Malcolm: I’m a serial Killer

Malcolm: I can’t fathom the purpose for my being. I drift away from people because I’m scared they will not accept me for who I am. I’m not quick to give up my life story. My words are mostly insincere. I won’t let anybody get close to me because I’m bound to disappoint them. I’m tired of being this way. I have no friends. The truth is eating me up inside but I would never give it up. I make up clever stories for the bruises on my body because no one needs to know that I cut and beat myself up when I feel insecure. I got no reason, no shame, no family I can blame for my sorrow. I think I’m a borderline psycho path. I kill neighborhood pets on my free time and I like it. I’ve been doing it since I was nine and haven’t been caught yet. I’m 16 now. At night I dream of my death. I’m guessing lethal injection because one day I will evolve from killing animals to humans. This time I’m writing everything down; I’m giving all my secrets away. The headline reads: Malcolm, the Serial Killer.
I feel like eyes are always on me; as if they know my secrets. They are all fools. I make it seem like a ravenous animal has been terrorizing the neighborhood pets. The smell of death lingers like the burnt holocaust bodies in concentration camps. I close my eyes and envision all the houses on this block burning to the ground with their inhabitants still in them; screaming for their lives but with no escape.
“Malcolm!” a shrilling voice screams. I open my eyes abruptly to the sudden outburst of my foster mother, Martha, yelling out my name. I suppose she wants to beat me some more for letting Spike, our dog, spill wine all over her new white rug. Spike was not allowed in the living room because that was the forbidden room. No one was allowed in there except when we had company. Martha made us play and eat in the den. She didn’t want us to ruin her perfect clean house. She was a petite woman with an Afro of curly red hair. I hated her so much and had wanted to kill her many times. She always took out her frustrations on me and I guess because I was the oldest. I’ve been under her care since I was six years old. I was her first; her first foster child, that is. I keep telling myself that I only have two more years to go and I would be free from her. Free? I suppose not exactly free because the darkness that is inside me will keep me prisoner to an evil I cannot be free from. I know I won’t make it to my 30th birthday because I would have been sentenced to death before then.
Martha screams for me again and so I begrudgingly pull myself out my bed and open my bedroom door.
“What do you want?” I yell down.
“Come down here now!” she yells back at me. I slowly walk down the wood staircase and find her at the bottom looking agitated as always.
“I need you to clean the kitchen. We will be having company. No fuss, just do it!” she ordered me as she walked off to the living room. I walked to the kitchen to find it a complete mess. There was a pile of dirty dishes on both sides of the counter and there were dishes piled high in the sink. Spike had left a trail of poop and urine all over the kitchen floor. The refrigerator was smeared with chocolate hand-prints; works of Nathan, Kevin, Jules, and Brian-the five year old quadruplets that Martha had just taken in. Those little brats were making my life miserable. I had to clean up their mess! I spent three hours cleaning up the kitchen. When I went out to take out the trash that afternoon, I saw a raccoon by the backyard fence. The urge to see the life leave its eyes was too hard to resist. I caught it with no trouble and without hesitation jabbed my pocket knife into its skull. There it lay lifeless and I smiled.
“What are you doing” a sweet little voice asked. My heart skipped a beat. I looked back to see Jules trying to peak at the dead raccoon.
“You killed it” he whispered.
“It was sick, I had too” I replied. I beckoned him to come closer. I grabbed his arm when he was in arms length and harshly whispered in his ear that if he ever told anyone I would cut his throat while he was sleeping.
“Do you understand?” I asked him. He nodded yes with eyes wide.

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