You just haunt me

It is years later

You haunt me
In my dreams
They aren't nightmares
You just haunt me

I know you can't reach me anymore
In my daytime
I removed you
But still, you are there

Tormenting me
Watching me
Controlling me
Mocking me

I know it is just me
Projecting you onto me
Because we didn't finish what we started
I let you off the hook without saying it
That you haunt me
Because your ghost is now inside me.

You just haunt me
Now
You just haunt me
And you likely always will

Writing Sample: Interview with Belle

I am currently writing a stageplay where the main character has to break up with her boyfriend in order to move on with her life and her career. It is not the main part of the story,  or the idea, but it is a big part of it. In this blog, I interview the character (Belle) and she answers some of my questions about that breakup.

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Tell me about the breakup with Rocky. What happened there?

Belle: Well, it was really rough, really bad, you know? When you love someone like that, for as long as I did, it really guts you. As bad as it was, and as much as I knew that it had to end, for my own good, there is still a very big part of me that would take him back if he showed up on my doorstop.

What brought on the final breakup?

Belle: We got into a fight, another one of our fights. I said I wanted to get an agent, a real agent. Obviously, that wasn't going to go over well. Our biggest issue was always him wanting to be my man and my agent. He wasn't particularly good at either,  but he was a horrible agent. I let him ruin my career. That night, I had played a very bad gig that he booked for me. I snapped. I couldn't deal with that anymore. I lashed out at him. It got me where I needed to go, but not in the way I wanted to. That is not the way I wanted to breakup with him, or have it end. Does it ever go the way we plan it? I think not. Nobody has a plan for how they are going to bust up something like that.

Was it physical. Did he hit you?

Belle: Well, not really. There was some pushing and shoving. More about me. I tried to stop him. I was hanging on. He was trying to leave. I wouldn't let him. I grabbed on too tight. He pushed me back. I had some bruises. Nothing serious. He didn't hit me. It was never like that with us. Rocky was and is a good man. He treats you well. I have never seen him hurt anyone. He was really just trying to get away. He was the stronger of us two. I was the weak one. That was always a big part of the problem anyway. If I was stronger, I would never have let him manage me. I let him do that so I could keep him as a man. I was weak like that. No self esteem. Still am, to a large extent.

And when he went out the door, what happened then?

Belle: I cried. All night. I think I realized it was finally over. Of course, I wanted to call him. To convince him to take me back. We all go through that. For whatever reason, I didn't do that. I took some pills. Serious pills. I was out cold for 12 hours. When I awoke, acceptance began to take hold. It has been a slow process. I have had lapses. But, I never gave back in. Took me a long time to shake it. I still really haven't. There is a part of me, as I said, that wants to go back. But I didn't, and I wont. I know better. My mind is stronger than my heart, although my heart is still very weak. My mind now rules. When I met him, I was all about heart. I never thought about the path I was going down with Rocky. If he hadn't left that night I would still be on that path. That is what carries me through the momentary lapses when I think I want him back.

In the moment, how did it feel?

Belle: You can't even imagine. The pain in the pit of my stomach. I have been down before, but never felt anything like that. I don't wish it on anyone. I had to hit total rock bottom, and I did in that moment.

But you moved on. What was the turning point?

Belle: I realized.  I am on my own now. I can't blame Rocky anymore for my career and how it had turned out. Sure, I knew I had a long, tough road ahead of me. I was older. Maybe my time had passed me by.  But at least now it was up to me. I could make it happen. At least, I was going to try to do that. 

Did you take anything from the whole experience and use it to further your career?

Belle: Certainly I did. I draw on the passion of that night every time I am out on stage, performing those gut wrenching songs that people come to hear me sing. Also, on a more practical level, I now never let matters of the heart interfere with my career. Business is business and I try and keep it that way.

Did he try to contact you after that night?

Belle: No. He never has. One day, I am sure we will square it up. But, it was a very bad breakup. I am certain there is still a lot of blame for a lot of things on both sides. There still is on my side, obviously I blame him for how my career turned out. I think he blames me for many things, but he has said nothing. If that came out in that last fight, I don't remember any of it. I actually don't remember much of what was said in that last fight. I may have said some horrible things. I don't even remember. If I did, I am sure he does. He always did.

