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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