"I'm sure you've realized at this point my "abusive father" story is fictitious. People tend to be more understanding with wrongdoers who've had bad childhoods. My father wasn't terrible--he had his shortcomings as does any human, but nothing that warranted murder. Do not misunderstand me though, everything else I've said has been truthful.
My past is not something you should concern yourself with. Most of it is a giant haze to me. Other than the story I've regaled you with I don't remember much of it. My mom's been gone for years, and I have no recollection of where. There's a gap in my memory; my mind a book with its core full of blank pages.
These pages are red.
Enough with this, I might as well get to the part you are more interested in.
The warehouse gets bigger with every extended period between kills. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe that place is my head. Anyway. The Warehouse became my "operating" room. It seemed my surgeries kept it in check. While those surgeries seemed to help that place, I couldn't help but notice each performance left me emptier and emptier.
The methods became more inhumane. At some point I began to favor usage of hammers against their intended purpose. Smashing teeth, fracturing bones, all the while my victim suffered, fully aware of every single sensation. I'm not a sadist. I drew no pleasure from these acts. I felt as if by some outside power I had to do what I did.
Choosing a patient was as simple as taking a stroll to a public area and tossing a die. I'd find groups of people hanging about, and I'd assign each of them a number: I - VI. If their number came up, they came with me. I bet you're wondering if "good" and "evil factored in at all--it didn't. To be truly fair, I had to make the process random. Good and evil are constructs of religion and the world view of a child. Therefore, they are dead concepts to me.
I'm sick of writing; I'm going to go find some patients."
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