The Serial Killer in me

The air in the cramped apartment hung heavy with the stale scent of cigarettes and neglect. Mama's voice, raspy and impatient, cut through the quiet, a familiar command that always left a bitter taste. "Make sure you come back early, brat." At fourteen, the routine was ingrained: another trip for her drugs, another journey into the grimy underbelly of the city.

I stepped out, the dim hallway stretching before me, the promise of descent down creaking stairs. Just as I reached them, a familiar voice, syrupy sweet, stopped me. "Where are you going sweetheart?" Miss Diamond, our neighbor across the hall, emerged from her doorway, her eyes knowing. I offered a clipped reply: "Mama sent me." She nodded, disappearing back into her world of late-night rendezvous.

The back alley, my usual shortcut, swallowed me whole. The moon, a pale ghost, had replaced the sun, plunging the path into absolute darkness. Insects chirped, cats meowed, and the humid air reeked of soiled diapers. Trash piles loomed like forgotten monuments, crunching underfoot, a symphony of urban decay. I hummed a tune, a fragile shield against the unsettling sounds.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. A prickle of goosebumps crawled up my arms. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs, and my palms slicked with sweat. The money, clutched tight in my hand, was swiftly tucked into my underwear, a desperate measure against unseen threats. My steps faltered, tiptoeing now, as a muffled sound reached my ears. I dove behind a dumpster, its foul odor a small price for refuge.

Peering over the edge, what I saw on that April day would forever etch itself into my memory. It was a sight that changed everything, a revelation that would define my future. It was the moment I found my calling.