Proof that I am messed up in the head – seriously. It's only short and most definitely not sweet but I just wrote this when I was bored (doesn't say much about my mental state does it?) and well I thought I'd share. It wasn't actually meant to be Red John's POV – wasn't actually meant to be anything other than an idea but it gained a life of its own and Red John dived into the fray. Enjoy

Kasey

It looks like a strange little old world, outside the window pane of broken and splintered glass that is my skewed perspective. There's nothing wrong with the way I view it all and by addition there's nothing wrong with me; though it seems people often argue to the contrary. Why do they consider me a monster? A freak? Weird? Is it because I'm not as pathetic as them? Is it because I don't think a girl who scrapes her knee because she was foolishly running along the park path deserves her mother to scoop her up in her arms and tell her it's okay? There's nothing wrong with me just because I'm not like every other fool.

So I like to watch life end, slowly, quickly, painfully, painlessly, actively, passively. What does it matter? Everyone, everything, dies at some point, what's wrong with my fascination with such a basic principle of existence? It's almost as though to be interested in the how's and why's of death is some sort of social taboo; "you can't kill the birdies just so you can find out how long it takes for their hearts to stop beating and their little minds to stop thinking," "you can't watch that old lady die of cancer just because you want to know how long it takes before she succumbs to the inevitable," it makes me sick how they try to control me. Try to temper and smother me with their stupid rules! I'm not them! There's nothing wrong with me! Why do they call me a freak?

They should be more careful as to who they offend, not everyone is as forgiving as me; I don't like liars, I don't like slanderers, I don't like bullies and I most especially don't like fools... but the world's full of them, whether they are that way because of nature or nurture, it doesn't matter because it is how they are at the end that matters to me. I care more for how they beg, how they cry, how they scream as the blood pours and the heart beats. I wonder how much it hurts them; knowing that they're dying because I don't like them, because they remind me of someone I don't like, because they hurt me when I couldn't fight back... I bet that hurts just as much as my blade does as it slices through their thin and flimsy shell of flesh and bone. I hope it does. They should know their mistakes before I correct mine; my mistakes are letting slanderers and bullies live. I should have ended them when I was young, when everyone called me freak; but I couldn't, there was too much at stake, too many people, too many adults who could and would have stopped me. Now though... now, there's only me; no-one's around to help them, to protect them, to save them from me. It's the other way around after all these years; I'm the bully they're the victim and I quite like that analogy. Because they are victims, each and every one of them...

END