You are a serial killer. A psychotic, ruthless predator who baits children with your friendly face, only to be butchered alive by your sick and twisted fantasies. You love bloodshed and you absolutely cannot get enough of your addiction to killing; you have no mercy for anybody. Elders, children, teenagers, you only give them death. Yes, you are a murderer. A sick, twisted, psychotic bastard.

But why do the ones that you kill always haunt your dreams? Every night, you go to sleep with the blood on your hands. The blood that you have ruthlessly shed without any mercy for the victim. But have that reccuring nightmare that haunts you every time. Every time you close your eyes.


You have a smile plastered on your face. Wheel in hand, driving an ice cream truck to a neighborhood filled with joyous children. As they hear your alarm, they run up to your truck with open arms, and happy smiles. All eager to confront you, without a care of any danger that surrounds them. As you glare at their chubby little bodies, you give them the ice cream they have so wanted from you. How greatly will that fuel your never-ending addiction. How much blood can you shed with all those bodies? Which will soon turn into lifeless corpses as soon as you get your deathly fingertips on them.


With the promise of extra ice cream for free, the children carelessly dare to climb into your truck. Joyous faces surround you and your happy facade. Soon they will know what hides behind that smiling mask. One on one, they climb into their own deaths, holding secret deathwishes in exchange for their deserved ice cream. You grin at them, contemplating their sweet tasty deaths. As you glare at them with sheer pleasure, you hold the hidden compartment filled with your tools tightly.


Every child has fallen into your trap. Every child, looking at you with such joyous features, you can't help but feel sorry for the fate they will soon reach. But your selfless addiction greatly overweighs your emotions. As they stare at you with faded breath, they soon realize what they have fallen into. You smile at them grimly as you open your compartment. Knives, chains, whips, and hooks fall into the truck floor. Your smile increases significantly, hungry eyes looking at children. As you grab one knife, the children soon sense danger. They scream for help, and run to the exit.

You chuckle at them, laughing at their futile attempts to escape their deaths. As you walk at them slowly, knife in hand, they all scream for their lives to be saved. Prayers can be heard, tears are falling down. You shake your head, wondering why they would even do that. Death is still imminent, escapes are futile. Shouts and shrieks for help were soon drowned out by your maniacal laughing. Slashing your knife around, eyes glistening with pure pleasure as you see different gashes of blood in each child's body. Second by second the screamings soon fade, cries for help are decreased with quiet moans for mercy. As you drop your bloodstained knife to the final child's neck, you throw your knife to the pile of weapons, and drive away to your home.


You are a murderer. You have slaughtered children as if they were nothing but puppets. Slaves to your selfish biddings. They were slain by your merciless nature. But why do you feel so guilty? You think of the mothers and fathers who have lost their precious bundles of joy to a psychotic killer whose addiction got the best of him. To his own sick habits. You try to calm yourself down, heartbeats audible. Lives with potential were selfishly taken away by a man's sick pleasure. You sleep, urging to forget about the children.


In your dreams, in your blinks, you see the spirits of your victims. You gaze at their lifeless bodies, reincarnated with vengeance. Dark never-ending eyes gaze at you, contemplating their vengeance. They point at you, saying that it was you. It was always you. Millions of dead ghostly bodies circle you, pointing at you. You try to save them, to say sorry to your sins, but the damage is done. Millions of people are dead because of your ruthless hand. You say sorry, carrying promises to stop his addiction. But deep down, you will do it again. And again. Sick fantasies have overcome your emotions, millions of millions of ounces of blood has stained your hands. Millions of fingers point at you and say, "You can't save them." Chanting as if it will never end. You cover your ears, not wanting to face your shame and guilt, but you can still hear them. And they are telling the truth, you will kill again, and again, and again. You can't save them. And you never will do that.

Written by Cha0rupted
Content is available under CC BY-SA