Confessions

I’d fallen in love.

Not with any man, or any woman. Not with any person. With a thing. A thing flowing inside of a person. One of the key things that keep us alive.

I’d fallen in love with blood. With their blood. More specifically, with the sight and smell of their blood.

It was intoxicating, like a drug I couldn’t pull myself away from. Greater than the greatest crack cocaine, greater than meth, or a gambling addiction, or alcohol, better than sex, better than anything I’d ever known. 

That smell.

Maybe it was the metallic component of it. No, I don’t think it was that, because something tells me I wouldn’t have had the same feeling in a forge or an auto repair shop.

It was something—something about it that just had me hooked, all the way from that very first time. And they’re right that you can never get that same kind of high that you did the very first time.

I haven’t tasted any just yet, but who knows? Maybe one day. In the meantime, that sight and scent were more than enough.

The intoxication of that first time made it even easier to do — and harder to resist doing — the second time. And the third. And the fourth. It got to where I couldn’t even contain or control myself, and I eventually just lost count.

And those I did it to were so random. That’s why I’ve never been discovered or tied to anything. Authorities, pfft. They’re always looking for commonalities, for patterns. “Serial killers always have patterns,” they say with such confidence. “A certain type of victim. A certain preferred way they kill. It’s always the same formula.” Ha. Well, clearly not always. 

At least not in this one’s case.

 Maybe there’s “always” patterns because most of those throughout history—at least most that we’ve known about—have been men. And we know how careless and clueless men can be with details…

Everyone knows women are better liars, better cheaters, better fakers. We hide things very well, so well that you’ll rarely—if ever—know the truth. Or even that there’s a truth to know. Unless, of course, we want you to.

So, it’s probably safe to assume we’re also better killers.

Actually, I officially grant you the permission to assume we’re better killers now.

There was no pattern to my victims, or my methods. It was like one of those lottery machines that spits out balls with random numbers to eventually determine a winner. Each of those numbered balls represents for me a different way of doing what I do and a different kind of person I do it to. No two numbers alike. I just grab one of those balls and go.

That was, after all, not only the way to keep the authorities off of my track but also to keep things even more interesting (than they already were—I know, I guess I was a little greedy).

Unfortunately unlike in the case of real lottery balls, in my victims’ cases, there were no winners. It’s the very last kind of lottery machine anyone would ever want to have their number called from.

When that number was pulled, that was it.

Showtime.

The sweet, young librarian looked up and out to the large crowd, who was dead silent. There was no applause or a collective visual indicating admiration for what they’d just heard. Because what they’d just heard was an excerpt from Confessions of a Killer, Who Got Away With It.

And it was about just that.

It's the author, Samantha Bowie’s first and only book. And it’s a bestseller.

I’m Samantha Bowie.

Everyone present—apparently including the librarian—was undoubtedly horrified, yet I’m sure also intrigued. Otherwise, why would they be there?

Well, except for the librarian. I’m sure she had no choice.

I scanned the room to see a mixture of expressions among their diverse sea of faces. People of all ages, all skin colors and walks of life. Many looked more on the somber side, but some read more like confusion. And still a few — literally a few — others, a slight excitement they were subtly trying to suppress. And doing poorly at it.

After a very awkward few moments of silence, the sweet librarian spoke, “Well, thank you, Ms. Bowie, for stopping by and sharing your interesting text with us.” She tried to muster up a polite, positive spin on the situation. “I’m sure we all learned a lot here today!” she exclaimed while trying to shine the most genuine smile possible, but failing. “Now, all who wants Ms. Bowie to sign their book can gather and just line up right over there.”

I sat at the table they had set up for me, waiting for the line to quickly form. As it always did.

As it always does. 

The first person walked up with their copy of Confessions. It was an older lady. She seemed reluctant to approach but forced herself nonetheless. I could read on her face a mixture of shame and maybe disgust, but again, intrigue.

She looked at me with a stern expression and began to speak in a whisper, as if somehow her soft voice would hide her from being seen by the dozens of people who stood behind her. People who knew she had come to this particular book reading, where she was now having this particular book signed, by this particular author.

