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Dear diary

Times passes but
It's unforgiving way
It doesn't let you
Forget your sins
It doesn't let you
Forget your losses
Time can heal
But it can also
Destroy you.

We call the time
As the sea of space
That sea can be calming
But also ruthless killer
It can calm one's mind
And soul.
But it can wreck your
Body and break bones .
The same with time.
It's also unforgiving.
As well as unforgetful.

Today is a sad day for me , I feel empty and dead and I lost the will to stay alive. I keep thinking what is keeping me alive if not killing, but there are days even doing so cannot bring me out of that abyss of sadness and make me want to let go and let it take me down to my own demise.

When I was ending a woman’s life for her sins, I saw myself in her eyes. I saw my own meaningless life. What I am doing is not alright at all. But its not so wrong either. That is the real me. A monster that needs to be fed every now and then, I am a monster and I can’t seem to shake the feeling that one day my family who did nothing wrong , will be next to die by my hand or because of my actions. I need to meet someone who can stop me or puts a bullet to my head before its their lives on the stake.

Therefore before I left I wrote on her skin, this poem with the ink and pen she had just bought before her demise.
I was saying it to her but also to myself

L

Chapter 8: When Cicada hunts Mantis, the man-eater down.

Dear Diary 27th March

Been a tough day, but worth it. Got loads done and the project's really coming together. It's been a while since I last went out prowling the city, and I'm feeling the itch to do it again. I think its time to hunt once again this time which catch will it be?

I saw a young lady as of late, and I noticed she had been with ten different successful men, be it married, single, widowed and all from doctors to the wall street but no lawyers. Smart, very smart.
I recognise her type and I know what she is doing. She is the mantis or in other words Man-eater. She flirts with them, date them, squeeze them dry, leave them in the dust only after she finished with them. She does not scam them or anything. The lady is a dream come true to many of the men. Dark hair,tall only five foot six, and hourglass shaped body, green emerald eyes and pouty lips and not much make up.

Her name is Eliza or so I heard. Only twenty five years old. She is perfect for my dinner.
I sized her up and stalked her for a week till I learned her routine. She is also freelance water yoga student . Thank goodness I am a swimmer. I studied her movements as well and the moment she took a breather, I grabbed her left arm, twisted it and broke it, went for her neck, but she managed to kick me on my right leg, pusing me away a bit, while she tried to swim away. Now its getting interesting. I was going to give her a quick death but this time I might change my mind. This Eliza is feisty, and with that kick she was not going down without a fight.

I dove and grabbed her leg, punching straight on her fibula, she jolted and I held tighter onto her and punched again this time more harder, breaking her tibula and I think I will go for her patella, the kneecap. Went straight for her neck this time, and I held a tight grip on her throat with one hand and the with other hand I punched into her chest and her abdomen where the liver is. She stopped fighting me. I pressed with both hands now on her trachea, I smile when her eyes from dull suddenly opens wide and in fear. That the stare I want. I start pressing on it with my thumb. I used plastic wrap, around my fingers and hands as not to leave any evidence, although in water its better safe than sorry.

She stopped breathing and all the water she took in . The water is warm it won’t take long before her rigor mortis sets in. I caused her enough damage and she will bleed internally anyways . …I got out of the pool after that and decided to pour sixteen bags of black dhalia petals. Leaving the place with some candles one on the North, West, South and East and with some blood I drew a heart on the South side.

After all who said serial killers can’t be romantic?

L

Dear diary.
November 15th

It's raining again but today's grey skies aren't as stunning as usual. Today's gloomy and miserable, but I'm not feelin' the blues. I'm itching' for the thrill of the hunt, and I'm ready to go!

There is a young man who has been broken hearted and nother one who is in despair. The girl that they had been dating was scamming them all along

She is 28 years old and works in the insurance company. She also embezzled thousands of euros from the company her fiance is working using his card and password. Poor accountant for being so smart at work but not so smart into the affair of the heart. Why give her such confidential information about work? Tch tch .

Even made her grandmother give her half of the pension on some shares and keeps not giving what she owes back to her. She will be my next victim.

She takes the bus 235 and it takes her to her apartment on the west side of the city just 20 minutes drive or 30 to 40 minutes by bus. She finish work on Fridays by 9 pm exactly. Between the company where she works and bus stop it's ten minute walk by cul-de-sac alone. No street lamps are working and no CCTV cameras either.

I go behind her and before she could turn around I knock her down.

I take her into nearest abandoned old factory and drag her in. This factory is a doll clothes human sized workshop.

There are showers for the workers .... I know cause I worked there four summers ago when I was saving for my piano lessons. I strip her clothes, wash her down and then inject her with cryo agent, also known as nitrogen liquid. It didn't take long for her body to become frozen doll. She became beautiful.
I painted her nails red, did her make up with red eye shadows and pale red lips, and her eyes still closed due to unconsciousness. I dyed her her ash blonde. And her eyebrows shaved in Manchurian style.

