Serial Killer Monologue

Eyes stabbed so much they had turned into juice, intensities lodged down a person throat, mothers eating babies straight out of the womb, that's what I have an attraction to. I have massive files of it saved up in my computer, from pictures to stories to films. My friends and family consider me a freak for it, but it didn't affect me. As long as I'm able to do what I enjoy, who cares about others?

Right now, Im staring at a picture of a 10 year old who had recently been a victim of a mad serial killer. He (since the police had recognised it as a male, who knows how) had his skin ripped off of his flesh, and his eyeballs had been wedged down his his tongue less throat. His skull had been split in half, and his brain had been stuffed up his nostrils. His limbs had been ripped out of his body and lodged through his stomache, through which his intestines had barged out and splattered all over the floor like a volcano. Blood was splattered all

On one side, he roughly drew the Devils pentagram with the palms of his hands, while on the other he continued scribbling something I couldn't see.

He then stood aback and stared at his masterpiece in glee, before proceeding to hide under my bed.

My parents have been staring at me for hours on end now, and I know that if I give any signs of being awake, he'll kill me for sure. My end is near, and I'm fully aware of that. Ive already considered every escape plan, but none whatsoever seem to assure me of my freedom and life.

What he wrote on the other side of the wall has been gnawing at me. I want to know what it’s last words to me are before I die, but I'm too scared to alert to it that I'm awake. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark for me to be able to read it, and I'm going to die anyway, so what does it matter?

My curiosity getting the best of me, I slowly and painfully cringe my neck, and then read what it had written.

“I know your