The search for Casey’s mother continues. Strangely, looking for a woman who’s been in hiding for nearly a decade is not a simple task. But we’re about to find out who’s more stubborn: a woman nearly murdered by her daughter and now on the run for her life, or the adopted mother who happens to be the most prolific serial killer across two centuries?
Am I using that
word correctly? “Prolific”? I don’t know when this blog became about grammatic
rants but I can use my platform however I please so if you don’t like it, you can
leave.
I’m just kidding.
I know where all of you live.
According to Google,
“prolific” means: producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring which may
not be the most accurate description of what I do.
It also means: “present
in large numbers or quantities; plentiful” which is more accurate. I can’t
believe I’m going to say this, but I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve
murdered. One of the nice things about my journals is that they were a literal
record of my kills so I always knew what my number was. The bad thing about my
journals is that they were a literal record of my kills. Losing them was not a
bad thing in the grand scheme of things. Losing possession of them for a time
was a VERY bad thing, however, so I will not be restarting. It does mean that I
don’t know what my number is. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
If the public ever
discovered what I am, they will never be able to track or claim how many people
I’ve murdered over the years. Even if I confessed to everything, they could never
verify it all. I’ll be on one of those Wikipedia lists as someone who ~probably~
murdered ~at least~ 600 people but no one will ever know. Not ever me.
Did you know I
once chopped off a man’s head on a high angle, severing from the top of his
spine (the actual top of his spine with the little ball thing). And then I
split open his back like a zipper and cut until I reached bone. I peeled off
his skin and muscle and nerves around his ribs (which too forever, that shit is
tough to cut through, let me tell you), and I pulled out all of his organs through
his back and through them in the river. Each individual organ. Then I tossed the
rest of his skeleton over a waterfall – because James and I were on vacation
with kids at the time. Do you think if I lived near a waterfall, I wouldn’t be
there every damn night tossing body parts? I burnt the head before tossing it
over just to make identification a little challenging for the coroner but not
impossible.
I don’t know what
happened to that body. I don’t know where any of those parts ended up or if it
was even discovered in its entirety. No one will ever know for certain, just
how successful I really was.
Some people might
think that taking a life – taking hundreds of lives – makes me psychotic. Makes
me evil. And they may be right. I’m certainly no saint (although saints are
highly overrated and always worse than people let us believe) but I never
wanted to be.
All I ever wanted
to be was exactly who I was. Who I am. I wanted freedom and to live my life
unapologetically. If I had the uncontrollable desire to restore old books, then
I would have crafted a life that made restoring old books the most incredible
and successful thing in the world.
But I’m a killer.
It’s who I was meant to be. And I’m fucking great at it. It makes me happy.
I would rather have
that than anything else in the world.
As always, dear
readers,
Stay Safe
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