Chapter 0. Beginnings (The End). Alpha & Omega.

I can’t speak for other serial killers. I haven’t met any of the other prisoners in here yet.

I’ve spent most of my time in Yatala speaking to you. Well, being with you, anyway.

The reality is, I find speaking for myself hard enough, without speaking for others.

Killing someone is easy compared to speaking to someone. After the first time, anyway. That was rugged. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. I’m glad there’s only a first, first time. In everything. I’m not so sure if I’m glad there’s a first time ‘for’ everything. Like a first time to kill.

But no-one can escape the truth of a cliché. Clichés are truer than the truth. Death, taxes and clichés.

Some people will argue the second time can be exactly the same as the first time. Wanna-be philosophers mainly. But it can’t. For starters, it’s in a different time frame or zone. Even if the two events are only separated by a moment. It still makes them different. Even if they appear to be identical. It’s all a question of how intelligent you are. And let’s face it. God doesn’t distribute his gifts evenly. There’d be no garbage collectors if everyone was as intelligent as I am.

Some people are seriously stuffed in the head. The way they think is just so. Well it’s stupid. Wrong. Dumb. All of the … words at the side of this sentence. Sometimes I wish I’d gone around killing stupid people. Although, I wouldn’t have lived long enough. There’s too many of them. God can do his own dirty work as far as I’m concerned.

I reckon if I hadn’t ended up doing what I did, I would have made a great philosophy teacher. Make that an excellent one. I could see myself standing in front of a class teaching philosophy. “You’re all stuffed in the head.” That would have been my first lecture. I would have dismissed the class straight afterwards. Just told them, “Have a good think about what I just said. And write an assignment on it. Due by next lecture. No excuses. I’ll see through them. I’m not stupid.”

Just think. I could have been considered normal. A bloke with a real job. University Philosopher. Just one more anonymous brown-nosed, arse-licker moving through society unnoticed. Making friends with other normals. Being part of the Mutual Appreciation Backslapping Society. I’d probably have been the founder. Who else would have thought of it? I could have had two business cards. Three, even. The third one would have read: Me. Normal Person. And my phone number. I could have dropped it in a jar and won a free gym membership. I could have worn a tweed jacket. And pretended I was interested in people. Not intolerant of them.

I’ve always found speaking to people hard. Maybe if I’d been allowed to get a word in early on, I wouldn’t. But the rot set in early. Real early. Maybe if I’d been allowed to get a word in later on, I wouldn’t have found speaking to people hard either. Or just being around them. But the rot hung around.

If there’s one thing in life people love more than themselves, it’s the sound of their own voice talking about themselves.

If you hadn’t asked me to write all this down, I’d probably die in here without telling anyone a thing. I probably won’t last long in here, anyway. Once they find out what I did, someone will top me. He won’t be in for murder. So he won’t understand. Until he kills me. Then he’ll regret it. And finally understand. He’ll realise he’s no different from me. He’ll probably beg someone else to top him. If he really thought about that, he’d realise by his own standards of judgement, it makes him worse than me. A murderer, and guilty of arranging a hit. On himself.

But if that does happen, when will the cycle end? Who will the last person get to kill him? He’ll probably have to commit suicide and die a failure. Yep. I would have been an excellent philosophy teacher. Maybe when I finish writing this, I’ll write a book on philosophy. Or maybe I could save myself the time, and just submit this to universities to be used as an obligatory philosophy text book.

It’s a pity I’m not allowed to profit from it. But then again, I’ve got nothing to spend the money on in here, anyway. So that’s a bit of a no-brainer.

I like it in here already. I don’t have to worry about anything any more. Rent. My next kill. Nothing. Even the food is prepared. I might even draw up my own business card: Kevin Mader. Professional Writer. Address: C/- Yatala. B-Division. Income: $5/wk. That will impress the chicks. I might even get a marriage proposal from outside. From a chick into literature.

You keep asking me, how did I become a serial killer. And why. I don’t like that term. It makes it sound like that’s all there is to me. That I’m just a label. I’m not.

But I’ll write down the answers to your questions because you’re probably the first person whose ever taken a genuine interest in me. Not a pretend interest. I know it’s your job and all that, and you’re getting paid for it because you’re a psychiatrist, but still.

You’re a lot like me. A listener. By nature. You might even have a really stuffed up background like me. And that’s what made you choose psychiatry. This need to help yourself by listening to others. Convince yourself that by taking an interest in other people, you don’t have to deal with your own problems. Just sweep them under the certificate.

If you were dead I wouldn’t find it difficult to speak to you. I used to open up a bit after they were dead. I felt like I could tell them anything and everything. The best thing was, they didn’t interrupt me. I could speak at my own pace.

Slowly.

That’s the best and worst part of writing things down instead of saying them. No interruptions but no human contact. Life’s like that. A blessing and a curse.

It’s funny how people open up to complete strangers. Or confess to a priest. And say things like, “I’ve never told anyone this before, Father, … mate, whatever your name is … but … “ I think it’s all tied up with religion. People’s need to confess to a fellow human being rather than a God or gods they’ve never met.

Everyone believes in something. Even atheists.

Atheists say the word God more than Christians. “I don’t believe in God,” they say. Every time.

Christians say things like. “I’m a Christian.” No mention of God.

To unburden their consciences. If you stand out in a paddock at night by yourself and confess to a God or gods, it’s not the same as telling someone made of flesh and blood. Even if they’re dead. For some people it’s a priest or a stranger. For me it was always dead people. I always felt better afterwards. But then I’d have to kill someone else to tell them about the last person I killed. It almost makes me glad I got caught.

Maybe if I’d realised I could pay people to listen to me, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have spent my money on what I did. I could have paid someone $125/hr to listen to me. I would have needed a corporate job just to pay the professional listener. Nup. It wouldn’t have worked. I guess I’m just who I am. Me. That’s not going to change. And it’s too late to go back and be someone else. Even though that’s impossible anyway. I’m who I am. I always will be. Always have been. Never won’t be.

“Kevin Mader. Philosophy Lecturer. … And you are?”