I hate it here. Granted, I deserve it. I'm locked up behind massive concrete walls and steel doors in a maximum-security prison. It feels like a lifetime ago that I ended up here, and every second I spend rotting away is justice. But that doesn't change the fact that I hate it.

The cold is constant. My cell has a single concrete cot and toilet. The clothes they give me itch and are too thin to keep out the chill. The walls are a sickly green-grey, reflecting the dull, buzzing fluorescent light above. The door is thick, painted the same grim color as the floor. I sometimes wonder if it's lead-based, just to save on costs. Maybe if I lick it enough, I can forget where I am.

My only real possessions are my toilet paper and my journal. I earned the journal through hard work and good behavior. The pencil is dull, with no eraser, like a golfer's scorecard pencil. I get four hours a day with it, between breakfast and lunch. I get them both with my meal and have to return them the same way. If the pencil is damaged or pages are torn, I lose it for the next day. So, I comply. I comply to have some small comfort in this concrete cage where I slowly die.

Again, I earned my place here. But that doesn't change the fact that prison is hell.

The

Confession of a Killer

I earned my place here because I killed people. I killed many people. I killed twenty people, to be exact. This is the first time I’ve actually written it down.

I beat the "Cannibal's" number, which for some strange reason gave me a sense of accomplishment. What I liked even more was the neatness of the number. Twenty. Two. Zero.

20. 2

21. 2-

22. 2

23. Even and smooth. My compulsion made it this way. Twenty-one would have been a nightmare to get arrested. Fifteen would have been okay, but 20 was much cleaner.

Increments of five were always my goal. Sometimes, during a shopping trip, I’d grab a stick of gum to make my total 20 or 10 or 30 items. But with the killings, it was much more intense. The problem was the itch I felt in between the fives. It was a gnawing pain in my mind from 1-4 and 6-

9. The itch wasn't as bad during the fives, but the tens were the best. However, that number eventually attracts attention. That number is partly what got me caught, but I had to "scratch the itch," so to speak.

It made me understand vampires in old horror stories , that sensation of aching thirst that cannot be quenched. It is a nightmarish feeling. The same applied to my age. I finished at 40, which made me content. I hated not having an even age. I could push down the bad feelings when my age ended in fives or even numbers, but I always had bad years with ones, threes, sevens, and nines.

I know it's abnormal behavior, but it’s a compulsion. I manage it so most people would never notice in their daily lives. I have to write about these memories because I have no way of going back. It started many years ago, and the urge only grew.

The First Kill: A Twelve-Year-Old's Act

The first time I killed was interesting. I should have felt the need to kill again immediately, as I did in later years, but I didn’t. They say mental illness worsens with age. Maybe that's what kept me from acting again so soon, but I’m not sure.

The first kill was pretty uneventful. I was walking home from school through the woods, a path very few kids dared to take. While walking, I stumbled upon a man. He was clearly injured, and even at 12 years old, I knew he didn't have long to live. He sat there, holding his side, breathing in ragged gasps. He hadn't seen me yet.

From my spot, I could see a long, white bone sticking out of his leg. His ribs were likely causing him more pain than a broken leg, or perhaps he was just in shock. High above this section of woods was a road. I saw a vehicle burst through the railing and tumble down. The wrecked truck, a '69 Chevy C20, lay smashed about 40 feet below the road in the brush and rocks. I remember this truck because I bought one just like it many years later, out of a strange nostalgia.

The driver had pulled himself from the wreckage and crawled agonizingly towards the nearest tree, his strength fading. I saw a large shard of metal ripped from the truck's side and picked it up. I walked slowly to the man, who reached pitifully towards me for help. I slowly pushed the sharp edge of the metal into the man's throat and watched blood spurt from the wound and his mouth. He gurgled like a drowning pig in his own blood, and then he stopped moving forever.

It was a rush I can't explain. The excitement of ending a human life is like nothing else. I was content for a fleeting moment. I stared at the body for a while before taking a bloody shred of his pant leg. I just wanted a keepsake.

That was my first kill. I was never caught, nor even suspected. Growing up in the mountains of the South gave me plenty of privacy, and it allowed me to get away with murder. As time passed, so did my feelings of power and accomplishment. I felt like God.

Hiding in Plain Sight: A Calculated Life

No one knew I was this way. I would never be a suspect because I knew how to hide. From the time I was a boy, I knew how to blend in. Sometimes it was a challenge because of my appearance, but I learned a simple skill: how to hide in plain sight.

I worked hard behind the scenes. I got good grades and kept very few close friends throughout school so no one would discover anything about me. However, I made sure everyone had something nice to say about me , carrying groceries, helping kids with homework, always using good manners. I graduated near the top of my class and attended the local college. After earning a business degree, I worked hard and saved enough money to buy my own trucking rig.

I worked the highways as a trucker for years and eventually bought two more rigs. By 35, I was a respected business owner in my hometown with a dispatch office and a few drivers. I still drove myself, even as the owner, because it kept me close to my only real passion.

I hid well in plain sight. I learned to talk like them, walk like them, and manipulate them into whatever I wanted. My mother died shortly after I graduated high school from heart failure. I felt liberated because I valued her opinion highly. Her opinions often kept me in line and respectable. When she died, I was free to pursue my own interests. My father, while a good man, never held much weight in my actions, so I walked the path I chose for myself.

The Second Kill: Aroused by a Fall

Either way, I drifted for some time after the first murder. The urge slowly grew. By high school, I kept my eyes peeled for another opportunity to end a life. Finally, that day came.

The second time I murdered was equally uninspiring. I found myself at a graduation party where the entire senior class was drinking heavily, except me. We were at the home of a wealthy student who had maintained a spotless record and wanted to go out with a bang.

