blood-spatter-cropThey say most serial killers are motivated by some unfulfilled desire rooted in strong feelings of rejection or inferiority. That’s bullshit. Take me for example. I am a serial killer, but I was not moved to murder by any unconsumed passion or sense of humiliation. I wasn’t shunned by members of the opposite sex growing up and didn’t walk in on my mother breast-feeding a man other than my father. I started to kill purely for revenge. My first cold-blooded murder was not plotted or planned. It was visceral, bloody and beautiful, and it just fucking happened. I “snapped,” as they say. She didn’t see it coming, any more than I had. One minute we were both listening to Pucini in the same room, and the other she was unmoving, unbreathing like life had never gushed through her body.

When the blood had dried and the true gravity of my actions had sunk in, I kept telling myself this one time would be the last time. Despite the injustice that had been dealt to me, I am not a killer, and this single crime would be all I needed to quench my thirst for justice. But anyone who’s killed before knows that’s not quite how the story pans out. Once you’ve seen the blood of your victim splattered with poetic chaos all over your body, her corpse lying motionless when it was only just brimming with life and passion, you realize this will never be an isolated crime of passion, but you are in for one delicious addiction.

Yes, the first one I killed was a female of a specific race, just like every other one after that. Many years ago, one of her kind got intimate with my only brother. She infected him with a disease that went to his brain and consumed his life in a long, miserable and painful illness. The cerebral form of the disease is the most severe neurological complication of infection with plasmodium falciparum – the fancy name for a microbe as old as sex itself. And if his slow demise was not enough, it also came with ample humiliation. When you get that illness, everyone knows how you got it, and everyone judges you for not having protected yourself. In this day and age information about anything and everything is as common as the air we breathe. Only those mired in poverty, ignorance and oppression are deprived of the chance to protect themselves. Everyone else who knows better is either truly foolhardy or congenitally unlucky. My brother, Louis Alphonse Laveran, was both.

I think of Louis every time I kill in his name, and say a little prayer when it’s done:
Sis damnatus aeternitatem, anopheles.

Here she is, my next victim.