Do you know what has happened to him since?

Belle: He has a new girlfriend. A singer he manages. Same old Rocky. Good luck to her. She is going to need it. Not my problem anymore. I have moved on from that part.

What have you learned from any of this?

Belle: Nobody teaches us how to break up and survive. Now I know. I learned how to survive it. You think your world is going to end. It wont.  It didn't. I learned to let go. Hey, I survived. I'm doing okay.  It wasn't easy. On some level, it still hurts. It was a big part of my life, for a long time, for most of my adult life. But again, I'm okay. You can't really understand that it will be that way until you go through it.

I wont Look

White Honda
With a "baby on board" sticker on the back
I have trailed you for minutes
You refuse to move
Defiant, yes you were
the lane was there
you would not take it
you insisted on staying left
when you knew I was right
now my mind is racing
as my engine revs loudly
I am forced to pass
just a tug to the right and a push on the gas
as I pass you now
I am tempted
but as I pass you now
I am pre empted
No, I have wasted enough time on you
So, I wont look
I don't want to know
what stupid looks like
So
I wont look
No
I wont look
I wont give you the satisfaction of mattering to me
So
I wont look
I will never know what stupid looks like
Not this time
I wont look

Writing Sample: The Rush and the Drain

I can feel it. Shortly after the rush there is the drain. The rush is so exhilarating that I am sure the drain has started long before the rush comes, but you don't feel it. Then, that powerful rush. It jolts through your whole body. Like an electric shock. You feel no pain. You don't notice anything around it but the rush itself. But, the rush ends.
You know the rush is coming. You have been there before. It is always as good as the last time. Maybe even better sometimes. All the whole time, you are aiming for that rush. You know that rush feeling and you have to have it. It is all you can think of when you are draining every last ounce of energy out of your body in pursuit of it.
Then you are numb. Satisfied, but numb. Then, after a while, you just lie there, and you feel the drain.
All the energy you once had, you once expended, is gone. The drain has taken effect. The rush is but a memory. A great memory, but a memory. You remember the rush, but that great feeling is long gone and you can barely, if at all, remember the feeling of the rush. The rush lives in the moment, and the moment is brief. Then it is gone. The rush's by-product, the drain, has taken its grip. It lasts much longer and you always remember the feeling of the drain, even as you approach the rush again. You know the drain is coming after the rush, and you know it doesn't feel good. But, you don't care. You want the rush, at any costs.
I keep telling myself that I will never do this again. Drain myself like this. It is unhealthy. It serves no purpose, other than the incredible rush it brings. I tell myself I won't succumb to the rush, but I know I will. As soon as the drain has ended, and the energy has accumulated again, I will seek out the rush and drain myself again. And again. And again. And again. One day, the energy simply won't return. Or the hunger for the rush won't be there anymore. Or, maybe it will always be there and I will be the slave to the master that is the rush.
As bad as the drain is, the rush is much more powerful and overwhelming. I am the moth to the light. No matter how much I know about the rush, and the drain, I will fly into that light until the rush is not powerful anymore. That means, likely, never.

