Wednesday 31 March 2021

Your Midweek Update for 03/31/21

The search for Casey’s mother continues. Strangely, looking for a woman who’s been in hiding for nearly a decade is not a simple task. But we’re about to find out who’s more stubborn: a woman nearly murdered by her daughter and now on the run for her life, or the adopted mother who happens to be the most prolific serial killer across two centuries?

Am I using that word correctly? “Prolific”? I don’t know when this blog became about grammatic rants but I can use my platform however I please so if you don’t like it, you can leave.

I’m just kidding. I know where all of you live.

According to Google, “prolific” means: producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring which may not be the most accurate description of what I do.

It also means: “present in large numbers or quantities; plentiful” which is more accurate. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve murdered. One of the nice things about my journals is that they were a literal record of my kills so I always knew what my number was. The bad thing about my journals is that they were a literal record of my kills. Losing them was not a bad thing in the grand scheme of things. Losing possession of them for a time was a VERY bad thing, however, so I will not be restarting. It does mean that I don’t know what my number is. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

If the public ever discovered what I am, they will never be able to track or claim how many people I’ve murdered over the years. Even if I confessed to everything, they could never verify it all. I’ll be on one of those Wikipedia lists as someone who ~probably~ murdered ~at least~ 600 people but no one will ever know. Not ever me.

Did you know I once chopped off a man’s head on a high angle, severing from the top of his spine (the actual top of his spine with the little ball thing). And then I split open his back like a zipper and cut until I reached bone. I peeled off his skin and muscle and nerves around his ribs (which too forever, that shit is tough to cut through, let me tell you), and I pulled out all of his organs through his back and through them in the river. Each individual organ. Then I tossed the rest of his skeleton over a waterfall – because James and I were on vacation with kids at the time. Do you think if I lived near a waterfall, I wouldn’t be there every damn night tossing body parts? I burnt the head before tossing it over just to make identification a little challenging for the coroner but not impossible.

I don’t know what happened to that body. I don’t know where any of those parts ended up or if it was even discovered in its entirety. No one will ever know for certain, just how successful I really was.

Some people might think that taking a life – taking hundreds of lives – makes me psychotic. Makes me evil. And they may be right. I’m certainly no saint (although saints are highly overrated and always worse than people let us believe) but I never wanted to be.

All I ever wanted to be was exactly who I was. Who I am. I wanted freedom and to live my life unapologetically. If I had the uncontrollable desire to restore old books, then I would have crafted a life that made restoring old books the most incredible and successful thing in the world.

But I’m a killer. It’s who I was meant to be. And I’m fucking great at it. It makes me happy.

I would rather have that than anything else in the world.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

No comments:

Post a Comment