S.T. Abby

I jog upstairs, head into my secret room, and touch the apple on my desk. It’s a wax apple, brilliantly red, and there are seven nails sticking out of it. Still many more to go.

There’s a certain high you get from fooling the world into thinking you’re the lamb instead of the rabid wolf.

I feel more human with each passing day. Less like a soulless monster with a thirst for blood.
Not that I want to stop killing; I just want to feel more like the carefree, happy girl I was before they stole it all. Before they ruined me.

A serial killer sharing a house with a homicide detective and a FBI agent.
Life doesn’t get more complicated than this.

It’s sad that I want to hide my bodies now so that my boyfriend gets a break and can spend more time with me.

they’re looking for a monster.
Not a girl who loves red.
Not a girl who is falling in love.
Not a girl who died ten years ago.

That’s what happens when you’re a serial killer dating a FBI profiler who hunts serial killers.

They can also look like balding, fat slobs who hang out in their briefs and wife-beater tanks. Yeah. Talk about stereotypes. I’ve seen more ass crack than I care to remember.

“Are you an angel?” she asks, her throat raw and raspy, as though she’s dehydrated.

“Compared to him, yes,” I say honestly.

She slowly stands, warily looking at me. She can’t be older than eight.

She was locked up. Her scars are different from ours. She was held captive. She needs air like we need confined security.

Lindy’s scars don’t run as deep or painful as mine. One man ruined her.