Friday Writing Sample

Those creaky steps. I remembered them as a child. Every step. If anyone was up there, they knew you were coming. And that top step, it had give. As you opened the door the person up there already knew you were coming. Of course, that person was always my dad. He was really the only one allowed up in the attic.
This time as I reached the door there was no one there to great me. My dad has passed away just recently and I was to go it alone this time. I felt his presence there,  but that was all it was.
As I approached the attic, cobwebs were everywhere. It had been a year or two since anyone had been up there.  Dad was sick for a couple of years and the house was basically empty. It was weird being up in the attic by myself. I hadn't even been up there in 10 or 15 years,  and certainly I had never been up there alone. It was eerie to say the least. Like a visit back in time, but now I was a grown up with a perspective I'd never had before.
I was there to search for something. What that was I didn't know. Maybe a sense of self. Something was always missing. A piece of me, of my history, of my families history that was never shared by my father. Nobody ever really talked about it. To even hint at the past was to stir up fires that my father didn't want lit. I could always see my mothers face as I started, just knowing that I was going to a place that no one wanted to go. Dared to go.
My father had told me about my grandfather, although I never knew him. He died when I just a small child. I have no memories of him whatsoever. Three months ago my father passed away and I was charged with going through his belongings. I had no idea what I would find, but I was certainly curious as my father was always secretive about the male side of his family. I never knew any of them and he never talked about them. I was curious. This was my chance to delve into that wonderland I never knew before.
The attic had always been a place I rarely went as a child. It wasn't your normal attic, but large enough that my father had built an office there. It was his "quiet" place where he went to work and get away from the hustle and bustle of the house. He had many boxes of stuff stored there, none of which any of us had ever seen. This would be my first chance to see any of it. When I was younger, I would be looking at it. He knew that. It was understood I was never to go near those boxes and learn what was inside. It was forbidden, and understood,  although never said, that it was for my own good.
Being a journalist now, a budding journalist anyway, I was curious to see what I would learn about my dad, my grand dad and his family. So much had been kept secret all these years.
Most of the boxes contained documents and form letters that were of no interest.  My dad was a pack rat and kept everything. Everything that was meaningless. He could never throw anything out. Nevertheless, I kept at it. Something was there. I just knew it. Something that would give me the information about our past. About our secret past that was never talked about. I had to know. I wanted to know. I was going to know.
As I searched, I saw a box marked "Haden". Maybe this was one of our relatives. I certainly had never heard of a Haden. I went to open the box. As I took of the top, I noticed the first page. It was a cover letter. A warning to anyone that had opened this box. It read:

"If you have gotten this far and you are reading this letter, take it as a warning to stop and put the top back on, then seal the box and go burn it. You don't want to know what is contained in the rest of this box. It is for your own good that you don't"

Of course, I ignored it and went straight to the next page.

Friday Writing Sample

Run Over

In the years that passed later, I always imagined what it was like to get run over repeatedly by a car. Each car bringing you that much closer to death. Still alive enough to feel each thump as it drove you ever closer to death.
At some point I could actually feel that pain. I could only ever really imagine it, but I could feel it nonetheless. A few years later I had wished that she had actually died that night. That one of those cars had finished her off. Life would have been so much better if she had died out there on that dark Montreal street that night. But it wasn't to be. She cheated death for a reason. Her pain was to be transferred to me, no..to us,  as the years passed. In many ways she didn't die that night, but my mother did.

The city street is dark at night. The hustle and bustle that is the daytime is long gone. What seems so crowded during the day is vast and sparse at night. You notice things that you miss in the crowded daylight that you see at night. Parked cars everywhere. Lights reflecting off of windows. Storefronts and red lights. Neon signs. The night time brings a clarity that the busy day smothers away. Darkness brings clear vision that light obstructs.
In spite of all that, as she was getting run over repeatedly (according to the doctor, possibly 20 times or more) no one noticed. If they did notice, they did nothing about it. By the time they found her she was near death. So many broken bones in her body that even living through that trauma might be the bigger punishment. But live she died.  She lived to fight another day.  And fight she did. With anybody and everybody. She changed that night. She went from flamboyant to bitter.

The car was very dark and I was tired. I had no idea why we were traveling this late at night. The grown ups were talking in the front seat as I lay half awake. Street lights flashing one by one as we passed them. It is an interesting view when you are lying almost flat on the back seat looking up. It was way past my bedtime. There had to be a reason why we were doing this. I heard something about my Aunt, but I had no idea what was going on.
My father parked the car. He backed in. He always backed in, even this late at night. He always did that. I wasn't that old, only 8, but I knew enough to know we were at the hospital. I didn't know what that really meant, or why we were here.
The only time I had ever been to a hospital before was to have my tonsils out. That was fun. I got vanilla ice cream every day. My Aunt came to visit me that time. She was my favorite Aunt to that point. She took me everywhere and showed me stuff that others didn't. She was my cool Aunt. I was 8. I didn't know any better. I had no idea she was a deviant and a scheming bitch. I only found that out years later.

