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Posts : 2338
Join date : 2012-10-19
Age : 20

PostSubject: William   Thu Apr 10, 2014 11:22 pm

There never seems to be an end to hunger of this sort. Is there? I, William Fletcher, age twenty five, am living within Columbia Mental Correctional Facility. A prison to me, in which I am destined to escape.

Or was. I have already made it far from there. I had picked the locks of my handcuffs with a bit of metal I extracted from the side of my bed. I killed three as I escaped, barely budged as the thick barbed wires cut me as I climbed over the fence, falling over the fence.

Most serial killers are given forbidding titles, nicknames and such that truly emphasize them and make their fame spark. My name was the Thirster. I was named so for my many murders, managing to become one of the most famous murderers of my time. I have killed over forty individuals. Men. Women. Children.

I am constantly finding myself lost in the bewildering shadow of my problems. It's a simple thing, horrid, yet I've grown to enjoy it. It's a diagnosable problem, one that would give the gift of the ability to label me. But labels I so disgrace. If only one could understand what a joy it is. The adrenaline rushing through your veins when you're eating it.

I'm admitting it to you, yes. I'm not exactly... average. I have not been diagnosed with any sort of psychosis or mental instability, but it is there. I drink the sweet crimson wine called blood. Yes, I cut myself. A lap up whatever seeps forth with my tongue or squeeze it into a glass to sip from. I've cut some of my own skin up, eaten from whatever I could without inflicting injury that can't heal on its own.

The hunger is... inevitable. And admitting it is even more so. But lying in the shadows for so long, knowing deep down inside you're not right. That's true horror. Wondering deep inside your meticulous little brain, will you ever find a light from this dark void. Will you ever crawl out of this crater you've fallen in. Will your hands ever see a day they are not drenched in blood.

I have tasted the flesh of so many animals. Yet none satisfied me. My taste buds lusted for something more. Still nothing. But the day I hear of a meat so rare, but at the same time so undeniably common. So common, you see it all around you. Every day you see it walk, move. For how long, that doesn't matter to it. But for you to decide. Maybe one day it won't be so rare. Maybe one day you could go to the supermarket and purchase human hearts. Though there are only sixty pounds of edible meat within the human body, sixty is more than enough to satisfy. The meat of the cheeks, the softest and most tender. While the rest of the bodily meat is tense and tough or full of fatty tissue. I prefer the meat soft and tender. Dry. The kind that falls apart in your mouth.

Sound tasty? There was a scientific study that proved that human meat is the most delicious of meat. Proof, oh proof. Proof is such a way of... well... influence. You tell someone there's proof to something and they'll believe you without a doubt. All that is needed is evidence. But evidence is easily faked. The audience of the media is bashful. It will believe anything it is told. I am smarter than that audience.

Tasty... Quite. Disturbing, many call it. But I find it to be rather opinionated. The human heart has much protein within it. Something to think about. It's all a matter of how you look at things.

Bones sewn together can make lovely chairs and furniture and not even to mention the decorations. Human hair in its best, cleanest, softest form could make a great coat or blanket. Head hair, that is. 

When I was a child I always had trouble getting along. As I grew, I made the wrong decisions and faced the consequences of a broken mind. Ever since I lost control, ever since the noose knocked loose... ever since I failed countless times to die, wondering all the time what was wrong with me. My hands trembling an my lips speaking words of twisted nature, people wondering how I could say such things. But it's hard for them to make that argument when my tongue's drowned with their blood.

I was a smart boy. Got a degree in biology. I've always been... talented when it comes to anatomy. But I had no self control. I delved deep into the studies of anatomy and psychology. I was curious and tasted from the very things my anatomy textbook preached, and I soon became the very evils my psychology book taught.

Curiosity kills people. Some people. Maybe not you. But someone out there surely. Look at me, my victims and look at what my curiosity did to them. I am called a monster, and I'll give it to them that they may have a point. But let me just say that education comes with a price. The extremely intelligent ones, those are the ones who will become highly successful in their career as a killer. But I will admit, I don't always eat my victims. I like to make them into an art. Mutilate them in a very creative and artistic way.

