I heard it, and I knew it would soon be real. Drip, drip, drip. The door creaked open, letting in the tiniest ray of light. Empty white walls were the only I could see beyond it. The smell of iron filled my nose, and I drew back. She would be here any second. The longer I stayed, the less I wanted to leave, and the more emotion I felt. The metallic smell was all I could think of. Was it the blood or the metal tools that filled the room?

    My breath caught in my throat when I heard the creak of the floorboards. The smallest sound of her boots hitting the stairs chilled me in my very core. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the thump thump of anticipation. The footsteps were getting closer, and the air changed. All the fear vanished, completely covered by a flood of excitement. Biting the inside of my cheek was all I could do to keep my excitement contained. Blood filled my mouth, the metallic taste perfectly pairing with the metallic smell. Her knuckles tapped on the door, and the corners of my mouth turned up, a malicious grin that scared even me. After a few moments of silence, the door opened wider, letting light into the room.

        The chair creaked as I stood, and her body crumpled as it fell. She wasn’t heavy, easy to get her where I needed her to be. Her hair went from a stunning blonde to a brilliant red.

    Drip, drip, drip. She couldn’t have known that when she walked up the front steps, she never would walk back down them. I was in the clear, right? I had to execute the last 3 steps perfectly, or I was facing the electric chair. I paced, and my leg grazed her lifeless hand. Chills ran down my spine. Her body became lighter as I worked, while my soul became heavier. My hands moved quickly, but still carefully. The needle and thread moved through her skin like a knife through warm butter.

        Drip, drip, drip. They ask me why I did it. My answer is always the same. I didn’t know how to not do it. Something took over for me, something not human. H.H. Holmes said it best. “I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than a poet can help the inspiration to sing.” Would I do it again? No doubt.

      They didn’t put me in the electric chair. They wanted to study my brain, they said. I’ve seen psychiatrists, psychologists, and even the FBI. Someone is coming today. They haven’t told me who.

       The woman is tall. Brown hair turning gray frames her tan face, and her brown eyes stare at me. I imagine what her heart would look like in my hands.

     “Miss Parker, my name is Julia Spencer, I’m here with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.” The chair creaked when she pulled it back, taking me back to my first.

    It was the summer of 1997 when she stepped on my front porch. Annie May Joseph was the preacher’s daughter. It was a town scandal when they found out she was with a woman. Luckily, they didn’t find out until after she was dead. Her blonde hair was curled, and she laughed so softly I couldn’t help but fall in love.

    “Your first victim, Ann Joseph. You were 14 when she died?”

    “She was my first.”

    “Why did you kill her?”

    Twigs snapped under my feet. Snap, snap, snap, I ran. “Carolina, please listen to me!” Annie ran after me. The switchblade Bubba made me carry was burning a hole in my back pocket. I reached for it before I even knew what I was doing. The blade twisted in my hand and sunk into Annie’s chest. She gasped, looking at me with what couldn’t be described as anything other than surprise. Her blue eyes glazed over, and the leaves crunched beneath her. I couldn’t anything other than laugh, and I don’t know why. The blood mixed in well with the red and orange colors of October.

    “She was with another woman?” Agent Spencer inquired.

    “No, she was with a man.”

Everyone found out the next April that Annie had been pregnant when I had killed her. The preacher’s daughter – dead, gay, and pregnant. I didn’t go to the funeral. No one knew I had killed her, and no one would ever know.

    “Let’s talk about your second victim. He doesn’t follow your pattern.”

    “Casey Hollander, how could I forget?”

    “He’s the guy Annie cheated on you with, am I correct?”

He was easily recognizable. Casey James Hollander. CJ’s mama is good friends with my mama, and CJ and I have known eachother since we were little. How long had it been going on? I never found out. I cut off CJ’s tongue before he could tell me.

    “You killed 17 people after that, and no one ever found out.”

    “I was careful, Agent.”

    “You finally got caught though. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

This is the closest they have gotten since I was 14. The plate I was holding fell to the floor and shattered as soon as my door flew off the hinges. I didn’t even try to run. I knew it was over.