Waiting in Hinan

 Waiting in Hinan

I passed into the light. It wasn't what I expected. I didn't know what to think of this place. Was it heaven? Was it hell? It didn't appear to be either.
I was greeted by a figurehead,

"Gary Sampson, come in."

Well, he knew my name. I came in and sat on the couch. Or what appeared to be a couch in this crazy place that made no sense to me. I guess the afterlife is not supposed to make sense. If you try to rationalize and understand it from a earthly point of view, it doesn't make sense. There is no sense.

Suddenly I saw my father. It had been years since he passed, but the figurehead turned into my father, like he had been channeled in this being.

"Gary, tell me your secrets, the secrets you kept from me while we were both on earth"

I didn't know what to do, or say. But I felt compelled to tell those secrets. I don't know why I did, but I did, so out they came.

(Gary goes on to tell his dad his secrets that he kept from him)

It felt like a weight was lifted off my back. I had held it in for all those years. After a few years, or what we used to call years back on earth, I realized that is what this place was all about. There was no right or wrong. This place, this afterlife, was about redemption and honesty. About putting it all out there and sorting out of our problems. Once you had given up all your secrets, you were free..and redeemed. Then, and only then, were you free to move on to another place. A place everyone got to go. There were no sinners or saints at that point. Everyone got to start over with a clean slate. And knowledge that there were no judgements and hence no need for secrets.
The only caveat was that you had to linger in this holding station until all you had contact with on earth had passed through and resolved any issues with due to the holding of secrets.
In the end, it was all about secrets. No good. No bad. Just deception. That was the lesson. There was no such thing as a justifiable deception. They never preached or taught you that on earth. Once you learned that straighforward honesty was the best strategy, you released the secrets that ate at you day in and day out and you moved on to the better place.

Friday Writing Sample

"Get down, now!" I shouted to Ritchie.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Gunfire everywhere.  Everyman for himself. Few would make it out of this gunfight alive on both sides. I grabbed the gun of my downed compatriot, now gone for good and began shooting. There were only four of us left now. Two of them and two of us. A quick shot and one was dead. One left to kill and I have made it through another battle. Ritchie lay there beside me, wounded but still breathing. Blood gushing everywhere. Only one left to kill or capture and then I could get Ritchie back to camp. I ducked in the hole and lay in wait. As the Japanese soldier came towards me I shot him, in the leg. It was the best shot I had so I took it. He was now downed. I would live through this battle. I ran over and took his gun, then checked. He was still alive. I could not bring both him and Ritchie back to the camp. Ritchie was now sitting up, still bleeding but managing to survive. I reached over to the Japanese soldier. He looked at me with the eyes that know when they know.  I had killed many in this war with a gun, but never seen one die up close. I pushed him over on his stomach, then squeezed the life of out him. My first kill with my bare hands. I had thought about it back home but had never done it before. But this was war and I could get away with being a ruthless killer here. Ritchie just looked with wonder at what he saw. We both never mentioned it again.

Friday Writing Sample

This is an excerpt from the Opening to a script I started two years ago that I have never finished but I am edging back towards.  It is called Magical. 

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Canadians are unique in a lot of respects. We are generally perceived as polite, non violent people. We also have a love for donuts and coffee. Tim Hortons is simply known as Timmies, and every Canadian knows what a Timbit is. Tim Horton was in fact a famous hockey player in his day. I had all his hockey cards. 

As Canadians we can take the worst amount of cold weather and snow and deal with it. And we love hockey.

Americans have baseball, most of the rest of the world have soccer. We have hockey.

Hockey. It's in our blood. From the time we can speak, read, write, watch, and play, its something we know. Like learning that we need to eat and do all the things that are essential and natural to our being and living, hockey becomes ingrained and part of our culture. And our being. To be Canadian, and to some extent, to be a Canadian boy, means that we know, watch, play and love hockey. I was no exception to that. 

But what that means to each succeeding generation is completely different. And more importantly, how we experienced and internalized that event is very different from generation to generation and city to city.

Growing up in the late sixties and early seventies, life seemed very simple to a young Canadian boy mired in the suburban sprawl of Montreal. Get up, eat breakfast, go to school, come home, watch a few cartoons, go out and play street hockey, then eat dinner, watch a few shows, and off to bed.