I learned two things that evening. First, that a well-mannered, well-educated young lady was no different from anyone else when it came to having a dark side. She wanted to be remembered for a party, not her good grades or generous deeds. Everyone has a dark side in some way. The second thing I learned was that if everyone is drunk and dancing on the roof, you could discreetly bump a certain young lady enough to send her three stories down to the concrete and make it look like an accident.

She landed with a smack that only replays in my dreams. This was the first time I was aroused by a killing. I’m not sure why. She wore a two-piece outfit, and her skin was pale and smooth. Her deep brown hair flowed past her shoulders, and the look of utter confusion and terror in her innocent face was priceless. Blood pooled from her head and seeped into the nearby swimming pool. I fancied her, you could say, because she represented something that doesn't exist: human innocence.

When her skull cracked hard against the pavement, I was instantly excited. I had to sneak away to handle my own needs and steal a memento from her room. Meanwhile, the remaining partygoers descended into madness trying to fix a situation that was far beyond broken. The chaos I caused that night again resurfaced my deep sense of accomplishment that only comes from death. This was the second time I killed. I was 18 years old.

The Compulsion Grows: Twenty

Kills and Counting

By the time I hit my stride, I stood at 6'2" and 260lbs. I had always enjoyed lifting weights and working towards my overall health. A fat predator is a bad predator. I maintained this level of fitness for most of my adult life. I had to in order to pursue my passion.

Of course, things would eventually catch up with me. I was incarcerated with an unfortunate mountain of evidence. I wouldn’t say I covered every base perfectly to ensure not getting caught, but I felt like I was careful enough. In hindsight, I guess not.

I remember the day I was arrested. I had turned 40 the month prior and was on the road delivering a shipment of plywood. I was driving my rig in rural Alabama. I was taking a back road because I enjoy the scenery, and when you’re the boss, you can set your own schedule. At this point, I had killed 19 people, and the itch was present. I would rub the back of my neck when I thought about it. It needed to be scratched. I needed to take care of it.

That’s when I saw her. Miles from any structure or any living person was a broken-down, baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. The emergency lights were flashing, and a woman was looking into her engine compartment. The height of my truck allowed me to scan both her car and the surrounding area. It was tall, uncut grass and trees, covered in utter blackness due to the overcast night. There was no one for miles and miles. We could be alone together. I pulled in behind her, using my low lights so as not to scare her.

When I stepped out of the truck, I addressed her. "Pardon me ma’am," I said calmly. I knew how to disarm. I had worked on my speaking voice for years to betray their security into my hands. "Are you alright?"

She stepped out from behind her hood, and I saw her better in the light. She was a young, Hispanic woman. Her clothes were tattered, but I think that was intentional. She had silky, dark hair to her shoulders and black librarian glasses. She was pretty, which was a bonus for me. Consider it like a meal. You get your food, but when dessert is included, it's even better. I also knew she could complete this cycle. She could be the 20th, and I could rest. Best yet, she was petite, so there would be little fight.

"I think the engine is shot," she said, her voice full of desperation that these dark woods certainly amplified. She just wanted to get out of danger... little did she know.

"I can give you a ride. I own this company, so I can make the time," I didn’t want to sound presumptuous, but I knew by making myself

The Final

Act and Arrest

I knew by making myself seem helpful, I could gain her trust. "I'm heading towards the next town over. You can wait in my truck if you like. It's much safer than standing out here." She agreed, and I watched as she climbed into the passenger seat of my rig. Her scent was faint, like cheap perfume and desperation. It was enough to make the itch on my neck flare.

I got into the driver's seat and started the engine, the rumble of the diesel a comforting sound. "Just a heads up, I have a bit of a long haul ahead of me, so we'll be driving for a while," I lied smoothly. I knew this was it. The final piece of the puzzle. The 20th. The number that would bring me peace, at least for a while.

We drove for about twenty minutes, the darkness outside absolute. I turned off the main road onto a deserted logging trail. The truck bounced along the rough terrain. She started to look nervous. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice a little shaky.

"Just a shortcut," I replied, keeping my eyes on the dark path ahead. "We'll be there before you know it." I pulled over into a small clearing, the trees pressing in around us. I turned off the engine. The silence was deafening.

"I think you know this isn't a shortcut," she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. I turned to face her. The itch on my neck was almost unbearable now. I had to scratch it. I had to complete the number. I had to fulfill the compulsion.

I don't recall the exact details of what happened next. It's a blur of adrenaline and the overwhelming need to satisfy the urge. What I do remember is the sirens. Faint at first, then growing louder. Blue and red lights flashed through the trees. They found me. They found me because I was careless. I was so focused on the number 20, I forgot about everything else.

They pulled me out of the truck. I didn't resist. The game was over. The compulsion had led me here, to this cold, hard concrete. I earned it. Every single second of it. But still, I hate it here.

A Life Defined by Numbers

Looking back, it's all about the numbers. The compulsions that drove me. The need for balance, for neatness, for completion. Twenty. It’s a clean number. It’s a number that brought a temporary calm to the storm raging inside my head.

I wonder if anyone will ever truly understand. The itch. The gnawing need. It’s not something you can just switch off. It’s a part of you, a twisted, dark part that demands to be fed. I fed it for years, hiding in plain sight, living a life that looked normal on the outside.

Now, I sit in this cell, the dull green walls closing in. I have my journal and my dull pencil. I write these words, trying to make sense of the senseless. Trying to understand the man I became. The man who killed twenty people. The man who earned his place in hell. But even justice doesn't make the cold go away.