Dear Creepypasta [#Wattys2016]

Backseat car

Can people change?

That's one of the hardest questions that faces us as humans. You'll get a mixed bag of answers wherever you go. Some believe who we are is hardwired into us, and that's just how it is. Other people think you're whatever you choose to make of yourself. I personally believe that we can change, but it doesn't come free.

I'll breeze through the details of my rough upbringing and just explain how I became a serial killer. I was 22 when I got into heroin. I had been raised all around drugs, practically by them, actually. Weed was about the one constant in my life, and provided much more in the way of comfort than my garbage parents ever did. Say what you want about it being a gateway drug, I'm not here to debate ethics, weed at least numbed me to the idea of shooting up. And I did. And then tried a bit of crack, and then a little LSD, then a lot of crack, then a lot of LSD. My life became a whirling haze of highs and installing washing machines (so I could get high again). I was going nowhere, ever, and I knew it. And I was bitter.

I remember so little of my life from that time. I think I just hated the world for making me... me. So one night I got insanely fucked up on a cocktail of things I'm amazed didn't kill me. I, unsurprisingly, got paranoid and left my house, with my gun and knife on me. This wasn't uncommon for me. I slinked through my neighborhood in the dead of night twitching with anxiety. I was too nervous to go back to my house so I made my way back to the complex and opted to sleep in my car. I crawled into the backseat and drifted to a drug induced sleep.

I was woken up by the sound of the engine starting. My eyes flicked open and darted around the car, my knuckles turning white from clutching the knife so hard. I saw that it was still nighttime. Someone was in my front seat. In my wired state I... must've thought it was who was ever after me earlier. It was instinctual. I sprung forward and tore wildly at the intruder. I vividly remember plunging the knife into their chest at least a dozen times. He didn't even scream. I was gasping for air when something in my brain made me finally fly back into my seat and stop the attack. Whoever was in here with me was now slumped onto the front wheel. My eyes scanned around the car and saw there was blood all over the inside of the windshield. All over the seat, my hands, my clothes... the knife. That fucking knife was the only thing my shitstain of a Dad gave me that I kept. That's when it finally clicked in my fucked up brain.

This wasn't my car.

The panic that flooded my senses dwarfed whatever stress I had been in earlier. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that nobody was awake to hear me pounding up the stairs to my room and open the door with my coat. I turned on the shower and just sat there, shaking. In that moment I was so... phenomenally fucked, I was just waiting for the police to show up and get me. And wait I did, because I only turned off the shower when I heard police sirens outside the building and light streaming through the window.

I sat on my shitty couch and waited for my door to splinter in. I heard cops talking outside, and I heard movement in the halls. When the door finally knocked, I hesitated. I should've figured it'd end up like this. Stupid. Dumbass. You deserve this. When they knocked again I pulled myself to the door and answered. Sure enough, a cop was standing there. My whole body got hot and the mix of emotions swarming in me was crushing.

I was astounded when he simply informed me a stabbing had taken place out in the back parking lot and it would be closed for the next few days. Before I even responded he went and knocked on the next door. Slowly shutting it I slid to the floor. Days went by and I still avoided the back lot and patrol cars driving through town. Days turned to weeks, and then to months. One day I came to a clear and incredibly powerful realization – I had gotten away with murder. What in reality is to stop me from doing it again?