The Day They Disappeared

Chapter 11

Dear Diary,

I've been getting anxious. My work is getting sloppy. I'm messing up. I think people are on my trail.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Either way, I need to clean up my act. I cannot afford to leave behind any clues. Not a strand of hair or a fingerprint or even the scent of my favorite lilac perfume. I cannot leave anything that could be traced back to me.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be found. Sometimes I sit on the end of my bed and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I imagine that at any moment an entire police force would stampede through my doorway as my parents scream frantically trying to proclaim my innocence. I imagine just studying the men in their blue and black uniforms that hug every single roll in their arms, legs, and stomachs. I imagine that they all have their guns pointed at me as if I'm going to draw a weapon from behind my back and shoot them all down.

Shooting people is messy though. Or at least I felt like it would be. I don't like guns. They're loud and if you don't know how to use one it won't get you very far. I prefer a more challenging way. I like to bring in my victims with trust. They trust me. Why wouldn't they? Then I kill them. I like to smash in their skulls. Sometimes I strangle them. I like to see them struggle in my hands. It gives me a rush like nothing else.

Watching the life drain from a pair of sparkling blue eyes is like a high for me. I've never gotten high in my life ever and I still know that the feeling I get from taking a life could never be surpassed by a puff of a marijuana cigarette. No amount of nicotine could make me itch more than when I need to kill. A line of fine white powder couldn't even make me more starry eyed than feeling somebody attempting to free themselves from my grasp.

I think most people would be quick to call me crazy. I hate that word. I'm not crazy. I can feel. I have emotions. I feel bad after my deeds. That's not what crazy people are like. Crazy people feel no remorse. They don't know love or hate or anything. They know nothing but their intense need to create a gruesome mess of somebody's life.

I'm not like that. I feel sorry but I can't stop myself. I need that rush and it only happens when I inflict harm upon another life. I've tried to stop myself for years. I followed in my birth mother's footsteps and made long beautiful slices in my pale skin. I could feel the sting and I could see the deep red spilling out but I didn't feel anything but the burning need to do more. I snuck the neighbor's pets into my room for years and performed all kinds of sick experiments on them. I inspected their insides and outsides until I saw everything. The remnants of my discoveries were now piles of bones in a hole under our unused garden.

But despite all my attempts to erase the growing need to do something, the feeling grew stronger with each passing week. I remember that day in July. It was unusually hot and the air was practically glue because it was so sticky and humid. I remember sitting on my porch with a huge glass of watered down lemonade as two small girls rode past my house on their bikes. I remember the moment I lost control.

I hadn't meant to do it but the monster just swept over me. I just stared off after them and a beautiful scene began to fill my mind. I saw myself walking after them slowly and gaining their trust. I saw myself leading them through the woods and out to the creek. I saw them skipping stones and I saw myself reach for a beautiful white rock. It took ten minutes for that beautiful white rock to be stained a deep crimson color. I studied that rock for awhile. I admired it's beautiful new color before I dropped it into the muddy water. I was sloppy. I left so many trails. I left so many clues. I couldn't leave them here. I had to move them.

And then I snapped out of my daze. I began walking after the two young girls and the rest is history. A dark and gruesome history but history all the same.

I think a part of me has always wanted to be caught though. The first two were coincidences but the rest afterwards were not. Except for Lucas. Poor Lucas. He was never intended to be one of my targets. But he found me out and he was so scared. He was going to tell. I don't know how he did it. He never got the chance to tell me. I had to do it. I didn't want to but I had to. I wasn't ready to go down yet.

I think I might be close to ready though. The feelings are getting stronger. I'm itching to do it all the time now. When I wake up the craving is there. When I brush my teeth and comb my hair it's pounding in the back of my skull. When I'm shoveling stale cereal into my mouth I imagine that there's thick, gooey blood filling the spaces between my teeth instead of lukewarm milk. When I eat lunch I can hear the crunching of leaves under my feet as I follow the trails in the woods. When I get home to my parents I see their eyes in my weekly spaghetti dinner. My last thought before I drift off to sleep is when I get to feel that warmness in the pit of stomach and the breezy high behind my eyes again. Then I wake up and relive it all again.

I don't want to hurt anybody else. I really don't want to. I know I need to be stopped. That's why I'm hitting closer to home now. I'm dropping hints unintentionally. I'm leaving clues by accident. I'm reacting sloppily. My guard is coming down.

I know these people aren't fools. Somebody will find out my dirty little secret. I think I know who will and I'm ready for it but at the same time I'm not.

I hear the familiar pounding of beat up Converse on my steps. I have to go.