Confession
Who was my first victim, you ask. That is simple enough to answer. His name was Billy Carson, but I called him bully. He liked nothing more than to beat me when his friends were holding my arms.
That was why I finally decided to take him first. He was the worst of the lot for me. It was in the summer of ‘74, and he had been swimming at the lake. He was walking home near dusk when I smashed him in the head with a branch.
When he awoke, he was hanging from a tree branch with a rope tied around his wrists. He was wearing blue jean cutoffs and was skinner than I would have thought. When he opened his eyes and saw me standing near him with the knife he screamed.
The first few cuts were swift slashes across his chest. He would let out a cry but not for very long and I wasn’t satisfied. Therefore, I laid the sharp edge against his skin and slowly drew it along his belly from side to side. He screamed the whole time and that was more fun.
For the next two hours I cut him slowly and deeply until his skin hung in bloody tatters. He died when his heart finally gave out.
It’s been almost forty years now but I still remember his screams of pain and he sound of his voice as he pleaded with me to stop. The way his skin hung from his bones with the blood dripping. I should have taken a picture but my memory is good enough.