 Of course, the world wasn’t really that simple. Quebec was on the verge of a separation movement, the hippie culture was encroaching on the 'father knows best' culture of the generation before it, and the games that I loved, hockey and baseball,  were changing from wonder sports to very big business. But as a preteen boy, I didn’t know or care about any of that. Innocence ruled the day in my sheltered suburban existence.

Heroes were heroes and you didn’t know better. Star players were to be admired and you didn’t know anything about contract disputes or union uprisings. Players were gods and you emulated them and that’s all you knew.

Passion was about the game and the players and your team, whatever that was.

For the kids on my street, there were two pastimes, street hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer. If you lived on the street, you played, whether that was well or not.

 Baseball was always my game. My love. My passion. I was a complete and obsessed Montreal Expos fan.

 My first passion was always baseball, but I loved hockey. More as a spectator than a player,  because frankly, I was not very good at all at ice hockey. As a fan of the Montreal Canadians though, I lived and died with every game and every minute of every game.

By the time I was in my late 20's my team was the Maple Leafs and there was no bigger block of time in that history than the 93 playoffs. Those 3 to 4 weeks. This is the story of that Magical time and the events, and how they related to so much of my life that came before it.

Friday Writing Sample

 Two new excerpts plus updates on the previous ones.




The sisters real diary.

I don't feel guilty. That guy raped me. I would kill him myself if I could, but I can't. He is too big and strong. I know how my brother is. He is a violent predator. He needs to kill anyway. So, if he kills, good. Let him kill this raping, arrogant violent boy. I will never lose any sleep over it.

The sisters fake diary.

Poor Jenny. She told me today that Brian Spencer raped her. Somebody should do something about that. That fucking bastard has been getting away with that sort of thing for ages. So what if his father runs this town? He should have to pay for doing that to girls. It's not right. Somebody should hurt him. He needs to be hurt,  like he hurts us girls.
Went to the ice cream store today. Saw Brian stalking a new victim. Someone should stop him. Really. I can't. I want to. I so want to. I just don't have that violent streak in me. But somebody should stop him. He must be stopped. He wont stop himself.
Jenny told me that she heard at school he has done this more than 10 times. He deserves whatever he gets. I hope he suffers, he deserves to suffer, like he has made us suffer.
I am afraid for myself. One day he is going to come after me. Who is going to protect me? Somebody should. I am just a small little Asian girl in this creepy Southern town.
I need a protector.

Diary of a Serial Killer in the making 


Being 14 isn't easy at the best of times. You think you have things figured out, but you don't. Even at this age, I know that now. I do know this: I am me. And only because of me. The urge to kill was born within me. I may have seen some things along the way, but I kill because that desire is born within me. I have been raised in a loving and stable home. My parents are good people. They didn't raise me to be the animal I am. It's not their fault. Mostly because of that, I hope I they never find out.  That I don't get caught..at least until they die anyway.  I want them to always think that they did a good job and got a good result.
And they did do a good job. Even if I was raised to be a saint, I would kill. Will kill. I have to kill. I just have to make it useful. To have purpose. 
I've always had the urge to kill. I can't remember a time when I didn't. If I knew what it felt like to be peaceful I would tell you. But I don't. Killing is what I do. What I like. What feeds my hunger.
The kids in school don't get me. They never will. They are too young to know better, but even when they grow older, they will never understand what motivates me, drives me..to be who I am. It is not within them to get that.
They get mad, they vent, they lash out. The anger is gone.
 I get mad, I don't vent. I kill. The anger remains. I only want to kill more. That won't ever go away. I must feed my hunger,  with worthy victims. Good thing there are so many.
I see things. I see kids being bullied. I see wrongs that need to be righted. I so want to take care of that. But now is not the time. The time will come. Yes...it will come. There is a time and place for all things, and that time will come.
I will be careful that way. Yes, I need to kill. But I also need to keep killing and to make sure that no one finds out. I just have to be better than the others. I will be the killer they marvel at. The one that they write about when I am long gone.
How did he do it? How could he do such things? I will do those things. Yes, I will do those things.
I keep notes. Lots of notes. Each kill is another story. They will study me. These other killers as just pure sick animals. I have a plan. I will execute that plan. That is why I will be around long after they are dead and buried somewhere that no one will ever find them. And in my case, long before anyone ever knows what they did. They are not me. I am the greatest killer that ever lived,  and I will prove that by eliminating the ones who aren't.
That is why I can justify it. The kills. Yes, I kill.  Yes,  I am sick.  But I also help society.  They just don't know it.  Not yet anyway. I kill the killers who take innocent lives. I kill killers so they can't do that anymore. Of course, I get that I kill them because I want to be the best, the one that endures. But at least I have purpose. They have no purpose. They are just animals that need to be slaughtered. I am better than them. Yes...I am better than them.
Yes, I am a killer,  just like them, but I am not like them. I am better than them. Yes,  better. Much better. Yes, I kill,  just like them,  because I need to kill. But ...I don't just kill  anybody. My kills are deserving kills. I do have purpose. At the end of my life,  they will  say I did good. They will champion me. They will say "he killed those that needed to be killed". They will build statues and monuments to me.

