Prologue
White. Everything is white. White floors, white doors, white ceiling, white walls, white bed and even white clothes. Every damn thing is white. I suppose they have something against colors. Either that or they just don't like the people that live here. My fellow patients and I.
Patient. I wouldn't call us that. It's more like........freaks. Yeah. That's more like it. Well that's what those "doctors" call us behind our backs. So I'll just use that word since the majority of them use it. It isn't our fault we're in this "facility." Well a select few of us chose this life. Murderers. Drug addicts. Abusers of some kind. Just to name some.
Bad thing about it is that I'm one of those select few. Well I don't see it as bad but you might. I'm not an abuser or a drug addict but I am a murderer. More like a serial killer but hey I made a living so you people who are siting there reading this thinking that I'm a dumbass or whatever, you people can go to hell. Geez.
I killed people for about a total of three years I guess. The papers called me a genius, but that didn't matter I killed people so the cops of course had to go and hunt me down. Thankfully for me they are a group of dumbasses so I lasted are really long time..... Until they hired this asshole detective that went and ruined it for me. I still remember his name. Nara Shikamaru, the man that put me in this shithole. He even had the guts to come and visit me. Everyone thought I was harmless without any sharp objects near me. People really underestimate the efficiency of finger nails. To put it short he had a few very pretty red marks on the right side of his face.
Eleven. That was my number. Eleven. The number of lives I choked out of people. The number I stopped at. The number they caught me with. The number I was put on trial with. The number I had when I was determined insane. The number I had when I was thrown into hell. The number I have until I start again.
I'm not saying I'll ever get out if this place. I'm just saying that I'll never stop until I breathe my last breath. They can't stop me even though they dumped me into a mental institution. Oh no, I will keep on killing til my heart is content with my work.
I have contemplated who will be the lucky person to advance me to number twelve for two whole years. The "doctors" who work here fear me. When I look at them, they stiffen in their place and won't look me in the eye. My fellow "patients" won't sit anywhere near me, even the most cold-blooded people won't but thats only because they believe that I'm beneath them.I have searchd a long time for number twelve and I am still making my decision on how, when, and where I should kill them.
The most important thing is surpassing the number eleven. If I don't I would have to kill myself if that ever happened. Now of course I don't hate myself but if I'm stuck on number eleven forever, I might just off myself. Seriously. Eleven would haunt me. Hang over my head, taunting me.
"You lost the game, bitch."