The Mind of a Killer: Part I

Updated on February 15, 2018

The Mind of a Killer: Part I

The air was dark and dry outside the Forest Gates apartment Complex, the hottest day on record for August 3rd in the middle class suburb located six miles south of Portland, Oregon. The towering Douglas Fir and Cedar trees created a constant shadow of creeping limbs and leaves over the six building dwelling, until night finally set and swallowed every remnant of the day. Even on the clearest of nights, just like that night, not even a star could be seen from apartment 632. The canopy of God hid his presence from the relatively poor tenants that resided inside the brown, paint chipped structures. The back five buildings were surrounded by 60 acres of fern covered floors, sharp black berry vines and deer devoured terrain that crept closer to their doorsteps with the death of every season. Only one building had a flicker of outside life. Building number one was nestled to the direct east of the leasing office where one all-telling light pierced the darkness between the two.

Anthony Lanza stirred and stewed in the pot of his own dwelling, the scent of man slowly decaying dripped from the cracks of his fractured windows into the seemingly endless forest that haunted him. He sucked in the dense tarry molecules that most humans consider a breath.


Black fur, fuzzy oblong pads of diseased growth accumulated on his yellowing white walls as he wrote in his journal,

“I hear the sound of church bells, the sound of women screaming. I hear my own heart beating, the sweet noise of a child’s feet pattering through the houses of whores. I watch closely, the closer I watch and anticipate, the faster my heart beats and it takes over…”

The sound of his black bic pen dropping resonated throughout his mind like a startled metronome that was built to structure his nonexistence. He breathed in the tar again and set up a small pot of water ready to boil, so he could slurp in a cup of dinner. The noodles sat for 3 minutes, then 4, then 1 hour. He continued to terrorize his wired writing pad.

“Dear God,” he wrote, “you piece of shit…” He dropped his pen again to a sudden pierce in his ears. The high pitch squeals slowly transformed to a steady knock on the door of apartment 632. His mind was louder than the sound of knuckles colliding with a penetrable fiber glass barrier. Anthony delighted in the adolescence of his door.


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