January 21, 1941

This was the day my useless life was brought to the world. I, Wayne Toole, was born. My life was good when I was young, my father loved me more than words could ever imagine, and as for my mother, she loved me too. But one night when I was thirteen years old my father and I were driving down a road flourished with trees. The wind whistled and the weather was refreshing yet sinful. It was late, the clock had just ticked past twelve. My dad and I got into our first argument, it was my fault, I had made some poor decisions with my friends that my dad wasn’t very fond of. Which showed. We were arguing down the road and soon it got heated. My father was lecturing me when a semi-truck crashed into us head on. I wish I was taken that day, instead of my world. This was the last time I would see my father. I was now hated by my mother, she blamed me for everything, and of course I started to believe it. I ran into a deep depression, for the longest time I hated myself and didn’t even know who I was. So I turned to children. At first I just looked, then I wanted them. 

As I heard the crunch under the boy’s feet during his daily tread through autumn leaves, I imagined walking with him to heaven. The wonder in his eyes, the structure of his face, made me cold to the heart. His curly hair, the color of gold, makes me need him, want him, take him. I imagined examining his body, looking in the creases of his skin, wondering why I couldn’t be that way before I took his soul where we would be taken out of our misery. 

It all began when I was younger, the scars that were left by the backhand of my mother left me ignorant about what was right and wrong. I didn’t have a problem with the beatings she was apparently “fixing” me with, until she no longer used her hand, but a whip. She hit me repeatedly, blood and a thick layer of almost white liquid oozed out of the gashes. But then one day I snapped. During a day of school a few boys were tormenting me. When I reached my place of what should be relief, I experienced the worst. My mother, the human that she was, told me I was worthless and that I was a burden to the world. She told me her life would’ve been better off without me, then she beat me. I got so furious I retaliated, that day I committed my first crime. From little to tall, I murdered them all without guilt. My family was gone and so would be others. I wanted to stop, but the devil inside of me took over my body. He made me hungry for the smooth blood that would slither down my throat. The crunch of bones between my teeth made him happy. The way the victims’ souls left their body made him chuckle. The evil he possessed me with killed me inside. Voices hypnotizing my brain forced me to do what I was told, I felt loved. 

The want I felt within my skin was screaming to be heard. Love that I needed was enclosed by the toughness of my face. The stern eyes that physically marked my body hid the fact that I needed someone, I needed to be saved. I kept hurting innocent boys, for what? To be loved, to go to heaven? In the back of my mind I knew what was coming, I would burn underneath the one person I felt loved by. 

Throughout most of my life I’ve wanted to be taken from the world. When I didn’t feel loved by God I turned to the one thing I could never come back from. I wouldn’t be suffering through the pain I hear everyday if I don’t make this choice. I dream about the boys’ lives if I didn’t take them, I dream about the unbearable news their parents heard, I dream about the one way I could’ve stopped, but didn’t. I felt loved…