[ WP ] Write a story about a serial killer , but make the readers feel sympathy for him/her as he kills his most recent victim .

I've been reading more lately. Got this book from my anger management counselor that says we're all connected, that when I hurt someone else, I'm only hurting myself. I do n't know about all that. It's a nice thought, but when was the last time I felt an organic connection, any indication that anyone understood anything? Not since I was little, real little. 
 
 I have something to do now. Something that makes me feel the closest to connected I suppose I can. I'll try to read more later, try to open up my mind, but for now, this will have to do. I've done it for so long, like I was shown, that I dont even know how to stop. 
 
 The front of the house is dark. Just a small bathroom light in the back left on, for someone's comfort. It was so cold out here. I wanted to be inside, in the warmth, in the dull glow of the nightlight. 
 
 The window is unlatched still, just as I left it earlier. I had done this too many times to go in without preparation. I grabbed the tools I had stashed in the foreign basement earlier, and slowly, so slowly, I crept up the stairs. 
 
 To her bedroom, to the only place I can ever feel anything. I like to look for a minute. She sleeps on her right side, hands under her cheek. So soft and clean. So pretty and perfect. I could n't get enough of that essence. 
 
 I lay down gently beside her, so carefully, like I was shown long, long ago. I'll never forget that first time. It was such an experience, such a lesson. 
 
 She stirred slightly, unconsciously moving away from the presence she knew was n't supposed to be there. She would slowly wake up, slowly become aware of her new reality. I waited patiently. This part was so very precious, so important. It was everything. 
 
 She opened her eyes, adjusting to the slight glow coming from the bathroom beyond her bedroom door. Realization slowly crept up her face, and I felt the thrill in my stomach. Just as I remembered, I could almost see young me watching my own mother awake those many years ago. Could see the gleam in the strangers hand as he slowly cut through her throat, its not quick and clean like on TV you know. He did n't see me laying beside my mother until the very end, until I had seen the whole show. 
 
 Back to the task at hand. Before she could scream, before any whimper, I closed her mouth with the tape. He had n't used tape, but I did n't care for the whining and pleading, it reminded me of a feeling I did n't want. Slowly, dragging the knife, slowly now, savor. 
 
 I did n't see the kid until her blood splashed on him. The round, white face, the shocked confused eyes. Had I looked like that? 
 
 Some say who we are is a result of how we have dealt with the biggest trauma or abuse of what have you. I know who I am. I guess I'll leave this kid to figure out who he's going to be. I'm done here, I got what I needed. The only way I can get that last moment of security back, right before everything was taken away, the only thing I'll ever feel, will always happen in a strangers dark bedroom. It's just the way it is. 
 
 I'll check up on him. He might need some guidance. I know I would n't have been the same without it.