I have a fire within my mind indeed, and perhaps it can blow out of control. It burns every spiral of civility I have left. Every ounce of humanity soon dries up. But I find an element of humor from the whole thing. I can't help but laugh as I skim back through time after time, remembering how I disassembled this person and that person. All the while fueling a thirst deep down in my subconscious. It's exhilerating. Mark me mad? You would. Yes.

Let me tell you my full story. I was born in Pennsylvania, raised for some time in Ohio. It often had to do with the fact that I had no friends during my childhood. My mother was abusive, which was the sole reason for her devorse. My father spiraled into depression, taking his pain out of his bloodstream and replacing it with drugs and alcohol. Months later he died of drug overdose.

My sister was always popular during school and became pregnant at the age of sixteen. I on the other hand was twelve at the time and had an eating disorder. I vomited when eating most vegetables, fruits, or pretty much anything but meat. I could eat chocolate and sweets, but I didn't really like them. I was constantly eating meat, no matter what kind. I ordered my dishes rare, and I liked them that way. It was almost like a drug. When one got old, I had to find another. None satisfied me completely.

I thirsted desperately for something new. Eventually after a big fist fight at school that ended with my opponent dealing a broken collarbone, I was taken home and received a horrid beating from my mother. I was locked in the basement without food or water or any communication for the entire weekend. I began cutting myself over the next weeks, hearing that it helped ease the pain somehow. Though I was skeptical at first. How could harming yourself relieve yourself? I would think that it would just add to your problems.

And it did.

The only thing I gained from it was my first traces of man-eating. My sister almost caught me one day as I was beginning the first slice of the month. I dropped the knife, covering it with my shoe and then licking up the blood quickly. Luckily it wasn't much, and I did it quickly, dodging her awareness.

It tasted so rich... so good. And that began my obsession. But I soon wanted to stop causing myself harm and gain blood some other way. I couldn't manage to get blood any other way, except from stealing some blood bags from the hospital my mother worked at as a nurse.

When I was sixteen... the unthinkable happened. My mother abused me harder as I grew older. Eventually my meticulous mind had grown tired of it. I became obsessed with my hatred for my mother. I hated her so much that I loved her. I'd always had the concept in my mind, but it was never emphasized until one cool night in October.

My mother had beaten me savagely... I grabbed a knife and tore her to shreds. I did it slowly... so slowly... so that she would feel every inch the knife travelled as feel just as I felt. I dealt her the same amount of pain she'd dealt me all my life in a single night. I kept her alive as much as I could, but eventually she died.

In my burst of ravage I took my sister and cut her stomach open, ripping out her child. I put her to rest. To an eternal rest.

And it felt so good. I ate both of them and the unformed baby. After my hunger was thoroughly satisfied, I lit the house on fire, taking with me only what I needed. My knives, guns, and the clothes on my back.

I soon discovered that human meat is the most delicious, simply because no person tastes the same. Everyone has something about them that just makes them... different. And that's why I love eating them so much.

I went on my raid of inflictions, killing many an keeping my identity a secret. I had lived with a foster family for a year or so, eventually getting my own home. Then things sped up. I would keep my victims in my basement, duct tape their mouths. Leave the half-naked and well fed for hunger's sake. Eventually I'd tear into them. The sweet scent of screams still drifts in my nose. My ears boiling at the painful shrieks. I say, silence.

Many fell. But I do not care. They allowed themselves to be defeated. They were weak. The weak will be picked off one way or another. I just sped up the process. But eventually relatives of a victim caught onto me. They burnt down my house, hoping to kill me... But I survived. I survived. I survived. And I killed them. I mutilated them until they were no longer recognizable. They were but meat when I was finished. Not even meat. But some grotesque remnants.

Eventually somehow the police caught onto my identity. I guess my protective gear failed to prevent my DNA from falling onto the scenes. When I was certain I had no chance, I hid all of my equipment. They arrested me shortly afterwards. I was sentenced to forty eight life terms in the end, after they unveiled that each killing was mine.

Soon though I escaped... and returned to my equipment. Now as I slide the smile mask on... my thirst intensifies.

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