They had caught me.

What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? I went over it in my head over and over again, and the cuffs pressed red rings around my wrists. Wait, strike, kill, study, hide. The same technique I had been using since I was 14.

Agent Spencer stood up, and she slid a picture toward me. Georgia Rodgers.

19 years old. Georgia Rodgers was a waitress at Mabel’s Diner. The first girl to catch my attention after I moved to Washington, and the last person who truly loved me. It’s a shame I had to kill her.

Agent Spencer interrupted me, “Had to?”

“I had to kill everyone. There’s no want to. I was born with this fire inside of me, and only death could keep it tamed.”

“Why Georgia? Why anyone that you killed? Why did you choose them?”

“I didn’t choose them, Agent. They chose me.”

“What can I get for you, pretty girl?” The waitress with the blonde ponytail that I had been eyeing since I got here was my waitress. She caught me off guard. I stuttered out an answer, and her smile was blinding.

“It sounds like you kill people you love.”

“I guess so, Agent. This world is a cruel place, and I’m even crueler.”

           “Why not people you hate?”

“You suffer in this world, and some people deserve that.”

“People like you?”

“We all have a hunger, Agent.”

    “Are you sure you’re okay, love?” Her fingers dragged along my spine. This girl gave me goosebumps. My face twitched, and the fire burned brightly. I tried to argue with my thoughts, everything I wanted to do. They got too loud. Too loud. Too loud. I jerked away from her, “I have to go.” If I couldn’t keep myself contained, the only person I loved would be dead.

    “Did you not want to kill her?” I could tell I was confusing Agent Spencer. I confused most agents and psychologists who talked to me. No one knew what to say.

    “Of course I wanted to kill her, Agent. I wanted to kill all of them, but a part of me was always the same thirteen year old girl who was terrified the first time she thought about killing someone.”

    “How did you try to reason with yourself?”

    I can’t. She’s the love of my life. This is a bad thing, Carolina. People deserve to live. They deserve to experience the love that you just throw away.  Stay calm, stay contained.

    “She was dead soon after that, correct?”

    I sighed, “Less than an hour.”

    I paced. The door was wide open. Had I left it open? It was cold, and at this point, I was so glad our apartment had wood floors. The blood was coming fast. The weapon dropped from hand and made a terrifyingly loud noise when it hit the floor. The last thing she said to me was echoing in my head. “I’ve been so worried about you.” Worried. Worried. Worried. She was worried, and now her blood is on our floor.

    “You were distraught. Why? If you wanted to kill her, why were you so upset after you did?”

    “It’s like a recovering alcoholic doing shots or a recovering addict getting high. It feels good in the moment, but afterwards is hell.”

“You’re saying you’re addicted to murder?”

“Not necessarily murder. Death.”

“Let’s start from the beginning. You said you were 13 when you first thought about it?”

Daddy’s funeral was a long time coming. Heart disease took him early. Mama cried for days, and the wailing left a ringing in my ears. She wouldn’t go to the funeral, which I would understand later. Mama couldn’t stand to see me, so I stayed at Aunt Jo’s. I think she was happy to have the company. Daddy was Aunt Jo’s brother. Aunt Jo had to stock up on groceries, and she wanted me to check on my mama. Her red Chevelle screeched to a stop in front of my house. I called for mama when I walked in. Her voice didn’t call back. The stairs creaked when my Chuck Taylor’s touched them, and the metallic smell got stronger as I walked up. The carpet was a holy red, and the door to the bathroom was only cracked. I stepped around the increasing puddle of what was blood, the obvious source of the metallic smell. One of the hinges had come off the door, and Daddy got sick before he could fix it. My fingertips touched the door, and I jumped back at how fast it opened. The whole bathroom was a sickening shade of red, and Mama’s beautiful red hair had become even redder. The sight chilled me, but the feeling I experienced that day was a feeling I would experience 17 times over. I would love it even more every time.