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Fathers Diary

I have always known. How could I have not known. A father knows when there is something wrong with his child. He tried to hide it. He was good at it too. There wasn't much to find. His mother never suspected. Neither did his two sisters. How could they? They didn't know what the signs looked like. Of course, I did. Because I was just like him. I killed too. He never knew that either. Nobody..well..almost nobody knows what I did.
Of course, I wasn't as prolific as he is going to be.  I only killed 4 in my lifetime. They were deserving. Yes, just like the "victims" he will kill, they were deserving. Just the scum of society that needed to be killed. Who deserved what they got. And it didn't burn inside me like it does in him. I killed and then the urge would go away for a long time. It didn't pre occupy me.  Haunt me. Guide me. I killed and then let it go. It didn't burn in me like it burns in him.
Can I stop him? I don't know. Probably not. I won't ever find out, because I have no intention of trying. It isn't for me to stop my son from being who he was born to be. We have raised him well, and steered him away from violent behavior. But it is within him, just as it is within me. I stopped, because I don't have that strong urge he does. I just want to make sure his mother never finds out. It would destroy her to find out what we have made..what we have raised. She is so pure.  She is my rock, my center. She is most of the reason I am able to keep these urges from overtaking me and killing again.
She will never know what I did, and I hope she never finds out what he is doing and is going to do. I see it. He is determined to kill. Nobody is going to stop him. Anybody that tries is likely to be just another victim. I won't be one of those.
Do I feel guilty that I read his diary? No, I don't. I didn't go looking for it and when I read it, I know I was meant to find it.  At least now I can monitor him,  and help him, without him knowing it, any way I can.


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Mothers Diary
 
They thought I never knew. Mothers know. Wives know. We are perceptive. We feel our loved ones pain. It has been a while since I last had to deal with the hate. With the rage, with the violence. Nobody here knows that.  I left that all behind when I moved from Tulsa to Lafayette. I told them all ...my parents died.  That wasn't the truth. They didn't die. I wanted them to die. I wanted to believe they were dead. To convince myself they were dead. I needed a fresh start. But, I never forgot.
Now, I see it again. And, I know it when I see it. It is in our blood,  I know that now.  I have killed, my parents killed, my son will kill. That is just how it is going to be. And I married a man who also kills. He thinks I can't see that, but I can.
He thinks I'm an angel.  I'm no angel. I could be just like them. In many ways, I am just like them.
I stopped, because I had to, not because I wanted to. I still feel like killing. But I have a higher calling now. Keeping my son out of trouble. If he is going to kill, he needs to learn how to do it right. Like I did. So he can get away with it. Not like my stupid father. He was just an ignorant drunk who killed a couple of guys in a bar fight,  because he was angry. What a fucking idiot!
I am not raising an idiot.

