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My name is War, well, actually my name is Mya, but I've always liked war so I started calling myself that. You see, some people might call me a pyro, but I disagree, I just like fire a little bit more than other people. It's never been really extreme, I mean, the first major crime I ever committed with was just murder, and I was eight then. I wasn't allowed to go to my own trial, but from what I remember, I was only charged for manslaughter and put on two years house arrest, because it was deemed "Inappropriate" to jail an eight year old.

My mom always kept a close eye on me after my "accident". Why only my mom you ask? You guessed it, I killed my dad in the fire. To be honest, I think I should have been locked in prison for killing my father. I meant to kill him, I mean, he was an abusive drunk, I honestly enjoyed watching him die. I smiled in his face as he was burning and savored the smell of his burning flesh. I didn't take my eyes off of him while he was burning. In fact, I stared into his until I knew he was dead. My mom didn't get there until half an hour after the fire had started, and when she arrived, oh was she devastated. To know that her husband had died slowly and painfully in a fire and her daughter "barely survived". What my mom didn't know until the day of the trial was that when I was found, I was sitting on my knees, looking directly at my burning father and laughing as if someone had just told me a funny joke.

My mom never looked at me the same after she found that out. It was almost as if she was scared of me. Whenever she told me to do something it was always followed by a please. She never disciplined me either, she acted as if I was the adult and she was the kid. It was a really fun time, those two years on house arrest. I would make my mom go out and get me stuff like chips, soda, fast food, stuff like that. It was a lot more fun than you might think house arrest might be. It was a new house, so I got to explore a little bit, and I never really left the house before my "accident" happened anyway. It was like being sent to your room, when your room is your favorite place in the world.

When I finally got off of house arrest I was hesitant to go outside. I was afraid that the light would burn my eyes or something. After I finally went outside, I loved it. The smell of the fresh air smelled good, but not as good as one thing. Then it happened, my memory of fire and the smell of my father's burning flesh came back, and it came back with a vengeance. This was the first time I ever felt like I ever really wanted it. I felt like watching something burn alive, so I made something burn alive, a squirrel.

Over the years my lust grew larger, and so did my prey. After about three years I started burning people. Once a week I would sneak out and lure a random passerby into an alley, knock him out, then chain him somewhere and burn him. That quickly changed from once a week, to twice a week, and so on until I was killing every night. I loved it, burning people, it reminded me of the time I killed my father.

Most people would scream while some would black out. I started keeping a log of this. After about 2 months I decided that two thirds people screamed while burning, and the other third just blacked out. This intrigued me. I really wanted to tell someone but knew I couldn't because I would probably be put in jail, and if I was put in jail I would have went insane, because you can't burn people in jail.

I wasn't caught until April 9th, 2011. The night I burned my mother alive. I'll always remember that night. (Interesting side note, she was a screamer) As I watched my mom try to escape the chains holding her down to her burning bed, the sudden urge to tell everyone what I was doing came over me. I know I shouldn't have done it but I couldn't fight it. I ran into the road screaming these words.

"Everyone come look! She's burning! She's burning! My mom is finally burning and it's all my fault! I hope she's proud of me now!"

I passed out after that, so I don't know how long it took for the police to arrive. They did though, and after two months of court dates and smiling at judges I was taken away to an asylum. I was put in my own special room, with padded walls! It was about 4x4x7 feet. The room was pretty secure except for two things. The walls were an extremely flammable material and there was no security camera, so no one could see what I was doing. Every night I would slide out of my straitjacket until I was finally out. When that happened I went to work.

I broke my bed, finding some wood. Then I ripped of the outer coating of the wall to find a cotton inside. I then rubbed the two pieces of wood together near the cotton, producing a spark, and then a flame. There was still some wood left so I too it and sharpened it as best I could. Then I waited. It seemed like an eternity before anyone noticed the fire. The room was almost completely filled with smoke when the door opened. As soon as it opened I was out of it. I ran through the halls swinging my stick wildly. Within a minute I was out of there, running towards the still open gate.

I managed to get out of the gate without anyone noticing me. After all of that I started my life pretty normally. I got a job, met a guy, and bought a house. I still murdered people of course, the same way I used to. In fact, I still am murdering people, I'm getting ready to murder my husband, and then I'm going to try something new, I'm gonna burn myself. I think I'm a screamer.

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