The Last Confession

Some people think I’m mad. That’s perfectly understandable. It’s hard to believe an average Joe like me could have killed 21 people within three years.

But first, a bit about myself.

My name is Patrick. No, not the Patrick in “American Psycho”. Unlike Patrick Bateman, I’m not into murders and executions. Unlike him too, I don’t restrict my killings to young chicks or whores. In other words, I don’t discriminate.

The difference between Bateman and myself also goes beyond our choice of targets and the motive behind it. To begin with, I don’t wear Armani suits or listen to Huey Lewis & The News. My usual clothes outside of work are a Giordano tee and a pair of faded Levi’s jeans, and my favourite composer (yes, get it right!) is Chopin. I also don’t indulge in caviar and Chardonnay. My typical meal consists of a burger, fries and Coke. Occasionally, I’ll reward myself with a chocolate sundae on those days when I made a killing.

Perhaps the biggest difference Patrick Bateman and myself is that Bateman got caught. I won’t, unless I confess.

I still remember my first killing on Christmas day three years ago. Red of the blood against the green of the grass. Just the right colour combination to bring about some festive cheer. It was also the best Christmas present I ever gave myself.

To be honest, I started out as an average killer, and quite normal compared to other serial killers who have been known to eat their victims. But am I psychotic? Absolutely not. I don’t believe I needed to drink other people’s blood to stay alive. People who do are so disorganised that they are usually apprehended way before they managed to reach what I call “critical mass”.

Furthermore, if I were to eat all my victims, my appetite would have to be as formidable as my killing skills.

But I do confess that I’ve made it a habit to kill on special days. Like my birthday, for instance. Call it celebration or what you will. To me, killing someone on an ordinary day simply has no significance. Oh… so Jason Voorhees killed people on Friday the 13th. Big deal. How many Friday 13s are there in a year? His work rate must have been pretty dismal. And I certainly have no intention to wear that stupid mask while I work.

If I have a choice (and I do), I’d rather slaughter someone on Good Friday. That, of course, includes Friday the 13th.

My tool of the trade? Jason’s got his machete. Me? I prefer using a steel pipe. Why, you may ask. Well, I’d like to think of upcoming killings as being “in the pipeline”. Naturally, it helps that pipes (be it steel, iron or other materials) are in abundance at my workplace. Hell, I can even use a plain stick if it’s necessary.

Patrick Bateman once said, “When I see a girl, one side of me wants to take her out to dinner. Talk to her, get to know her, make her laugh, enjoy and savour the evening with her while the other side of me is wondering what her head would look like on a stick.”

To me, that’s an abuse of a powerful killing weapon. He should just use it to stick them up, be it a girl or a guy. Like I said, I don’t discriminate. Once you bash people like the way I do, their gender doesn’t make much of a difference anymore.

I have another confession to make. Valentine’s Day is a good day to kill the proverbial two birds (though strictly speaking, they’re lovebirds rather than the winged variety) with one stone. And stones are also aplenty in the locations I normally conduct my executions. No, I’m not jealous or something. It’s just that if I must kill someone on this day, I usually have to take a pair. It comes as a bundle anyhow, if that’s the way you want to call it.

Valentine’s Day is also the most fun day to do a killing because I can play the “if you sacrifice yourself, I’ll let your partner go” game. Suddenly, love itself becomes a game. Till death do us apart? Well, maybe. I’m sure that’s how my victims usually think at the moment of decision. Somehow, I can’t help but notice the irony in such a vow.

You must be wondering how I managed to get rid of all the bodies without raising suspicion, since I’ve already confessed that I don’t eat my victims. I don’t have to. You see, there’s a whole bunch of carnivores in the zoo where I ply my trade, and they’ll be more than happy to share the spoils.

And I don’t mean I’ll purposely go to the zoo to kill someone either. That would be too much of a hassle. I work there, and my job involves feeding the animals. Get the picture now?

I love feeding times. The visitors always get pretty excited when the flesh is flung to the crocodiles or lions. That’s because they’re unaware that one day, they might just end up in the animals’ stomach.

My only worry so far is that my supervisor would start to question me about the leftovers of normal feed for the animals.

Jeanne sat in her office reading a book her private investigator boyfriend had passed on to her last week. The book was titled “Probing the Mind of a Serial Killer” by J. Apsche.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Patrick walked in with an urgency quite apart from his usual calm when he dissects his victims.
Jeanne’s eyebrows knitted together, as if she was irritated by his unexpected arrival.
“You aren’t supposed to come today.”
“Yes, I know. But I have a confession to make.”
Still trying to hide her irritation, Jeanne rose slowly from her chair and approached Patrick. With the familiarity of one who performs such act routinely, Jeanne gestured to Patrick and said, “I see. Why don’t you lie down on the couch and tell me about it?”

Related story:
The Last Confession II