ALL ALONG I WAS THE SERIAL KILLER, BUT THEY NEVER KNEW

Before Every Kill, She Prays

It had become a ritual.

Not for God.

Not for forgiveness.

But for focus.

She sat on her knees in the dark, a single candle flickering beside her, illuminating her journal — the one she kept locked in a false panel behind her dresser. The pages were filled with names. Dates. Details. Faces of monsters.

And beneath each name, a single word: Deserved.

She wasn’t delusional. She never killed at random. She did her research, watched patterns, and gathered proof — enough to justify their removal from the world.

Tonight’s target was Marshall Gregor, the "founder" of a private behavioural institute for troubled teens. No criminal record. No allegations. Not officially.

But she’d found the truth.

A blog post from a girl who claimed he locked her in a room for days.

An anonymous forum thread filled with horror stories.

A former employee, now dead by suicide, who left behind a final message: He touches them when no one’s watching.

It was enough.

She lit the candle, took a breath, and whispered, “For the ones who can’t fight back.”

Then she stood, calm and steady, and dressed in all black — layers tight enough not to snag, loose enough to move freely.

In her backpack:

Rope

Gloves

Plastic sheets

Syringe filled with a fast-acting paralytic

A switchblade

She moved like a shadow.

Silent. Fluid. Purposeful.

By 2:00 AM, she was already inside the institute grounds, having bypassed the cameras and entered through a side door she’d disabled days ago.

She knew Marshall’s schedule — he stayed late, claimed he was “working.” But his office was soundproofed, and the cameras inside were never functional. That’s where he did the worst things.

And that’s where she waited — in the dark corner, behind the bookshelf.

At 2:17 AM, he entered. Alone. Jacket slung over his arm. Whistling.

The last sound he would ever make.

She lunged as he turned. The syringe stabbed into his neck.

He froze. Paralyzed, eyes wide with terror.

She leaned in close, whispering softly into his ear:

“Monsters don’t deserve mercy.”

Then, she got to work — methodical, clean, precise.

By dawn, there was no body. No blood. No sign he’d ever existed.

Just one more name, crossed out in her journal.

And the word beneath it:

Deserved.