Personally, I believe I turned out well considering the fact the way I grew up and how I grew up. Kids all around the world grow up to experience traumatic events in their lives and it sometimes effects them psychologically in a negative way. Some grow up to become serial killers or bank robbers among other crimes, but as I said before, I believe I turned out well. As proof I’d like to share one of my stories with the world.
It was somewhere within the year of 2007. I had just turned 15 in March and we had just moved from England to the Americas. We had only moved to America because my father received a higher paying job, working for a multi million dollar finance company. Sure we had some money, but I was unhappy and a bit rebellious. I grew up in the new generation and I never really would sync up well with the old ways. My parents were the traditional type of English. They would sip earl gray tea with their pinky fingers extended while wearing fancy clothes. When I wanted to watch television we, in turn, read boring books by Shakespeare. It’s a good guess the lack of fun things was what made me a bit rebellious. Even though my parents were very traditional there was one thing that made us different, religion. I had been raised as a Mormon even though they were not so common. My father had jumped at the chance to move to Utah since Mormons were suppose to be some of the nicest people in the world.
Even though my father had just got a high paying job, we still didn’t have much money at that moment. Still, we had enough to buy a decent sized brick house with only a half acre of land. My parents never liked the house nor property, but it was the best we could do at that time.
A couple of weeks after the move we finally settled and I had already started school. I became sick on day on one due to a minor head ache. Looking back on it I remember making my so called illness worse than it was, probably because I was in no mood any amount of school work.
With my father at work all day and my mom out shopping I was trusted enough to remain alone in the house for a couple of hours until my mother returned. Things took a wrong turn when I was simply trying to fall asleep until I heard a knock at my door. Naturally, I got up and went to see who was at the door. I looked through the peep hole at the back door which I already found puzzling. Maybe my mother came back early and decided to use the back entrance. I was wrong. Instead of seeing my mother I saw a kid around my age and height just waiting for an answer. He was a boy, but still I felt no threat. In the end I decided not to answer the door anyway. I was in no mood for company. After a moment the knocking stopped and I assumed the kid gave up and walked away. He did not.
The kid spoke and said that he knew I was standing near the door and he had a key to it. I thought he was talking nonsense, but I smirked and dared him to open it. He did. We stood face to face just a few steps away from each other, staring at one another. I became cautious and dashed to the kitchen to grab a knife to protect myself. I heard the steps coming from the hall way, slowly for some reason, as I searched for a knife, but there were none. I couldn't find any. They were all gone and I couldn't figure out why. I turned around to see the kid staring at me with a innocent smile on his face, his eyes closed, holding a kitchen knife in his left hand. He opened his eyes and told me that he wanted to make my life more fulfilling and that he was there to set me free. I demanded him to tell me how he got the key to my house, but his response was that we could relate to one another in a way. I did not understand by what he meant. He began laughing in a frightening way as it started disorientating me and I blacked out. To this day I have idea how that can happen.
The next thing I knew I woke to find myself standing in a pool of blood in the hallway of my house. My parents bodies were on the ground next to me, dead. I found a blood covered kitchen knife in my right hand and began having flashbacks. I had remembered killing both of my parents before removing the kitchen knifes and hiding them under my bed. I remembered taking the house key and putting it in my pocket. I had remembered everything and how I enjoyed every minute of it.
I still believe I turned out well. It could have been worse I suppose. All of that happened eight years ago and now I am sitting on death row. Not for just killing both of my parents, but the hundreds of crimes I committed after that. For years I had spent it killing so many people. Men, women, and children. Even pregnant women. I spared nobody that I came across. It’s only a few hours until I face the gas chamber to answer for my crimes, but this is not over. Not yet. I will die some day, but not anytime soon. The way I see it, my story has just begun. There is in fact a question that keeps rotating in my head. “What made me turn out this way?”