Monologue of a Serial Killer

How was I supposed to know that this was wrong, when it felt so right? Everything my father has taught me is wrong... He taught me not to love, taught me not to feel, have no compassion for others. How...how could this be wrong, my whole life a lie; that’s what it was, that’s what I could reduce it to, a lie.

Where had my mother been when my father had been teaching me these things? Where had aunts, uncles, grandpas, grandmas, cousins... teachers, anybody been to tell me, to show me that...that all of this was wrong. Wrong...that word doesn’t seem real now, and it will never truly seem real, because I’ve never known anything else.

I sound like I’m trying to shoulder the blame but I’m not, I’m truly not; I just...I felt so accepted by him, and loved, so loved that I didn’t really need anyone else...you know, the kind of love where...where anything could happen, and that one person would still be there; still there listening to everything you ever have to say, any problems and they say one word, two words, a sentence and everything is better...everything is fixed.

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My father is the kind of person I always wished I was; strong, capable, a true man...a real man...someone I would never be. My father says my mother held me too much when I was a child; he had to get me away from her quickly, so...so he found something to bond us together, found something that my mother could never be a part of, would never be a part of. And my mother, my mother didn’t seem to notice how I changed. I changed so drastically in the space of about 5 months; my perspective on life changed, suddenly I started to view everyone as a victim, as an outsider, and eventually the only person I could trust was my father, the only person I believed was him; my father, my best friend, my partner, my mentor, the one person who I could go to, who I knew could never judge because his crimes are worse than mine, much worse.

I’m told that I’m a victim in all of this; a victim of my environment, a product created by my father for his own means. How can I believe that? How...how can that be true after everything he said, everything we’ve done together, always together. I told him we shouldn’t have taken her, that last one; she was wanted, she had friends, she had a family, she had a future, she...she was somebody...loved. But he had to have her and I couldn’t tell him no, he was the master he’d say, and I was his student...a student still after 12 years, 12 long years stretching out behind me.

When I look at those years now I see there was no love there, how could he ever love anything more than what he did to those girls? He was alive when I watched him do that; his eyes, they sparkled and twinkled in the night. I try to remember a time when I’ve seen him happy like that with my mother and I can’t...I can’t. I’ve seen him smile, obviously I’ve seen him smile, but happiness is something a child should witness from a parent in normal circumstances...but then again what’s normal? They say normal is gardening, cooking, cleaning, washing, golfing...perhaps driving, stalking, watching, learning, catching, cutting, killing, digging...burying...none of that is normal, so I’ve been told.

My mind...my mind is mixed up and all I can hear is my mother crying...crying trying to convince herself that she didn’t know what was going on.

I want to see my father, but I’m not allowed. As if anything he could say would influence me more than he has done already; there’s nothing they can say now to make me confess, to speak a bad word about my father. I am his...forever his...but he will never be mine.

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