There's a very fine line between curiosity and pleasure. And I, for a fact, know that what I always feel is pure and utmost pleasure, because I didn't flinch or cringe the first time I killed, when I was 11. When you are curious, you do things but to see how or what it results into, and the result can either appall you, or excite you. But when there's pleasure involved, you know you will keep doing it, no matter what. You see, not everyone can kill. Or, maybe they can, but most people end up giving in to remorse and regret. Either that, or they just get cornered by the law and into the prison. It's only a select few who have it in them to keep killing and not feel a thing, except, of course, the bizarre pleasure of seeing their victim go lifeless as blood drains out of them, forming what resembles a miniature red lake. I grew up like any other regular kid. Though, looking back, I now realize how I was not a regular kid. Not like one of those wusses, anyway.
My first victim was a rabbit, who had lost its way in the woods and while hopping around, a part of its hind legs tore open after a collision with the fallen branch of a tree. It was still alive when I saw it, so my initial instinct was to tend to its wound. But something inside me pushed me to do otherwise. So from my pocket, I took out the Swiss knife my weird Uncle Luke had given me on my 8th birthday, and walked towards where the rabbit lay, breathing slowly, but with what seemed like all its might. I opened the fish scaler from the tools, turned around the rabbit with my left hand, and with my right, slowly drew a line with the scaler from its chest all the way down to its hock. There it was, blood spurting out like someone turned on a fountain. I could feel a grin spread across my face as the rabbit slowly gave up on its already feeble life. I realized how much I liked watching it die, slowly, one fragile breath at a time. Come to think of it, I rather helped out if its misery, because it would have died anyway.
Over certain instances, I became aware of how I was different than others around me. I was 14, and it was just another drab day of my summer break. While most kids my age went out for vacations, or surfing in the ocean, or doing regular teenage stuff, I spent most of my days in my dark, dingy basement. It was on one such day, when I was flaying a fawn that I had picked up from the woods, alive. Now, a fawn is no rabbit. It's bigger than that, thus, a tad bit more powerful. However, despite all its resistance, I was very skillfully able to skin each part of its body, leaving it in its bloodied mass. At that exact moment, I heard my mother shriek, and I realized it was coming from right behind me. I turned around to see my mother almost on the verge of fainting. She kept rambling about how something was wrong with me, and how the Satan had gotten into my body. I kept mum, and after a while, walked away. Three days later, while my mother was walking down the stairs, I calmly walked up behind her and pushed her. As she tumbled down twenty three flights of stairs, each step more brutal than the previous, my smile spread bit by bit. A trail of blood lined the stairs. Whatever little life was left of her, vanished into thin air by the time her body met the floor. The police ruled it out as an unfortunate accident, where my mother slipped on the stairs. I think my crocodile tears convinced them of my innocence and misery.
23 killings till now, and no one knows a thing. I have trained myself to clean up as soon as I kill someone. It's more like a second nature now, pretty much like making the bed as soon as I wake up. The bloody mess, that might attract unwanted attention, isn't worth all the pleasure, and the pain of planning, that I get. To be honest, I really don't have a killing pattern. It's all a mood-game. So, for all you know, my 24th victim might be you as well.