The newspapers label me a “serial killer.” I don’t really like that. I consider myself an artist, and I love my art. I love the hunting, the stalking, the anticipation, that first stab, the blood. Oh god, do I love the blood.
I reach into my jacket and feel the box cutter.
“I have to admit,” I tell her. “This is my favorite part.”
She turns to face me, “Mine too.”
Shocked, I drop my box cutter. She lunges and bites into my neck. I can smell her hair. It smells like blood.
Oh god, do I love the blood.
Author’s Note: Always a fan of when a potential victim turns the tables.