Definitely shame. Why, what ever would her fellow church members think?

“Hi, Ms….Ms….Bowie. Uhh, how are you,” she said in a way that sounded more like a statement than a question. And so I treated it as such and didn’t respond, just smiled in a way that I hoped would help ease her nerves some.

“Uhh, do you mind uhh… Could you uhh…”

As somewhat-comical as it was to watch her squirm and try to force herself to ask for my autograph, I decided to go ahead and save her from herself. “Yes, sure. I would love to,” I jumped in with an even warmer smile and noticed her visible relief.

“Thank you,” she softly returned.

Inside her copy, I wrote “We’re not all as bad as you think ;) - S. Bowie”

I then closed the front jacket and handed it back to her. I figured she would see it was more than just my signature… Some day.

I always try to write something a little different, a little personalized, in each signed book.

She lingered standing there for a few more moments, as if she were waiting for something else. As if she were waiting to say…something else. Or maybe ask something else. Maybe, probably wanting to ask the one question many others have wanted to ask. And some have. Especially news anchors and talk show hosts.

“How?” I think back on one of my first interviews, where the interviewer was a lot more direct than the previous few.

“I’m sorry, ‘how’?” I played dumb at the question.

“How are you able to make — I mean, detail — in this book all of these confessions to a bunch of murders and still walk free?!”

“I mean… Dave, I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I tell you?! Ha!” He laughed with a sort of incredulity. “‘I tell you’” he then mocked, which kind of rubbed me the wrong way. But alas, he wasn’t wrong. It was a valid question.

He continued. “I mean… You’ve never been imprisoned for any of it, right? Never been imprisoned for any of anything, am I wrong?”

“Nope, no, you’re not wrong. I’ve never been to prison.”

“Never been convicted? Or even tried??” he asked, wide-eyed.

“No, I’ve never been convicted or tried.”

“You’ve never so much as been arrested…or even investigated… for any of this?”

“That is correct,” I told him with a slight grin but tried not to seem too cocky about it.

His mouth hung open as he sat back in his chair and his hands dropped lifelessly on his lap, as if what I’d shared had literally taken his breath away. “Wow,” he finally said. “That is incredible. I don’t know whether to be…impressed or…outraged,” he laughed nervously.

“Hey, I understand what you mean!” I tried to jump in and halfway normalize his feelings. Again, they were valid.

“But I just… I don’t get how? Why? How are you able to just…get away with it… literally get away with murder… openly?!?”

“I honestly don’t know, Dave,” I said. “I’ve often wondered the same.”

But that was a lie. I did know…

Because none of it was true.

How was I able to get away with describing in painstaking, horrifying, bloody, violent detail how I methodically slaughtered, and found great joy in slaughtering, dozens of random innocent lives? Because it never happened. I made it all up.

But they didn’t know that. Nobody knows that. Except me.

Or actually, maybe the police in this big town might have a clue by now, as I’m sure they have tried looking into it — especially after the countless e-mails, phone calls, and letters they’ve received from the public, demanding that I be investigated.

I’m sure they’ve been looking, and I suspect they’ll continue to, but they’ll surely come up empty because there’s nothing to find. 

I made it all up.

I even made sure none of the gory details I described matched any nearby active cases I’d heard about in the news over the years. And that they were pretty unique. Just in case. I didn’t want any close calls.

Next in line was this freckle-faced teenage boy who seemed a bit more eager than any normal person would think he should be about something like this, about meeting me. 

He approached and seemed hard to contain himself before blurting out, “Hey, Ms. Bowie!! I just want you to know that I think you are awesome!! I think you are so cool and bad ass. Like, really?!? Who does something as bad ass as that?!? Writing a book talking all about all the people you’ve killed, and you’ve gone this long not being caught by the police?!? Bad ass.”

Of course interactions like this gave me mixed feelings. I almost preferred the old, churchgoing lady and her response. Her response was normal.

