Prelude

A note from the killer.

It was with great anticipation that I embarked on the biggest journey of my life. I found myself in the city of New York. Distracted and unhappy, I wandered the streets and followed a line of pale stereotypical highschoolers in to a theater to see a band play. I stood in the loft of the theater and skeptically watched the production. I watched the young girls and boys scream for the singer and throw themselves at the stage as he stepped into sight. I was sickened by how much they loved him. I hated him for it, but I wanted to be him for it. Why was I destined to be nothing? I was talented, and I could sing better than the clown on stage. I was stylish and beautiful, yet I felt as if no one noticed. I was brilliant and well educated, but no one cared. My thirst for learning was unquenchable and yet I was also yearning for something else, something inexplicable. The only way I can describe it is vanity. I want to be known. To be know is to exist. How can I know myself if the world does not know me? I am nothing if no one knows who I am. I crave attention, and I crave to be loved, honored, and worshiped. My arrogance and egoism drives me to this. And although I am a hopeless romantic, romance seems to plague me with interests and I thrive on the attention. In romance I find the minuets of fame for which I grasp, and in those moments, I find meaning in my life. This is the story of my struggle for a reputation of distinction.

I never thought that it would be for this that I’d commit the deadliest crime.