REGRETS

If I'd known it would lead to this, I would have done things so much different. I would've thought things out a little more. I could've taken steps that would have kept me off death row.

It started out somewhat harmless enough. In my youth I'd kill a bird here, a rat there, the occasional stray cat. No big deal. Unfortunately, my obsession grew. I love blood. The beautiful crimson color, the smooth, silky texture, the coppery scent, and the rich salty taste were like a drug to me. I still remember my first kill, I was nine years old.

I lived in the last house on a dead end street, in San Diego. Just past the end of the street was a small canyon. My next door neighbor and best friend, Todd, and I would go exploring in the canyon almost daily. One summer day, while Todd and his family were on vacation, I explored the canyon alone. I came across a large rat feasting on a dead pigeon. With the speed of a trained warrior, I impaled the rat with the tree branch that I used as a walking stick. I regret not walking by and leaving that rat to its meal.

When the rat finally stopped writhing, I pulled out the stick. I could smell the fresh blood before it even oozed from its lifeless body. I picked it up and felt the warm silkiness of the blood as it slid between my fingers. I squeezed the dead rat and watched the blood drip to the ground until there was no more left. Whether I knew it was wrong or not, I don't know, but licking my fingers clean seemed like the right thing to do at the time

I had a relatively normal childhood, other than the blood thing. I was an above average student, played sports, and hung out with Todd. As I got older my hobbies changed a little, I raced BMX bikes, did okay in school, and started dating. All the while, I hunted and killed small animals to bask in the glorious blood.

In high school, I met the girl that would become my wife and mother of my children. She's an incredible woman; I regret the pain that I've caused her.

The first person I killed was my father. I was seventeen. I didn't do it for the blood, although I guess there would have been quite a bit, I did it because he was a dick. He spent more time working on his precious car than he did with his only son. It was a 1970 Camaro, he loved that car. He died in that car. He should have checked his brake fluid. I was too "distraught" to go to his funeral, but I was able to make it to the junkyard to watch the totaled Camaro get smashed into a block of metal. I regret killing the car.

My mother died on my eighteenth birthday, a single gunshot wound to the head. They said she must have missed my father. I say it's hard to kill yourself in your sleep. The .22 caliber bullet I used didn't make much of a mess, very little blood. I regret not using a bigger gun.

Within 3 years, I inherited a little money and the house, got married, and built a pretty successful landscaping business with my neighbor and best friend, Todd. Todd bought his parents house and stayed in the neighborhood. Oh, and I graduated from killing animals to killing people, ten in 3 years.

My business became the best landscaping company in San Diego County. The garden I created in my backyard was featured in local and national magazines. I offered to design and build one for Todd, but he said his dog would just dig it up. But most importantly, I was able to continue to get the blood that I loved so much.

I didn't have anything against any of my victims, most of them were the forgotten homeless or really old people or criminals or assholes that drove too slow in the fast lane. I just wanted the blood. Every kill seemed like the first, the smell, the feel, the taste, always seemed new.

No one ever had a clue. I never left any evidence. Except for the body parts the cops found in my back yard garden. Seems while I was at work, Todd's dog Buster decided he wanted a new place to hide his bones.

It turns out that human remains make a very good fertilizer. The cops went to some of my customers houses and managed to find DNA for most of my victims. Even in an industrial grinder, bone doesn't grind as much as I thought.

I've recently been sentenced to death, my retarded public defender was going for a life, but I don't have the time or patience to serve 56 life sentences. I'm not going to appeal. There's no reason to, I got my divorce papers in the mail last week.

I regret killing that rat. I regret getting on Face Book yesterday and finding out that Todd will soon be marrying my wife. I regret not killing Todd and his fucking dog.