Without anyone seeing me, I lifted her corpse with some difficulty due to dead weight to the bus stop. I didn't stop to breath. I didn't dare in order not to be seen . I gently put the body in a sitting position the best I can due to rigor mortis, had to break two legs from knee down , to bend them 90 degrees but only 75 degrees they could bend properly. Still very beautiful. Still breathtaking. In her hands I left my beloved Black Dhalia

Today I felt like a villain but not quite. More like avenging demon.

L

Dear Diary,

29th October

Today was a rather uneventful day, but I did manage to secure a part-time tutoring position in a wealthy household. My student, a 14-year-old boy, is a bit of a slow learner, but he's tolerable. He's got a pleasant enough personality and is always respectful, which makes our sessions quite pleasant. I've learned a bit about the family dynamics, and it's clear the boy's got a rough time with his sister and stepmom. They're not exactly kind to him, and it's obvious they're not interested in helping him.

I was preparing for our next lesson when I got a call saying they wouldn't be needing my services anymore. I asked if I'd done something wrong, but they said no, it's just... the boy's passed away. Fell down the stairs. I wasn't surprised, given the circumstances. I went to collect my things and my pay, feeling rather detached about the whole thing.

A week later, I got hold of the house plans and pieced together what really happened. The sister's got dirty hands, and the maid's taking the fall. Time to take action.

Two weeks later I waxed the stairs at night when the Mr Thomas wouldn't be home and made sure to sneak into the sister's room to remove the water bottle from her cupboard to empty it and put it back. When I left I put a on little higher temperature than what she usually does. And from there she started to get dehydrated. Once she got up to drink and found her bottle empty she went out of the room to go down to the kitchen. Using the stairs.

That's how she fell and broke her spine, neck and head injury. The girl died on the spot she fell two stories level as it's spiral staircase.
Before leaving I left black Dhalia petals in her hand and turned it into fist

L

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
19:50 Dec 11 2025

Great

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POST COMMENT

I am sick in a bad way

“Dear diary,

Hello, my name is L, and I am a serial killer. It’s been a while since I’ve written a single note on a piece of paper, let alone in a diary. What’s my favorite part? Hearing my prey’s last breath as they cling to me, knowing full well it’s their last, and they still want to be saved… or end the pain? I don’t know why I’m like this, but I’m here, doing what I do, because if I don’t, I feel dead inside. The only emotion I feel is when I see their last breath. It’s elation, not satisfaction, but relief. Relief that I’ve ended future suffering to this world from another possible ingrate.

Today, it was a youngster who beat his dog to death the day before because the dog was barking at his friend. I did the same to him. The fear in his eyes was palpable, but it left me empty nonetheless. He wasn’t my usual prey, but I wanted to avenge that poor pup who did nothing wrong.

I feel a pang, a slight tremble in my chest. Not remorse, not exactly.

It’s not about revenge or justice or any of those things. It’s about feeling something, anything. The rush of power, the thrill of control. It’s a high, and I’m addicted.

The youngster was a deviation, a whim. But it felt good, it felt right. The dog’s suffering was an excuse that ignited something in me, something primal and raw. I wanted to see if I could still feel, if I could still be surprised.

The answer is yes. I can.”



Chapter 2: I Am A Rebel , I Am Demon , I Am The Devil

Dear Diary,

I was born into a good family – not wealthy, but not struggling either. We had everything we needed, and some things we wanted, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness inside me.

I’ve tried to fill the void with hobbies, sports, studies, and work, but nothing seems to stick. My relationships have failed, mostly because people either can’t understand me or they’re too clove. I’ve even wondered if I’m depressed, but therapy and tests say I’m not – I’m just… me.

I’ve got ASPD, though I’m not entirely sure what that means. What I do know is that there’s something dark inside me, clawing to get out. It’s hungry, and it’s getting harder to ignore. This thing inside me is probably unforgivable, unpardonable, and unacceptable to the world outside. But it’s part of who I am, and I need to feed it before it consumes me whole.

L

Chapter 3:
"I see your secrets, I own your death.

Dear diary,

Today was peculiar. Rain created a melancholic atmosphere, perfect for Vivaldi. I found inspiration in others' creations, stirring something within me.

My gaze fell upon a young woman, a flower shop assistant with striking features: dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin. Her lips, a deep red. She was a beauty, but beneath her facade lay a dark secret. She'd taken six innocent children's lives, craving attention. Twisted Manchausen's syndrome, perhaps?

Her evening routine led her to Onazoh park, alone and vulnerable. I followed, silent in the rain-soaked grass. As she paused, I seized the moment. Her scarf became a tourniquet, tightening around her neck. I wanted to see the light dim in her eyes as she faced me.

The struggle was intense. I held firm, drinking in the desperation. She lost consciousness, the light in her eyes fading. Breaking her neck ensured her demise. I arranged her body beneath the tree, her hand holding my beloved black Dahlia.

In that moment, I felt alive."

L