Late at night when you're half asleep, you feel that emptiness pulsing, throbbing, choking you, crying out to you. That intense loneliness kills some people, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. I'm a jester of sorts, I pretend, but not for enjoyment, for survival. Being different is wrong; being different can get you killed. I can't be different, that would make everything I've worked towards useless. I've questioned the need to pretend, but all that fighting is useless, you either pretend, or get ostracized. I can't have that.
This school is a prison, it holds me back, violence is my only outlet. How else can I feel? It's not feeling, though, its wasted energy. I still try, I crash into freshman, I harass the faggot, I feel up the girls, disgusting barbaric behavior. That's my mission, though, to get through the day so I can go home and plan. Planning is a beautiful outlet, it takes my mind off of everything, puts it to use, I don't plan just anything, I plan murders.
I've killed 3 times, all blissful experiences. Each of my victims was gay. James Gordon, he was 23. I was in a bar and he hit on me, I took him to my car, choked him to death with his belt, I dumped him in the river, it was fitting, most serial killers dump their victims in a river, that's what I am. A serial killer. John McCollum, 38, he lived alone. I came into his convenience store for a soda and he let slip his sexual preference, I thought it was only fitting that I should have a theme. After days of planning, I caught him after he'd finished closing, dragged him to the alley behind his store, tied him up, and carefully slit his throat. The satisfaction was short lived, though, and I dumped him just like Gordon. Lastly, I killed Frank Karofsky, my uncle. He was cast out from my family, he lived on the south side of town, he led a very quiet, meaningless life, I personally think I did him a favor. He took a liking to me, called me his favorite nephew. He invited me to his house for dinner late last July. I obliged. He hasn't left his basement since, poor thing.
This time is different, I've been planning it since I heard of his existence, sweet little Kurt Hummel, lived down the street, he's been just a bit off since he was a child, his father just said he needed toughening up, but his boy was queer and nothing was going to change that. Planning this since freshman year, I never thought I would be put onto his radar, I think he suspects that there's something more to me than just bullying, I think he hopes it's something good, I don't have to worry about him finding out. Finding out that I'm going to kill him.
I'm 17, someone like me doesn't get questioned by police. Football and hockey player, straight A's, no one suspects me, except for him. I think he can smell it on me, like a sewer rat who can smell fear. So I put my fist down, I pushed him more, threatened him more, the more scared he was, the less likely he was to investigate. I planned a way to lead him off my trail, my notebook was filled with idea on how to get that little shit off my trail, and I thought up the perfect plan, make him think I was on his team, get him to think I was some sort of struggling youth, trying desperately to escape the closet, it was perfect.
So I kissed him. It was forceful, full of anguish, he was terrified, it was perfect. He started running to his friends, and I got scared, a rarity for me, so I let slip I was going to kill him, a promise, he took it as a threat, and left, left the school and me behind. I could breath, I didn't have to worry about being caught with him gone, so I focused on planning, getting him alone, finding his weak spots, getting him to trust me. My notebook was bursting and I wasn't even half done. Kurt Hummel will be my greatest accomplishment.
My father believes in trophies. I have trophies, newspaper clippings, Gordon's class ring. There's a shoebox in my closet full of my trophies. Displaying them would be foolish, so I don't. I steal hours to run my fingers over the headlines, re-reading and absorbing their ignorance.
My name is David Karofsky, I am a monster, it's a fact, I'm not trying to rationalize my obsession. I'm a murderer and I don't have a conscious. I kill for the fun, to smell the sweet fear, the rush of blood and sweat. I live for it, because I don't have anything else, killing keeps me sane. I'm coming for Kurt Hummel, I've been planning it for ages and it's just about time to strike.