Confessions of a Childhood Killer.

I am sure the title of this book has grabbed all of your attention and that is the reason you are reading this right now. I am sure that none of you know my name, nor the name of the person I convinced to help me write this and there is no reason for you to know who we are. The only reason I have managed to survive so long is that nobody knows who I am.

But I am a dying man, and while I have managed to live my life without the taint of my previous sins there are many who live with what I did every single day and I wish for them to get at least a little bit of peace. The family and friends of those I took too soon deserve to have some answers. I understand that this may seem cruel and unusual to bring up all these memories all these years later, but I wish for all the souls to be able to rest in peace finally.

And it is here where I shall begin repenting. It is here that I will finally accept the blame and weight of my decisions. It is here where I shall begin to try to make my peace for the atrocities that I committed when I was young.

It is here where I shall begin my confessions of a childhood killer.

I am an old man now. I can now look back at what I did then and feel the shame. I want to say that it was just a curiosity, I watched and read about gruesome murders and I admit I was curious. I wanted to see what it would be like, and more importantly, I wanted to see if I was smarter then all these people. I was told from birth that I was smart, that I could do great things, create real change. And I did, but not how anyone intended for me to.

It might interest you to know that I was 6 the first time I committed the brutal act of taking away someone’s life.

I know that most of you have now determined that this must be a work of fiction. What six-year old is capable of cold-blooded murder? And I don’t blame you for thinking this. I look back at what I did and I don’t believe that it happened, that I did it.

I could blame my parents for what I became. My father walked out before I was born and my mother tried, but she worked nearly 60 hours a week and left me alone to my books from a young age. What trouble could a child who learned how to read using Sherlock Holmes really get into, apparently a lot. But I don’t blame my parents, I don’t blame anyone really, I don’t even blame myself. It isn't that I don't feel bad for what I did, because I do, but it's more that I feel separate from the person who committed those crimes. I was a child looking for something to do, and I am no longer that child.

I am not trying to deny that I am responsible, it's more that I am trying to explain my mindset then, rather then my mindset now.

Was I responsible for these murders, absolutely, but was I aware of what I was doing? Certainly not when I was six, but maybe the crimes I committed when I was older.

Anyways I am sure that you all are more interested in who I killed, and how I killed them, more than me talking about why I don’t blame anyone…