Diary of a Detective

Compos Mentis.

8/12/1997 7.14pm

Even as I write now the ink smudges as my pen bleeds onto the paper. I'm locked in my house, I barricaded the doors and windows with all the furniture I could. I couldn't finish packing in time - news spread fast. I can't escape. Not them, not myself. Not this time.

I can see the whole village outside. Friends, relatives. My townspeople. Torches of fire illuminate their angry faces. They are furious. Betrayed. Vengeful. They are armed with horrible things, pitchforks, bats, blades. I can hear them banging on my door. It can't hold forever.

Maybe they will find my diary.

Maybe they will know the extent of my suffering.

So much blood has been spilt at my own hands.

I am the guilty one, the hunter, the hunted.

But I know what I must do.

The serial killer will take one final victim. This accursed steel, tainted with the blood of innocents, will be once and last put to rest. With my own bloodied hand I shall rid this village of the curse that is

my

self.