I was murdered at age eight. I never stopped breathing and there was no funeral, but everything inside me died. That’s why, even now as an adult, I sit and stare at the happy children playing at the park. I sit alone. I do everything alone.

I usually bring a book that I pretend to read as I peer across the park looking for a man. If he has a sinister smile or suspicious leer, he’s my next target. I saw that look far too many times as a young girl.

I approach the man with a smile—it always hurts to smile. Before you know it, he’s chained up in my basement and screaming. It’s not hard to seduce a man into your basement when he only has one thing on the brain. Sometimes, most of the time, a man will get in the chains willingly and expectantly. Well, the joke’s on him.

Once securely chained, I take a heavy metal rod and beat him in the groin with all the force I can muster. That’s when the screaming starts. I hit him a few more times for good measure. He screams and screams as if he doesn’t understand why I’m doing this, but I saw his eyes at the park. I saw how they looked at the children.

Next, once he’s too hurt to fight back, I take a large knife. This is my favorite part. I take the knife and watch as it penetrates just below the jugular. The penetration is so satisfying. At first, there’s resistance, and then, next thing you know, the blade just sinks in and blood starts pouring out. The blood is so warm and soothing. Blood is power. Blood is life. I hold the knife steady for a moment. I’m always very careful not to hit the jugular in the beginning. I don’t want him to die right away. I want him to suffer.

Finally, when his eyes glaze over and tears pour out, I force the knife deeper. By this point, his breathing has either stopped or slowed tremendously. It’s time to end everything. I force the knife across the rest of the throat. That is when he dies.

I unchain the body and throw it in the freezer with the others. I bleach the floor and burn my clothes. Then I go upstairs, wash myself off, put on my terrycloth robe, make a cup of tea, and cry. I don’t cry because of remorse. I’m not sorry I killed him. He deserved to die. They all deserved to die. I cry because, for a few minutes as I was killing him, when the knife was plunged in the soft flesh, as the blood poured over me, I felt my heart race and energy surge. I actually felt alive. I cry because I wish I could feel that alive all the time.

Maybe I’m a monster. Maybe I’m evil. All I know is that I’ve saved at least seven children from being dead for the rest of their lives.