My darling daughter Angelica... my sweet precious rose, why do you cry so?

She had just come home from school, tearing from her glistening emerald green eyes. My fake plastic heart melts.

Her head full of blond hair buried within my arms, I stroke her, tell her how everything is going to 'be alright sweetie' and to prove my concern, I tear. But this is no fake tear, this is one birthed from what little emotions I have inside me, birthed from my fake replicated travesty of so called feelings.

One could say the unconditional and absolute love I have for my daughter disproves my psychopathy, Disproves that I am the forbidden evil entity that I have always been, absolute in my bareness of emotional understanding.

For whatever reason, my fake heart only holds enough space for that of my own child, and everyone else left in the abyss of utter indifference, I do not know. But what I do know, is that right now, as I am hearing angelica cry, hearing her weep, hearing her tell me about Aaron Robinson dragging her meek body after school into an alley and raping her, I feel something utterly remarkable, An oddity that I have never felt before in the cold winters chasms of the soul, which is mine. I feel the burning presence of strong emotions, like fires from hell arising within me.

To feel this, unnamed anger, this wrath building within me, to feel these emotions with such magnitude interwoven with the wellbeing of my only daughter is something beautiful, magnificent, and utterly, dangerous. I feel totally and disgustingly, human.

She keeps weeping and I keep her held tightly within my arms. Then she looks up at my eyes, wiping the wetness from hers, and says to me in a voice uttered only by beings from heaven: 'will you get him daddy... will you kill him.... for me?'

By then I was already getting up from my current position, but when those words were uttered from her angel lips, my very soul dissolved within me. And now, the transparency of life's meaning made itself perfectly clear. Angelica Podolski. She is my daughter, bonded by blood, by flesh, by our own evil genes. We were of the same abomination.

I tell her to wait here in my room; I tell her everything's going to be all right, I tell her 'this is only going to take a minute', and I zip up my jacket.

She sits on my bed, innocent, confused, still within her childish curiosity, glancing at my rummaging, at me fumbling through my wardrobe, piled with dank clothes and old items, some of which posse's memories of victims past. A Necklace from the woman I strangled, a mouthpiece from old lady Anderson, whom I hacked to death, a camera from an Asian tourist I escorted from Jerry's Bar, and indeed so many other unimportant items that are of no consequence to me.

Where is it, where is, I'm looking for it but I cannot find it. Could it be that I used it and out of fear of apprehension, disposed of it? I don't know, I cant remember, there have been so many people, I –

Found it.

I beheld a black plastic box, tightly sealed, with only the three golden rotating numbers on its side. Angelica is watching with eager eyes. 'What it is dad? Oh daddy, what is it?'

I rotate the numbered lock to its appropriate variations – 1 9 3. January 1993. Angelicas birthday. Within contained one single item that I have forbidden to use, unless encountered with the most strained situation. A 9mm handgun is placed within a fitting outline, and, although with much hesitation, I grab its handle.

Guns have always been of no attraction to me. They are, in essence, for the unskilled. I hate using one.

Angelica eyes me, her father, the demented psychopath in black, and the only thing that can be read within her eyes is a strange inquisitiveness. A sort of unusual stare can be perceived, not scarred, but curious and, inspired. This day was the ultimate beginning of her life, the day she lost all conscience for humanity, and embraced evil with open arms.

I kissed her gently on her forehead where her hairline pulls-back,

Winter presides outside my doorstep. Its cold, stagnant, like my heart.

I am walking with strides that tell a story of a man who has his crosshairs dead set on his target. Cold blood flows stagnant within me, but eventually gets hotter and hotter every time I think of Aaron Robinsons greasy fingers running up angelicas skirt, Until eventually, I come full circle and am utterly, hopelessly human again. With emotions stirring within my heart and soul, directing me to their own devices.

Stanislau St. is empty, not a soul lingers in my vicinity, which could be a good thing but also inconveniences me to a certain extent as seclusion is not what I am looking for.

I am walking now, without the once pervasive strides. Calm like a civet. People pass. I am the unrelenting phantom, the midday psycho.

Cars pass my direction, splashing wet snow onto my jeans. This does not concern me. What I find of interest is that they do not stop in their tracks and put a bullet through my head before havoc wreaks its familiar song and dance.

Oblivious for whom they have just passed, unaware of the death they are warranting in the process. People walk by, one a man with a scorn, another, a woman so cheerful. In time they disappear, and all who is left in my company is white, masses of snow, and a Mr. Softee truck, which I can see maneuvering its way forward.

No ones eyes pear within my vicinity. Everyone in my little world, here in Stanaslau st. has gone and left. All except Mr. Softee who slowly inches his way to me, his song echoing louder with every added distance.

I am walking slowly towards the white van and the man within. And he, towards the darkly figure in black.

As the two shapes just about pass each other, I reach within, and gracefully, with ease as if rehearsed, pull out from my jacket the pistol I had concealed, dash sideways, without hesitation of any sort, aim, pull, and fire, Three shots to the figure's head. Loud bolts of noise could be recognized, I'm sure, in the distance. But I was far away from anywhere populated, so nothing I did, I'm sure, would be perceived in time.

The man in front of me could not be discerned, as the windshield was coated in thin snow, but considering how the truck had been halted rather abruptly, and red blotches had covered its window, my guess was probably of sensible deduction.

My guess was wrong.

I came to the conclusion that this man was dead, and all that had to done was to steal the mobile vending machine and drive off with ease, I was wrong.

Considering this, I took my time putting my gloves on, scanning the circumference of the lone street in where no structures stand, and no cars go. Considering the fact that I was alone, and discerning the possibility of any lingering anathemas, I open the side door of the truck, only to be greeted by the dead man whom I had just killed. His weapon of choice was a bulldog revolver. I noticed this as the bullets went one by one into my abdomen. Pop pop pop, and I go down looking like a bloody mess, my jacket, once black now painted red with still flowing blood.

Apparently, had I aimed a little more accurately, the bullet would have penetrated his brain, ultimately ending him and ultimately saving myself this rather unnecessary setback, but seeing as I had been perhaps a little too careless in the process, the bullet hit only his jaw, breaking it off completely, and rendering him a hideous looking Mongoloid.

This freakish thing, this unfortunately deformed piece of work, dragged himself to the edge of his truck, so that he could see my bloodied figure lying on the ground next to the pavement. He talked only indiscernible things, spitting blood from his literally broken mouth. Deranged and rabid, perhaps enraged for his shattered face, part of which lies on the passenger seat, soaked in saliva and blood.

After his livid and bestial rant, he cocked his revolver, and, aiming unswervingly in the direction of my face, with eager fingers, pulled several times.

Click click and click. Nothing comes out. An empty shell of a gun. What luck.

I spared him the humiliation of living freakishly within arctic caves and shot him several times, square in his forehead. He bounced back, and fell dead.

Speaking of dead, that is what I very well could have been, if I had not unknowingly kept 'the curious incident of the dog in the night time' by Mark Haddon within my jacket pocket. Had it not been there, several shots more would have penetrated me, ultimately, ending the bloody reign of Karol Podolski, the blood hunter of Reseda, Illinois. But seeing as I was alive as any bloodshot, wounded psychopath, I stumble unto my feet, with much wavering. I Throw the shot up hardcover onto the ground, and proceed to drive down town, where only the smell of death and the cry of vengeance awaits.

And all along, Mr Softee kept singing his song. Over and over again, like some broken record destined to sing forever its tasteless jingle.