“What did you see,” I asked, my tone soft as I brushed her bloodied hair away from her face. “I want to know what you saw.” Her skin was damp, and yet I could still feel the softness under my touch. “I have to say that you were very unhelpful. Completely useless, just like all the others.” Sighing, I shook my head. “Just once, can one of you fucking people say what you see before you die? Is that too much to ask?”

Straightening, I stared down at the woman. I needed to find a way to bring them right to that moment of death but force them to hang on just long enough to tell me what they saw. I brushed the few stubborn strands still clinging to her forehead out of the way so I could continue to work. The warmth in her skin would remain for some time yet. I stared at her exposed body, taking a moment to marvel at my work.

The carved lines that created the intricate pattern on her pale skin were stunning. It was some of my finest art to date, and I appreciated this moment. I didn’t fully understand what it meant to be happy or experience happiness, but I was able to comprehend that these moments with my prey were the closest that I’d get to that feeling. I’d heard all the clinical reasons why I was the way I was, but it didn’t matter to me why I took pleasure in killing others. I was simply myself, which meant I was at the top of the food chain.

My father insisted they put me in therapy after finding me in their bedroom with the knife. It was the only smart decision I’d ever seen them try to make, but what they failed to understand was that I didn’t need help. Their smart decision turned into stupidity when they continued to throw good money at a non-issue. They truly thought the help would fix me, but I didn’t want to be fixed.