Not only was this kid’s response not normal, or at least not okay, but that’s what he was: a kid. A hormonal, eager and impassioned adolescent actually seeming to admire a killer. A real killer—well, real to him—not just ones he’d seen on TV and in the movies. One standing right in front of him, as he anxiously awaited her to sign his bought copy of her book…about killing. In a time when school shootings were about as normal as fire drills. 

Not good.

And I can never decide if it's worse to come across someone like him, knowing all of my story is made up, or if that even matters. I suppose it’s bad either way because he thinks it’s true. As far as he knows, it is.

The way I’m able to ease the twinge of…guilt? Discomfort? Yes, at least discomfort about these such things is knowing my book was never intended for people like him. For young people. Impressionable people.

Although, then I ask myself, who exactly was it intended for?

I also can’t decide which is more concerning: The idea of my having a certain niche group of people who really get off on and therefore support this kind of book… Or the fact that I don’t?

There honestly doesn’t appear to be any particular consistent demographic or characteristic of my book’s audience—no certain look, or age or age range, or race, or gender, or religion, or class, no apparent personality type, or anything else. It seems the whole spectrum of human race is into it. In some way.

I suspect some may only buy, or at least rent, it just to judge and criticize it, and me. I can probably guess who those types are. 

And I truthfully don’t even know if that old church lady would fall into that category. Honestly, by her reaction, it felt like she was more of a wild card.

But okay, so, why.

Not the “why?” that notably dumbfounded anchor had asked me—about why I hadn’t yet been apprehended for my many admitted heinous transgressions. But why in the world would I—why would anyone—make something like that up and try to pass it off as real?

Well.

It’s complicated.

Truthfully, most of my life has been tame. Non-eventful. Non-spectacular. Very ordinary. Like, very ordinary.

Ordinary and obedient.

I was a good daughter, and then a good student, and then later, a good adult. A good working, law-abiding adult.

Never a good girlfriend…only because I’ve never been a girlfriend. Because I’ve never had so much as a boyfriend. Let alone ever married or had kids.

I never broke any rules. Have never really had friends, but I come from a relatively normal family. No brothers or sisters—just me, my mom, and my dad. And we were the only living family we had until, unfortunately, they also passed away due to health conditions many years ago.

So okay, I guess until this book, that’s been the most interesting thing about me—that my parents died while I was still in my 20s.

But back to my ultra-ordinary life. Since it’s seemed I could never pull off anything quite extraordinary—something great, unique, and ideally positive that everyone would remember… And I also could never break any real laws or rules to achieve some kind of infamy… And I knew I’ve always had a very broad imagination… I had an idea as I was laying in my bed one ordinary Saturday morning, that I would essentially do both—with a twist that no one would ever suspect.

An actual good girl sharing certain things that would suggest she’s a very bad girl. In fact, one of the worst. And things that not even actual bad people could share, because, unlike in their case, nothing she shares would be true. So, she could technically say whatever she wants to!

Like, literally whatever.

And only I would only ever know the truth.

That’s it. That would be my unique legacy and mark on the world. That’s how most will remember me. Kind of sucks that it’s technically for something bad—well, excuse me, it is for something bad—that I didn’t even do, but hey… That’s better than not being remembered at all.

I did at one point think about whether it would be more iconic to have written it as if it were true and leave it at that or to one day admit that it wasn’t, after so many thought it was. 

I think either one would be—as that freckle-faced kid said—pretty bad ass.

At least so far, I’ve decided to stick with the original plan: For the city, the country, the world…to go on thinking it’s real. Who knows, one day I might change my mind, but in the meantime, I guess we’ll just see how far this goes.

As I’m lounging around my new, gorgeous home—paid for mostly by the surprisingly generous earnings of Confessions—on yet another ordinary Saturday morning, I hear a knock at the door. Annoyed whoever it is is taking me away from my routine personal viewing of The Andy Griffith Show and my morning tea, I manage to ply myself away and walk over to the front door.

I look out the peephole and immediately see a gold badge with blue lettering staring back at me. I try to ignore that my heart’s starting to elevate and open the door. I see standing before me two police officers, neither with a particularly warm disposition.

“Hi, ma’am,” one of them says. “Can we have a word with you?”