Killer's Point of View

I better warn you beforehand that it's rather shoddy work, because while I was working on it I got so scared that I finished it as quick as I could. (It was the middle of the night! Aaand I was alone!) It's an account of a murder by a serial killer with impulse control disorder who just escaped from a mental hospital a week ago. Please review!

Free. Free at last. The jubilation of my well-done escape still lingered after the seven days I had been out. Out of that hellhole, where I had spent years and years, forgetting my past. The air, untainted by the smell of rusted chains or fumes of the dead, swam freely into my lungs. Yet there was only one thing I missed, and it was not companionship or family. I shifted from my spot in the hedges and strode towards the terrace house at an easy, silent pace.

I entered the house stealthily, as anyone as seasoned as myself would. Years and years of practice, trying to escape my prison had not been in vain, even had I forgotten the almost-instinctive ways of checking that were once a second nature to me. It was easy – not only because the door was left unlatched, but also since, from what I overheard the neighbours saying before they left, there were only three residents: two adults, presumably the parents, and one teenage girl. Representatives of torment, of years of rejection from society: they would pay, as many others had already done. The neighbourhood was empty – four houses in one direction, four houses in the other. The conditions could not have been better had I orchestrated this moment perfectly myself – now, for execution. I smirked at the pun. The teen was the one I was looking forward to. I loved the way they got excited, their adrenaline shooting skywards. Boys, however, were a little dangerous sometimes, and took time to finish. Girls were much more preferable, as well as vulnerable. I took little pleasure in the adults, who were much too old for any fun, and thus were but an outlet to vent my hatred upon. I could not, after all, touch the caretakers of the asylum without danger of being trapped again. I did not want to endure beatings and restraints another time.

The said adults were located within the minute. They were in separate rooms – easier. Gagging the man with one hand, I drew my side dagger from its sheath and slit his throat with ease. I smiled at my foresight to steal it from the caretaker's chamber. Taking care to make no noise, I placed the empty shell gently on the carpet, before doing the same with the woman in the adjacent room. The blade in my hand felt good after its long absence, when I was trapped in the asylum that was an asylum to none of the occupants. Instinctively, I raised my hand and felt the brand of the iron chains upon the nape of my neck. It was a now painless reminder of endless torture. The many cuts upon my back had healed scarlessly, and the bruises hid beneath my ragged jeans. A cold fury possessed me, but an unexpected emotion soon overpowered it. With a glance at the corpses, I realised, with a stunned jolt of unfamiliar guilt, that the faces had a marked resemblance to the ones that belonged in my childhood, the only two faces that ever looked at me with kindness. The feeling was so quickly slain that it scarcely registered in my memory later on. Turning their faces toward the floor with my foot, I drew in the air tinged with the scent of salty blood before proceeding up the stairs, where, presumably, the girl was, if she had not moved from where I last saw her.

I found what I was looking for in the second room I entered. She turned around in a second, and screamed in another. No surprises there. The blood had spurted onto my shirt and thus created a horrifying scene. Not to mention that my face was that of a deranged dog. “Useless, darling,” I said, my lips curling upwards. “The neighbours are out, and your parents –” I paused for dramatic effect. The young girl looked about her small, square room for a means of escape. A 4x5 room that only held a single bed and small cupboard. It was far, far too easy.

“No,” she breathed, pupils dilating with obvious fear. I could hear her breathing quicken as I approached with a smile that sent chills down her spine. “Liar.” Yet even as she said so, her defeated tone belied her. Wow. The girl was taking all this in fairly quickly, accepting it all without a doubt. Nevertheless, I could tell she was still hoping this was merely a twisted joke. I shook my head with a harshness peculiar to hardened men. Like myself. I laughed aloud, and she winced. “Why should I lie?” I replied with venomous humour in each syllable, closing in on her, cornering her. Her seat on her bed prior to my entrance made the job simpler for me as I closed her in against the wall. It was easy to see that she was weighing her chances, the possibility of escape.“I did the deed myself. Would you like proof?” The girl flinched as I drew my knife. It was covered in blood, as was its sheath. Hmm. I knew I should’ve wiped it before putting it back. I raised the blade to tickle her throat as thick red liquid rolled down the hilt. The silence in the house that followed the death of its occupants was punctured by the trickle of the blood on the parquet floor.

With a muffled gasp, she fixed a gaze at a point little higher than my right shoulder. I turned around, giving her the time she needed to attempt a getaway. An almost pitying chortle escaped me. As if that never happened before! The agility my years of practice had gained proved their use as I stopped her with a quick outstretch of my left hand. I pushed her back into position and took a step forward. The girl let out a badly-suppressed wail of despair and pain – the knife in my hand had cut her arm. “S-so now,” she stuttered, failing to fake a calm tone. Now trapped conveniently between myself and two walls, it seemed she had decided to give it all up to chance. “So now you’re going to kill me?” I grinned again, my free hand motioning for her to continue. She swallowed loudly. “Why?”

Finally. The million dollar word everyone asked, that everyone instinctively, innocently questioned before the end. Everyone’s pointless last word. “Why?” I echoed. “Because, my dear.” I brought my hand up to her face, skimming the surface, chuckling inwardly as the girl whom I did not know cringed. Soft, warm skin. Like all of them. Her eyes, a pale azure, reflected the dripping blade as I plunged it deep into her chest, relishing each moment as they swiftly went blank, lifeless, without even a scream emitting from her open mouth. Why? Because you shunned me. You strapped me to the rack and tightened it. You struck my back when I was in chains. Or, if you did not, you let them do it. I hated every single hair on your damned head.

Then, redrawing the dagger, I let her body thud to the floor.

Edited twice. Thanks for all the critiques! I didn't want to make him more human because if I did, it would justify half his murders in my eyes, and I would grow attached to this character. I do NOT want to be attached a killer, even if he has a really sad sobstory and is actually a young child clamouring for love in the eyes of his peers. Which he is, but you don't need to know that. Very selfish, I know.