[ WP ] You are a serial killer . Each murder you commit adds a new voice to your head .

“ Oh God, please don ’ t, please don ’ t, ” wailed the voices in my head. I wished they would shut up for a moment. They made it hard to hear if the girl in my trunk was waking up. 
 
 “ Don ’ t do it you sick bastard. ” There was old man McAvoy, shouting over the rest. I was pretty sure he yelled so loud because he was deaf. After all, he really should have heard me in the alley behind him. It had been a cloudy night and I ’ d tripped over a rusty trashcan, but that old coot had kept on fumbling with his keys and stopping to rummage around in his pockets like he had all the time in the world, instead of four hours. 
 
 I pulled into the parking lot of the motel where I was staying and cut the engine. As I approached the trunk of the car, the wailing crescendoed. “ Cut it out, ” I grumbled, rubbing the bridge of my nose, “ Or I ’ ll take it out of her skin. ” 
 
 About half the voices fell silent. The other half were too crazy to listen or too angry to care, but the volume in my head was manageable at least. “ You sick motherfucker, ” McAvoy railed. “ I can ’ t wait til the cops catch ya. They ’ re gon na beat your sorry ass and stick you in the chair faster than… ” 
 
 “ Faster than I can kill this girl? ” I muttered, lifting her body out of the trunk. “ Oh yes, that ’ s quite true. I ’ m going to kill her slow, old man, just for you. ” 
 
 As I arranged the girl on the double bed by the door, a matronly voice joined the fray. “ It ’ s not too late for you. The Lord can forgive his children any sins. Repent! ” 
 
 “ That ’ s sweet of you, Mrs. Washington, ” I murmured to my freshman physics professor. “ But I don ’ t feel an ounce of remorse. ” 
 
 I began laying out my tools. Knives, mostly. I collected knives everywhere I went. My fingers brushed against the wooden handle of an old kitchen knife—my first knife, my first kill. 
 
 “ You know, Mrs. Washington, ” I said. “ I really have so much to thank you for. Sure, I killed Matilda before I killed you. But that was just one murder—and you don ’ t become a serial killer with just one kill. Especially not when that kill is your ex-girlfriend. ” I shuddered. “ How cliche. ” 
 
 I surveyed my other tools, and though my eye caught briefly on the screwdriver I ’ d used on the widower in Portland, I kept coming back to the wood-handled paring knife. On the bed, my newest addition to the series was beginning to wake. 
 
 “ I ’ d gut you with your own knives, you fascist pervert. Slam that screwdriver in your eye and that saw up your… ” 
 
 “ Murderer! Murderer! Aaggggghhhhhhh murder! ” 
 
 “ Please, James, ” Mrs. Washington said again. “ Your last murder can be your last. You can end this. ” 
 
 But amongst the chorus of voices, I finally heard the one voice I ’ d been waiting for all night. 
 
 Matilda said, “ Do it. ” 
 
 I coiled my fingers around the paring knife ’ s handle and approached the girl cowering on the bed. 
 

