First of Many

Dear Diary,

I did it.

I swear to god, I thought I would chicken out like last time, but I really did it. The power coursing through my veins as I straddled his hips was akin to a goddess creating life. It didn't last long—I've heard boys never do—and it had me yearning for more. If I had known such a divine feeling of passion—of lust—could ever exist within myself, I would have done this years ago.

There is no use regretting the past, when the present is so sweet. This is everything I've ever wanted. It was a beautiful climatic experience of intimacy. My heart is welling with jubilance.

I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing in the pure pleasure I felt. If I could properly describe the abundant joy I had felt, oh Diary, your pages would be completely filled and even then it wouldn't be enough. This ecstasy is perfect.

My first time is something to be cherished. I write this recollection to remind myself of how special it was. Lustful in a way no one shall ever relate to; this act of devotion is a gift for me alone. I long for so much more but I know he is done.

His body was limp beneath me. Caressing his jawline flirtatiously, I carefully lifted myself off of him, smirking. It was messy; it wasn't a pretty scene for anyone besides me. I crossed the room to the en suite to wash myself of the sin I had just committed. I never understood why Eve ate the fruit until tonight.

The Devil is more of a friend than God ever was.

I let the knife clatter into the porcelain bowl, blood draining down the sink. I glanced over at my victim—the boy I had been stalking for weeks, now carved open and lifeless. He had been expecting sex, but stabbing him to death had felt so much more satisfying.

Pets were never enough for me. Blaming the mutilation of our cat on coyotes, claiming the hamster had simply run away, and even creating a fictional dog-kidnapper to take the fall for our puppy—it never satiated my urges. Murder couldn't possibly be immoral when it felt this damn good.

I wrapped his corpse in layers of sheets—despite wearing gloves, creating the semblance of a flimsy cover-up would lead suspicion away from a premeditated crime. I left the knife in the sink, stained and bent, and I shattered the mirror for good measure. I scattered the shards around the room, then removed the boy's sock and put his shoe back on his foot. The sock ended up on his nose and I scrawled a random Bible verse on the wall using his blood. Confusion was just as much of a friend to me as Lucifer was. Anything to throw the pigs off of my scent.

And Diary, it worked like a charm.

I left no print, no hair, not a single fibre of myself to trace back to. I showed up at the scene in the early hours of the morning, embraced his mourning mother, acting sorrowful and disgusted at the vile event. I said I knew him from school—not a lie—and that I had just been passing through when I heard the sirens. Nothing could tie me to him—no records of us talking at school, no motivations to kill, no prior charges—and the police barely took notice of me. No one could see how delighted my insides were.

Being invited to the funeral was never part of the plan, though it was a delightful unintended bonus nonetheless. I wormed my way to the front and sat directly next to his sobbing mother. There was something alluring about the idea of giving comfort to his mother. She had no clue that her head lay on the shoulder of the very person who ruthlessly murdered her son. It was titillating.

Many spoke on behalf of this boy. I never understood why people concentrated so much of their emotions on the dead. He is gone. Your kind words will not reach him in his grave. Even if his corpse had ears to hear, he would not care for your mornings. Nothing can bring him back. I smiled at that thought.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I should have known this blissful fulfillment would not last forever. I soon felt the all-too-familiar desire to maim—to mutilate—another.

I need a new victim.

At the time I am writing this account, I have nobody in mind. The urge grows stronger with every passing moment. I cannot contain myself for much longer. Someone needs to die at my hands.

Soon.

I can hear my parents downstairs. They were never much use to me—perhaps they will give me another opportunity. As my pen grazes along your lines, I hear sirens. Could it be...?

No, I have waited with bated breath and no officers are knocking down my doors. How could they connect anything back to me? It's not possible. My tracks are covered completely, just as the snow hides the grass during the winter months. I am getting paranoid, Diary, and I need to kill.

I wonder how it would feel to kill in a less direct way? Poison, maybe? Or fire, perhaps? Yes, arson sounds positively scrumptious...

There is nothing in this house I have use for. If I set it ablaze now, my parents will die and I will know whether my longing extends to indirect deaths also. Yes, this plan will reach its fruition today. Those sirens will return to find me a victim of losing my family. None would suspect I am the instigator of this devastation.

Now, the choice remains: what shall I use to spread the ravenous flames?

An idea has formed, like a fetus in the womb. You, my precious diary, are a witness. You are the sole survivor of my deed. Within these pages, you are my affidavit; you hold the only proof of my crime. You need to die.

Do not feel bereaved, Diary. You are part of a noble endeavour. As the fire consumes your pages, you are a priestess, doing what is right. I will remember you for all of my remaining days, and even afterwards, as I rot in Hell, you will be in my thoughts.

Before I light the flame, I request only one thing: take care of my parents when you all go to Heaven.

Goodbye.