got the humor about him being the ninth, the number most hated by conductors so tired of playing that dreaded piece of Beethoven yet again, like the wedding singer who would rather slit his own throat than play the Macarena. I saved my friend Raspail from indignities such as that when my corkscrew found a new home in the side of his brain. Yum.

To the car, Clarice. It will show you many things I find beautiful but you will not.

Starling was so young and reckless she would go the car without authorization, the car in the storage unit was a fresh bloody worm no hungry bird could ignore.

And so she did, and on worms she did feast.