The Serial Killer - Part IIIlkdfadsçlf
By the time I reached 18, I had already killed 4 people - the schoolgirl, the guy in the bar, some anonymous bum I used to experiment and the nosy forest patrol guard who came snooping around while I was disposing of the bum.
But they were nothing, compared to what I would do later. Almost all were random killings, except for the bum. And even with the bum I was too nervous to do anything resembling a good job. Looking back now, those first killings embarass me, they even upset me, they are stains in what would later become masterpieces of death.
I was looking for perfection. But it took me about a decade to master the tools of the trade and start doing what I would call a good job. What drove me was no longer hate or anger, but the sheer drive and passion of an artist. I wanted to excell, to reach places others had seldom treaded, to meticulously carve the details of murder upon my victims. My killings became my life's work, my art. I became obsessed to the point of not being able or allow myself to think about anything else. Or, rather, everything fed the killings. Every book I read, every movie I saw, every picture I admired, every single piece of nature that was able to rapture me would remind me of killing, would inspire my method.
My victims were not even thought of as victims, but as instruments, raw materials for my craft. I would prey on them like a wolf, silently, sometimes for months before I came closer, watching, learning, documenting their habits as a biologist would some irrational life form. The chase felt almost as good as the catch itself, for it built up anticipation, functioning as the preliminaries in a sexual mating. Knowing that I had control over their lives and that they would be mine when I decided was a powerful elixir. Sometimes I would delay the catch on purpose, so that I could relish on those intimate, private, lonely moments of my hunting.
I developed a number of abilities which I had not been blessed with upon birth. Patience. Resistance. A kind of poetic melancholy as I would consider the possibilities before me, how I would do it, when. Everything became important, crucial. The time of day, the place, the instruments, the means of transportation, even how I would eventually come into physical contact for the first time with the object of my desire. The world, the entire world, not just my own world, started revolving around the killings. The most insignificant detail had to have some kind of special meaning. The way the leaves rustled on the trees in a particular afternoon could make me decide a particular way of killing.
Over the course of the years I experimented a lot. I tried all kinds of weapons and tools. Knives, ropes, glass, bows, torturing devices, my own hands. All except guns. I considered them coarse objects to be used for such exquisite purposes. They were also loud and fast, which was something by no means related to the way I liked things done. My killings were slow and steady, almost as if the world would drown itself completely around me and I would find myself sorrounded by the rythm of water instead of air. My prey would die as if in a dream, in slow motion.
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