I loved killing. My therapist felt I was just fixated with the
concept. Too funny. To think I was going to confess.
He suggests
I write. I attend writing classes at a professor’s home on
highway 116. I’m not very good. I can’t convey the thrill of the
kill. My classmates encourage me. I belong. Me! Gradually, my
skills grow.
Tonight’s my turn to read and I’ve gotten quite good.
Privately, reading my story fills me with joy as delicious as murder.
I’m
in class now. I hope they’ll appreciate all I’ve put
into this tale. I perform passionately. I look up. Oh no — my
story’s
too real.
I’ve frightened my new friends to death.
© Wray Cotterill 2009
