Das Zimmermann by Alexander Rowe

Entry #1

I am a killer…there I said it without much difficultly. No, I don’t kill for profit; no I don’t kill to avenge a loved one…oh hell no not that. I just kill for the hell of it, the seer excitement of the hunt, the sweet scent of spilled blood, innocent or not, I just do it, because it makes me happy, it makes me feel…whole.

If I ever told anyone about my obsession, my passion, they wouldn’t believe me. They’d say something along the lines of: ‘no not him, he’s the loving father, the family man.’ Or ‘He leads a normal life like everyone else.’

Well sorry to break it to you, but that’s my true nature people, and there’s nothing you…or even the Holy Father himself can do about it.

I like sweet things, especially chocolate in all of its forms: candy bars, Hershey Kisses, bon bons, truffles…I love them all! I don’t even have cavities, never had one in all the twenty-eight years of my life.

My favorite, as I stated before, is Hershey’s; I guess it’s because of all the pain and suffering that goes into making it. Yes, the agony most defiantly makes it taste ten times better than most chocolate; in fact, it’s like chocolate pieces of heaven dancing along your taste buds.

Now, I know most of you are wondering, ‘were you always like this?’ Well, I don’t have a clue what your talking about, the urge to kill is in every living creatures nature; from the little black widow spinning its web in your garden, to the lion of the African Serengeti, stalking its prey, waiting for just the right time to strike. Some are just too pusillanimous to embrace such an instinct; I hate people like that, they really piss me off. Yet some are to frightened that they might do a messy job at it or something like that; or they might get caught by the pigs in an effort to cover up there tracks.

Some aren't just that intelligent or quick witted begin with, while others just don’t take the time and think things through. That, in all actuality, makes things a lot less difficult.

There’s not much else for me to ramble on about, not unless you want me to talk about Beatrice, she’s my wife’s daughter, her father walked out on her when she was three. I really don’t care whose child she is, I take her as my own…I really love children.

Beatrice is mixed, her father was a colored man…it’s nothing wrong with that, my mother was colored. But in this day and age, it’s like you’re going to hell in a hand basket or something.

She’ll take you to death if you allow her to; she’s also very smart for a six year old; and she’s cute as hell.

Bernie, she’s kind of like my shadow, she’ll follow me everywhere I go. I guess she’s the only thing that keeps me from going over the deep end…truly becoming a full fledge monster, if you know what I mean?

I really love that girl, and I’ll gladly take a bullet for her too.

A/N: a story I wrote back in my senior year of high school, I started writing it February 28, 2008, in a black and white composition book. This story is what officially confirmed that I’m mentally disturbed…at least according to my friends. I mean this is the journal of a serial killer I'm writing. I even gave my friend Dani nightmares because of it ;)

I’ll post more la8er, okay?

Plz review, be it a good one or bad!