To all that have chosen to read this; be warned, it isn't a kids story. It is one of grief and sorrow and a man's demise before he reaches his teen years. As of now, there are two chapters written, and if I get any kind of feedback, I will continue to write. Advice is welcome.
Thanks for reading,
Big Country
Introduction
It would be nice to claim that this could be short, but as all lives go, none is short. Everyone has stories and tales, years of experience and troubles to share. Truth be told though, most of them are not important in the long run. Very few are beneficial to the society. Though, as a killer myself, I know that no matter what I share here, nothing I could ever do would benefit the society as much as the shock and fear that I instilled upon the American society.
All good stories have a beginning and an end, but alas, my end will never be shared, for it has yet to come. I can tell you though, through my life's experiences, how I came to be what I am. For some, this book will be an atrocity, for others, it is the next greatest inspirational novel. It might have cult followings, but I will never know. All I will know is the years I have spent writing this novel on death's row.
Many of you watch shows like Dexter on Showtime or watch shows on television about us, and yes, I mean us. We are a group of our own, so similar to each other, but all having our major differences. These cases on TV are only the easiest cases. People like me are smart, and elude the police without issue. One slip-up can mean the difference between spending our life in freedom, or spending it in a cell. To me, what truly matters is that there is a time behind bars when your urges eat away at your sanity. I have passed that point, but barely made it out of it. I was only brought back by my savior.
My savior is not religion, or anyone person, but rather my memories, something that can never be taken away, something that will always be mine, and short of death and brain damage, will never change. It is my memories that kept me sane… those same memories that were threatening to tear me apart. I learned to focus on those memories, and relive the moment as opposed to thinking about them and wishing to be able to d oit again.
I suppose that, were I given the chance again, I might not have done what I had done, that I would have controlled myself, but I, as much as my fellow killers, know that is impossible. It is an urge, like the urge men feel when they are with their girlfriend for the first time, getting ready to share a memory for life. That urge does not go away with me, it just exists, and slowly eats at me, making me nervous and jumpy until it is satisfied. Would that it would stay satisfied.
It never does stay satisfied. It may stay dormant for a little while, but something like that never does stay hidden. It slowly rises again, the urge stronger than before. I guess it might be similar to what drug addicts face, but I can not confirm that either… I was too busy dealing with my addiction to worry about the lives of others… or rather the lives of others were exactly my problem.
To give a brief idea of what the feds believe is important. There are thre events that most serial killers are reported to have. The first is bed-wetting until an older age. This is something both of my siblings suffered from, but I felt I was normal… at least for a while. The second is Cruelty to animals. Again, something both of my siblings had, but I didn't. I remember one incident where my brother, Jake, was ripping legs off of grasshoppers and sticking them in the hot tar that had melted out on the streets. I cried my eyes out the first time I saw this, for at such a young age, such an act seemed like the ultimate in evil. Things never changed with that though… it is still a despicable act to me, even after all that I have done. The last is fire starting, something I also missed out on, but then again, you could probably guess my next few words.
These are signs that both of my siblings set off, and gave my parents warning. Both of my parents are very interested in the subject, and knew the signs well enough. I continued on my merry way, everyone thinking me normal, and me not being aware of what was manifesting inside of me. Both of my siblings went to a psychiatrist to get help. I never got that help. I guess I should have, but if if's and butt's were candy and nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas.
As all good stories do, I will walk you through the early development that led to me being who I am, and then continuing on to points that I find important or relevant.
