|Confessions in a Letter
Author: Venustas iaceo PM
The story is a rather simple one of a killer writing out his life story in the form of a letter.Rated: Fiction K - English - Horror - Words: 1,691 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 2 - Published: 03-11-05 - id: 1856795
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As the Latin proverb says "One who sleeps does not sin." Strange. That's all I seem to want to do anymore since I have sinned. Perhaps, it should be changed to that of "One who sins does not sleep." Though, if I do sleep it is most certainly not a pleasant thing.
So, once again my conscience takes control and my mind fills up with all the thoughts from my past. My eyes shoot open, and refuse to close again until a few days later. That's the process I've been going through. I have decided that I shall at long last write my confession. I come to the assumption that the guilt is what keeps me awake, and when I try my best to speak of what I have done the words just fail me.
That seems like such a natural thing, but I feel that what I have done is far from that of "natural." Or perhaps, is it? I was, after all, working merely of my instincts and desires. Desire, esurio as it is said in Latin. It was also a...nickname of mine, if you will. Letifer Esurio was what they called me. It translates quite literally into "Deadly Desire." It is such a befitting phrase, really. Looks, lust, and desire are my fuels. Fuels to feed the fires of others. I never really had to work to get a victim, they just came to me. Perhaps it was the essence of my aura, so to say, but in the end they always gave in and came straight to me.
I wasn't the type to hide in the back of the bar, content with the drink in my hand and a complete lack of attention paid to the world. Oh no, quite the contrary. I have always had a fascination with the way at which the human mind does work. It is such a brilliant machine, and in the end I find that ... you're all just animals.
I have done so many things that I am referred to as "inhuman." I like that phrase as well. As much as I enjoy the human mind, I find the study of a human's pain is much more satisfactory.
How many was it now? Hm, I can't remember exactly how many of them fell. Men and women alike. "Let the women and children go first!" That always seems a common phrase as well. Well, I let them go first of course. It is only the proper thing for a gentleman. Though, they didn't seem to like being the first toys. Maybe that phrase needs some patching up as well...or perhaps those women just can't appreciate a gentleman.
It seems I'm starting to trail away from my point, now aren't I? Well, I guess I'll just have to get back to it. I'm not really the type to just "jump into things" though. Would we really consider this "jumping"? Oh how the English language is so strange.
I do believe I shall start off with my childhood, and progress forth wards from such. It is always fun to start at the end however, but that is after all where I did start. The most recent thing is my lack of sleep. Ha ha, look there I made a funny! Ugh, my sense of humor is starting to dry up a bit.
Let's see, my first experience with death-of-a-loved-one, as well as murder, was thanks to my mother. She was a stripper, nothing too fancy. A fellow in the bar decided that that day he would be getting a little extra for his money, He ended up taking a lot more instead. Such a lovely thought, my dearest readers!
Imagine, a young boy about that of thirteen walking up to find his mother hung from the flagpole in the front of the club. I was supposed to meet her outside after school. Being that the time was broad daylight, it's little surprise the man was caught. He was caught by me, might I add. I had actually arrived just in time to watch him ... hang the new flag. I used the rope he'd used on my mother, and wrapped it around his neck after a minor scuffle. It didn't take long before he became another new "flag" hanging from that same pole.
I've always been blessed with great health and strength. I've been in karate since I was about 4, as well as learned various other fighting techniques. I was also on the school wrestling team. Lucky me, it all seems so pointless now-a-days. I didn't even really need to be in school, but I thank the lessons on fighting that I'd received. I was in plenty of fights in school.
Now then, to return to my grand story of my life! I'd run, become yet another of those worthless children living around the slums. Of course, I didn't leave empty handed. I'd made a note to take all that I could from the man and my mother's corpses. They really didn't need it anymore, after all.
It didn't take too long before I'd needed to find some sort of shelter, and I'd managed to become a foster child willingly. The people that took me in were a rather crude bunch. Children were running rampant all over the household. They rarely noticed when one of my roommate conviently went "missing". That is, until they didn't get their paycheck. Then they'd realize, but they didn't really care. A foster child is easily replaced.
I tended to weed out the younger children. Occasionally I would try and teach them a thing or too about self defense. I craved a fight. I'd found I had enjoyed killing that man. It felt far to good, but I'd never been able to match that feeling with the young children.
So, thusly I turned and one day decided that I would be a foster child no longer. The people that had so kindly taken me in, were found approximately five or so days after the actual time of death. Apparently some "madman" had hung them from the top of the stairs only after they had died. The male of the household had put up a rather challenging fight, and I had come out of such with a broken arm. I loved it. I loved having gotten a good fight in for once. The woman I had kindly taken out in her sleep. Mr. Davis (that being my foster father's name) was rather the role of an alcoholic. He'd come home and pass out on his bed. The foster children were more of a means of getting a nice paycheck to help back up that drinking problem. Mrs. Davis, went to bed around ten pm. The children were supposed to be in their rooms by eight.
So it's clear to say that the sleeping Mrs. Davis was an easy target, and fighting the drunk Mr. Davis was simply entertaining. I'd actually managed to strike Mr. Davis over the back of the head with a crowbar. Hanging the dead bodies of my victims is what I would rather like to call... a trademark.
Years passed but my need for a good opponent seemed to grow and grow. I'd at least gained from Mr. & Mrs. Davis the expenses needed to start a somewhat decent living. Well, it was better than living on the streets.
It didn't take me very long to become a frequent at all the local bars, clubs, and even restaurants. I was known to take the newer visitors in the places back to my place, and there was never seen a case in which I actually took the same person home twice. How could I if they were hanging lifelessly elsewhere after all? That, of course, not to say that they were the lot to have anything else to do.
I was thorough. I made sure that if I took home a face, (whether male or female) that it was not one that would be recognized when seen again. They came to me, and I swept them away forever. I found it an almost beauteous thing really.
In the beginning, the females were all that seemed to peek my interest. I had begun to take a more sexual approach towards my victims. It's amazing to have a woman laying beneath you, screaming pleasurably one moment… and from pain the very next. My ears were far beyond used to recognizing both. I remember the voices of all of them. Of course, I always liked the fight a male put up more. So, I quickly became a regular at any type of bar at that. It didn't matter anymore, so long as I had someone in my bed fighting me. Screaming for me, and because of me. I somewhat long to have that feeling come once again.
I don't think I'll ever forget the voices. They say that the eyes of the victim are what haunts you, but it is the voices that wake me from my sleep. They scream again, and again, and again. They left me to look over at my peacefully sleeping wife upon the bed, and wonder… will she ever scream like that? Will it be me that makes her scream? Well, I don't have to think that anymore. I'm widowed now. Hm, strange thing really. The police say that they found her hanging from the stairway while I was (once again most conviently) out of town. It seems that confessions can drive one to get a tad bit tired. Oh well, perhaps now that I've written this, I shall at last reach my desired sleep. I shall finally join the ranks of those I have destroyed through the power of such deadly desire.
In loving memory of the screaming,