Friday Writing Sample

They thought I never knew. Mothers know. Wives know. We are perceptive. We feel our loved ones pain. It has been a while since I last had to deal with the hate. With the rage, with the violence. Nobody here knows that.  I left that all behind when I moved from Tulsa to Lafayette. I told them all ...my parents died.  That wasn't the truth. They didn't die. I wanted them to die. I wanted to believe they were dead. To convince myself they were dead. I needed a fresh start. But, I never forgot.
Now, I see it again. And, I know it when I see it. It is in our blood,  I know that now.  I have killed, my parents killed, my son will kill. That is just how it is going to be. And I married a man who also kills. He thinks I can't see that, but I can.
He thinks I'm an angel.  I'm no angel. I could be just like them. In many ways, I am just like them.
I stopped, because I had to, not because I wanted to. I still feel like killing. But I have a higher calling now. Keeping my son out of trouble. If he is going to kill, he needs to learn how to do it right. Like I did. So he can get away with it. Not like my stupid father. He was just an ignorant drunk who killed a couple of guys in a bar fight,  because he was angry. What a fucking idiot!
I am not raising an idiot.

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Previous sample updated

Being 14 isn't easy, at the best of times. You think you have things figured out, but you don't. Even at this age, I know that now. I do know this: I am me. And only because of me. The urge to kill was born within me. I may have seen some things along the way, but I kill because that desire is born within me. I have been raised in a loving and stable home. My parents are good people. They didn't raise me to be the animal I am. It's not their fault. Mostly because of that, I hope I they never find out.  That I don't get caught..at least until they die anyway.  I want them to always think that they did a good job and got a good result.
I've always had the urge to kill. I can't remember a time when I didn't. If I knew what it felt like to be peaceful I would tell you. But I don't. Killing is what I do. What I like. What feeds my hunger.
The kids in school don't get me. They never will. They are too young to know better, but even when they grow older, they will never understand what motivates me, drives me..to be who I am. It is not within them to get that.
They get mad, they vent, they lash out. The anger is gone.
 I get mad, I don't vent. I kill. The anger remains. I only want to kill more. That won't ever go away.
I see things. I see kids being bullied. I see wrongs that need to be righted. I so want to take care of that. But now is not the time. The time will come. Yes...it will come. There is a time and place for all things, and that time will come.
I will be careful that way. Yes, I need to kill. But I also need to keep killing and to make sure that no one finds out. I just have to be better than the others. I will be the serial killers killer. The one that they write about when I am long gone.
I keep notes. Lots of notes. Each kill is another story. They will study me. These other serial killers as just pure sick animals. I have a plan. I will execute that plan. That is why I will be around long after they are dead and buried somewhere that no one will ever find them. And in my case, long before anyone ever knows what they did. They are not me. I am the greatest serial killer that ever lived,  and I will prove that by eliminating the ones who aren't.
That is why I can justify it. The kills. Yes, I kill.  Yes,  I am sick.  But I also help society.  They just don't know it.  Not yet anyway. I kill the serial killers who take innocent lives. I kill serial killers so they can't do that anymore. Of course, I get that I kill them because I want to be the best, the one that endures. But at least I have purpose. They have no purpose. They are just animals that need to be slaughtered. I am better than them. Yes...I am better than them.
Yes, I am a killer,  just like them, but I am not like them. I am better than them. Yes,  better. Much better. Yes, I kill,  just like them,  because I need to kill. But ...I don't just kill  anybody. My kills are deserving kills. I do have purpose. At the end of my life,  they will  say I did good. They will champion me. They will say "he killed those that needed to be killed". They will build statues and monuments to me.

