Monologue of a Serial Killer

How was I supposed to know that this was wrong, when it felt so right? Everything my father has taught me is wrong†¦ He taught me not to love, taught me not to feel, have no compassion for others. How†¦how could this be wrong, my whole life a lie; that’s what it was, that’s what I could reduce it to, a lie. Where had my mother been when my father had been teaching me these things? Where had aunts, uncles, grandpas, grandmas, cousins†¦ teachers, anybody been to tell me, to show me that†¦that all of this was wrong. Wrong†¦that word doesn’t seem real now, and it will never truly seem real, because I’ve never known anything else. I sound like I’m trying to shoulder the blame but I’m not, I’m truly not; I just†¦I felt so accepted by him, and loved, so loved that I didn’t really need anyone else†¦you know, the kind of love where†¦where anything could happen, and that one person would still be there; still there listening to everything you ever have to say, any problems and they say one word, two words, a sentence and everything is better†¦everything is fixed. My father is the kind of person I always wished I was; strong, capable, a true man†¦a real man†¦someone I would never be. My father says my mother held me too much when I was a child; he had to get me away from her quickly, so†¦so he found something to bond us together, found something that my mother could never be a part of, would never be a part of. And my mother, my mother didn’t seem to notice how I changed. I changed so drastically in the space of about 5 months; my perspective on life changed, suddenly I started to view everyone as a victim, as an outsider, and eventually the only person I could trust was my father, the only person I believed was him; my father, my best friend, my partner, my mentor, the one person who I could go to, who I knew could never judge because his crimes are worse than mine, much worse. I’m told that I’m a victim in all of this; a victim of my environment, a product created by my father for his own means. How can I believe that? How†¦how can that be true after everything he said, everything we’ve done together, always together. I told him we shouldn’t have taken her, that last one; she was wanted, she had friends, she had a family, she had a future, she†¦she was somebody†¦loved. But he had to have her and I couldn’t tell him no, he was the master he’d say, and I was his student†¦a student still after 12 years, 12 long years stretching out behind me. When I look at those years now I see there was no love there, how could he ever love anything more than what he did to those girls? He was alive when I watched him do that; his eyes, they sparkled and twinkled in the night. I try to remember a time when I’ve seen him happy like that with my mother and I can’t†¦I can’t. I’ve seen him smile, obviously I’ve seen him smile, but happiness is something a child should witness from a parent in normal circumstances†¦but then again what’s normal? They say normal is gardening, cooking, cleaning, washing, golfing†¦perhaps driving, stalking, watching, learning, catching, cutting, killing, digging†¦burying†¦none of that is normal, so I’ve been told. My mind†¦my mind is mixed up and all I can hear is my mother crying†¦crying trying to convince herself that she didn’t know what was going on. I want to see my father, but I’m not allowed. As if anything he could say would influence me more than he has done already; there’s nothing they can say now to make me confess, to speak a bad word about my father. I am his†¦forever his†¦but he will never be mine.