beginning of serial killer lane new in 2018

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This was not me at my best.

Blonde ruffled hair under baseball hat, tan cargo shorts and orange flip-flops. With three blue striped, white, knee-high socks I would probably stand out as an easy target. With my brunette wife in the seat next to me I seemed normal. Normal as a serial killer can be.

I was hung over from driving all night.

We didn’t stop, just drove in shifts.

Let me say again, this was not me at my best...

It had been years since I had peaked. The goal to feel life die in my hands was realized with a girl in Williamson High School named Mary-Lynn. The blonde haired beauty was not busty but thin with very small breasts. I didn’t kill her because I was in love with her I killed her for what I saw. I saw reality being bent into her form, she was pre and posthumously popular and a stand out athlete. I like thin white women with large breasts. Girls were getting breast reduction surgery’s to look more like Mary-Lynn and it drove me mad. Mad enough to kill. Real madness was not realized until much later in my life.

Well that was how it all started anyway, in my teens, but I’ve been married since then with two teenage daughters now in tow. Things went terribly wrong and I had to move. One of my victims got away. I could feel the heat like warm breath on my neck. I had to go. I wanted to die without killing. There was only one alternative I had to move somewhere new, somewhere I wouldn’t be recognized for what I was. In my old city I was gaining a reputation and had been seen too close, too close for me to continue in my much needed privacy.

To tell the truth I was being investigated by the local police.

I couldn’t stop. Hadn’t ever been able to stop for long periods of time. That is except after Mary-Lynn. I was so high on what I had done, I savored the vigils. I attended every one. And the women and girls with tears in their eyes had so much love inside. I felt like the high school quarterback after winning a state tournament. I was alive, more alive than I have ever been since. I could feel it about to change.

I had to move.

So that’s how we ended up on Miller’s Lane in quiet suburbia just north of Miami Beach. A good place to find easy victims. Prostitutes and vagrants flocked to Miami for the hot weather and warm waves. This new place filled me with a sweet disposition, as I turned on the lane.

“Daddy are we here?”

“Yes girls look for number 33.”

“There it is dad.” Said my youngest Tara, pointing.

Just like that the thought came. I wanted a fresh kill, I wanted to watch a victim die. I was sick, I know, but looking back now I know I was only doing what I felt was right. Killing made my normalcy set in and I could relax and watch a hockey game, drink a Budweiser and hope for blood.

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