    “I’m sorry about your parents.” Agent Spencer started, “Do you feel like prison has made you better?”

    “Agent Spencer, I’m thinking about what your heart would look like on a stick right now. How about you give me your opinion?” Agent Spencer seemed to tremble.

    “Back to your victims –”

    I cut her off, “Do I scare you, Agent?” I leaned forward, and I stared at her.

    She ignored my question, “Allie Hughes, your 4th victim.”

    “You skipped one.” I had surprised her. She checked her files and looked back up at me. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she checked her files again.

    “There’s more victims that we originally thought.” The laugh that came out was hollow.

    “There’s quite a lot more. Before Allie Hughes was Gabriella Foster and Cynthia Drake.”

    Gabbie was a showgirl. The perfect Sandy in the Seattle production of Grease. The doors opened on a Friday, and the star was dead by Sunday. Now that was a show. The house opened Sunday night, 7 o’clock on the dot. The curtains were up at 7:30, and all you heard from backstage was a scream. And then another. The stage was covered in a brilliant red, and so was the leading actress.

    “Hundreds of people, even children, saw that dead body and all that blood.” Agent Spencer stood up as she spoke. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor.

    “Do you want me to apologize? I’m not sorry.”

    “I don’t expect you to be. I want you to realize the horror that you’ve caused so many people throughout so many years. You are going to rot in prison for life after everything you did and everyone you scarred.”

    “Sounds like you’re getting emotional, Agent.” I was mocking her, and she knew that. The chair scraped as she pulled it out and sat back down. “Calm now, are we?” I could still see the fury in her eyes.

    “There was one more before Allie Hughes. Cynthia Drake was her name?” She continued on without hearing an answer, “I can have our technical analyst check for missing persons reports, but I doubt there is one. Why is that?”

    “Please, I’m begging you. It’s freezing out here, and I have no place to go.” The girl on the street corner pleaded with everyone that passed. “I’m going to freeze.” Her voice shook. I had been watching her for a while now from the corner booth of Mabel’s. Next thing I knew, the bells on the door were ringing as it shut behind me. I heard the girl’s voice again, “Miss, please, I’m so cold.” This time it was directed at me. I kneeled down in front of her and handed her my gloves.

    “What’s your name, sweetheart?” My voice was like honey, condescendingly sweet. She took the gloves and eagerly shoved them on.

    Her voice was raspy, “Cynthia.” She stood up, using my shoulder as support. “Cynthia Drake.” Her feet dragged along the snowy pavement.

    “That’s a beautiful name. Cynthia.” The smile on her face made me even more hungry for blood. I could already see her blonde hair dripping sticky red. She shivered, and I wrapped my coat around her shoulders. The cold wouldn’t kill her before I did.

    “How did you kill her, might I ask?”

    “Agent Spencer, it’s rude to interrupt. If you must know, she was my favorite kill. She was the only one I let beg for mercy. And it was a high I’ll never let go of.”

    “Please let me go.” Her hands shook like they did the day we met. Not from cold, from fear. “I-I-I’ll never t-tell anyone ab-b-bout this. It’ll b-be between you and m-me.”

    “You know I can’t do that baby girl. I want to hear you beg for your life.” The gun cocked, and Cynthia flinched as the cold metal touched her head.

      “Please let me g-go. I h-have a k-kid. Her name is Lily, she’s 9.”

     “You sick bastard.” Agent Spencer stood up, kicking the table on her way. “You killed a mother. A mother with a little girl who was 9 years old.”

      “Oh baby, it gets worse.”

    “P-please let me g-go. I don’t know you are!” The little girl looked just like Cynthia. “I want my m-mama.”

         “Oh, I took my time with her. She was beautiful. Her skin was like an angel’s. Even when it wasn’t attached to her body.” Agent Spencer’s hands slammed down on the desk.

      “This interview is over. Have fun rotting in here for the rest of your life.”

        “You’ll come back to me, Agent. I’ll haunt you from the minute you leave this place to the day you die.”

    “We’ll see about that, Carolina Parker.”