My first attempt at this sort of thing, the idea for a female serial killer has been tugging at the corners of my mind for a while now, this is just a taste of her character. We'll call it a prologue.
I was eight years old when my father’s heart failed him and he collapsed to the floor at my feet. He stared at me, his eyes glassy and pleading, and his trembling fingers gripping the hem of my cotton dress. He begged me over and over again to help him, and I stared at his powerless form, unmoved. As he sat so vulnerable before me, his heartbeat slowing to a stop, his ragged breaths coming out in puffs across my chubby child like legs, I realized I had the power. My father lay dying, and in that moment when he pleaded me to grant him one last breath, I had the power.
And eight years later, when my sixteenth birthday rounded the corner, and my chubby legs were blessed with the grace of a woman, I did not regret his death.
