It is funny how people take it seriously. You know, death. They are afraid of it, or just faithful that everyone gets they trial in the end to go to heaven or to hell. They have sense of justice and some things are just "not right". Killing someone it's a serious action, on the other hand, if you kill an ant no one will crucify you. It seems so logical and reasonable to people what it is to be a killer and how wrong it is. Well, wait until you are part of a story like this because you know what? Every story has two sides.I was born in a contryside village and raised in a little town near London. In a small town like that, people act like they are somehow great. No, actually greatER than everyone else. Everyone has their noses up because they are right at the side of a world-known city, it is almost like they think they live there, although they claim love to their home land. On the other side, they all actually secretly desire to move to the big city to rub on their friend's and family's faces "Look how fancy and superior I am. I got so much farther than you." And people actually talk about you if you ever achieve such a high achievment. This is the kind of city that no one outside it knows it, and that it's not even worthy to mention its name. But although I can occult its name, I can't occult its history because this is where I was raised, and I am what this place made of me.
I had a normal childhood if you look to it quickly. But if you zoom things up you may see what some people would call "signs". I had no brothers or sisters, my parents where journalists and as an unwanted child they had to work hard to raise me as I was obviously not planned. By the time I was born my mom had graduated and my dad was still on college, that he ended up finishing after 8 years because all the work he had to do to take care of me. They were usually just fine but as a kid somethings made me sad. Such as being yelled at for falling and hurting my chin because it was stupid to try to walk till the chair with my eyes closed, or the time I sat on a doll's package and hurt my spine on concrete because it couldn't bare my wheight. I was actually pretty slimy, so much that I was nicknamed as stick on junior high. I was, after all, a lonely child, with usually just one friend a year at the school. I was an easy bullying target, yet somehow my friend of the year always would be a though girl that could protect me. Yet, all the bullying I received I would eventually throw back at someone else, like the time I pulled my younger friend's skirt down in front of everyone and accidentally pulled her panties down as well, or that time where I threw the notebook of another younger friend of mine down the toilet.
I don't know what it was, if it was my parents or the bullying I received and practiced or even the people of that shitty town, but if every serial killer has something wrong on its past it must be there somewhere.