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Previous sample updated

I have always known. How could I have not known. A father knows when there is something wrong with his child. He tried to hide it. He was good at it too. There wasn't much to find. His mother never suspected. Neither did his two sisters. How could they? They didn't know what the signs looked like. Of course, I did. Because I was just like him. I killed too. He never knew that either. Nobody..well..almost nobody knows what I did.
Of course, I wasn't as prolific as he is going to be.  I only killed 4 in my lifetime. They were deserving. Yes, just like the "victims" he will kill, they were deserving. Just the scum of society that needed to be killed. Who deserved what they got. And it didn't burn inside me like it does in him. I killed and then the urge would go away for a long time. It didn't pre occupy me.  Haunt me. Guide me. I killed and then let it go. It didn't burn in me like it burns in him.
Can I stop him? I don't know. Probably not. I won't ever find out, because I have no intention of trying. It isn't for me to stop my son from being who he was born to be. We have raised him well, and steered him away from violent behavior. But it is within him, just as it is within me. I stopped, because I don't have that strong urge he does. I just want to make sure his mother never finds out. It would destroy her to find out what we have made..what we have raised. She is so pure.  She is my rock, my center. She is most of the reason I am able to keep these urges from overtaking me and killing again.
She will never know what I did, and I hope she never finds out what he is doing and is going to do. I see it. He is determined to kill. Nobody is going to stop him. Anybody that tries is likely to be just another victim. I won't be one of those.

Friday Writing Sample

http://markdeutsch39.blogspot.ca/2012/03/friday-writing-sample.html

 Please note: This is copyrighted material and cannot be reproduced anywhere without my consent to do so in writing.

 I have always known. How could I have not known? A father knows when there is something wrong with his child. He tried to hide it. He was good at it too. There wasn't much to find. His mother never suspected. Neither did his two sisters. How could they? They didn't know what the signs looked like. Of course, I did. Because I was just like him. I killed too. He never knew that either. Nobody..well..almost nobody knows what I did.
Of course, I wasn't as prolific as he is going to be.  I only killed 4 in my lifetime. They were deserving. Yes, just like the "victims" he will kill, they were deserving. Just the scum of society that needed to be killed. Who deserved what they got. And it didn't burn inside me like it does in him. I killed and then the urge would go away for a long time. It didn't pre occupy me.  Haunt me. Guide me. I killed and then let it go. It didn't burn in me like it burns in him.
Can I stop him? I don't know. Probably not. I won't ever find out, because I have no intention of trying. It isn't for me to stop my son from being who he was born to be. We have raised him well, and steered him away from violent behavior. But it is within him, just as it is within me. I stopped, because I don't have that strong urge he does. I just want to make sure his mother never finds out. It would destroy her to find out what we have made..what we have raised. She is so pure.  She is my rock, my center. She is most of the reason I am able to keep these urges from overtaking me and killing again.
She will never know what I did, and I hope she never finds out what he is doing and is going to do. I see it. He is determined to kill. Nobody is going to stop him. Anybody that tries is likely to be just another victim. I won't be one of those.

Friday Writing Sample

 Please note: This is copyrighted material and cannot be reproduced anywhere without my consent to do so in writing.

I've always had the urge to kill. I can't remember a time when I didn't. If I knew what it felt like to be peaceful I would tell you. But I don't. Killing is what I do. What I like. What feeds my hunger.
The kids in school don't get me. They never will. They are too young to know better, but even when they grow older, they will never understand what motivates me, drives me..to be who I am. It is not within them to get that.
They get mad, they vent, they lash out. The anger is gone.
 I get mad, I don't vent. I kill. The anger remains.
I see things. I see kids being bullied. I see wrongs that need to be righted. I so want to take care of that. But now is not the time. The time will come. Yes...it will come. There is a time and place for all things, and that time will come.
Being 14 isn't easy, at the best of times. You think you have things figured out, but you don't. Even at this age, I know that now. I do know this: I am me. And only because of me. The urge to kill was born within me. I may have seen some things along the way, but I kill because that desire is born within me. I have been raised in a loving and stable home. My parents are good people. They didn't raise me to be the animal I am. It's not their fault. Mostly because of that, I hope I they never find out.  That I don't get caught..at least until they die anyway.  I want them to always think that they did a good job and got a good result.
I will be careful that way. Yes, I need to kill. But I also need to keep killing and to make sure that no one finds out. I just have to be better than the others. I will be the serial killers killer. The one that they write about when I am long gone.
I keep notes. Lots of notes. Each kill is another story. They will study me. These other serial killers as just pure sick animals. I have a plan. I will execute that plan. That is why I will be around long after they are dead and buried somewhere that no one will ever find them. And in my case, long before anyone ever knows what they did. They are not me. I am the greatest serial killer that ever lived,  and I will prove that by eliminating the ones who aren't.