Serial Killers-Personal Narrative Fiction

Every human being has feelings and emotions. When they get frustrated, some of them cry, scream, swear, and some of them try to find peace of mind while some of them commit crime. Out of these people who commit crimes, some of them become the most dangerous criminals, known as serial killer. A serial killer is a term to describe that human being who commits series of murder. The word ‘serial killer’ was given by Robert K. Russler (FBI Investigator) in 1975 after he encountered series of murders. Serial killers are just not murderers but also the victim of bad society or the bad environment in which they grew up in.

Dean see Adriana music hit she walks out in tight leather bottoms similar to Nikki. He notices she is wearing a black Seth Rollins shirt. Roman notice he is staring to long. Dean mind was going to early the day.

America has some of the most infamous serial killers who marked history, serial killers who once didn’t even think to harm any human being. Many people grow up differently from others, some people grow up in a safe environment surrounded with caring people and others grow up in a completely different environment being missed treated by others, therefore are serial killers made or born?

4. Serial killers also show signs of a psychopath though this is not always the case. Psychopaths lack empathy and guilt, are egocentric and impulsive and don’t conform to social, moral, or legal norms. Psychopaths have a distinct set of rules for themselves. They appear normal and are often very charming and charismatic.

     A serial killer is a person whom everybody knows as a friend, a lover or even a father but no one knows about his killer instinct until it's to late. Serial killers have plagued this country and others for many years. They are hard to find and virtually undetectable until they start murdering the innocent.

The worst night came after my mom left us. Why she didn’t take me, I’ll never understand. It was almost as if she’d left me for dead; the result of her absence had an obvious consequence. I wish I didn’t have to take her place, but I did, and now I know how his words feel, stabbing you repeatedly. I know how his hands feel, leaving imprints on my face. I know how her

It was February 12, 2006. My wife and I are about to get ready for the day we’ve been waiting for, we are finally going to seek justice for the man that killed my innocent 4 year old daughter. Since March 3rd I have slept absolutely none, but after today everything will be finished with.

This series follows Lydia Strong, a woman who 's mother was murdered when she was a kid; Lydia also came home one day and found her with her throat slit from ear to ear. She helped the police catch her mother 's killer way back when. This changed who she was, and would effect her development and make her who she would become. Now, she writes about killers-working as a true crime author and investigative consultant- and has an obsession: seeing brutal killers brought to justice.

Sugar spins & vaporizes on my tongue; your skin becomes crystallized. Take me out of my head; make me forget. Steal me from my body for a night. I need your eyes. I need your bullet.

It can be said that most serial killers share some of the same personality traits, such as being characterized as power hungry, charming, and manipulative; traits all of which can be expressed by non-murders as well. So what makes serial killers different from normal people, non-murderous people, but also different from what we think of when discussing people with an abnormal mind? Some say, this specific type of psychopath may be a product of nature rather than nurture. Undoubtedly nurture does play some role in the formation of these covertly manic people. In many cases, such as with Charles Manson, reports of neglect throughout both childhood and young adulthood could have also been a key factor in “making a murder” out of a presumably normal human being, as is discussed throughout many studies of abnormal psychology.

When they woke the next morning, they wasted no time getting ready. They needed to stop by Kate’s apartment before they went to the precinct since she refused to show up to work in jeans and a ratty t shirt, even if she would change into her spare clothes immediately. She still took the time to take a shower at the loft, and Rick suspected it was only because she liked his shower more than her own, even though she insisted that it was only to save time.

This was the first time Kimberly had ever been in jail. The process was not only completely foreign, but also scary. She was going to be booked and put in a cell with other women to await a bail hearing. Some of whom might be in jail for what she’s accused of doing. During the transfer to the police station she pleaded with the officers in the front seat. She tried to explain, but all they commanded her to do was be quiet and to tell it to the judge. Kimberly knew she was doomed. People were desperate. They wanted a face to put to the serial killer and they had picked hers. She was guilty in their eyes and nothing was going to change it. When she came to that realization, she slumped in her seat. She answered all the questions they asked when

Clock strikes and we climb up the stairs to a balcony where the night untraces the constellations of your cheeks

And I was there, too, hoping to find you and say to you, Come back, come back, there's only one street, one door, we didn't mean it, we didn't know, whatever was wrong will be different. Several times I decided you were dead, even wished you were dead, but then another postcard would come, with another message to ponder. And I've always read them, even when my husband said not to, even if they've driven me to tears or rage or a blankness when I've no longer cared if you were dead or anyone were dead, including myself. I've been faithful, too, you see. I've always looked up where you were in the atlas, and put your postcards in the box. Sixtythree postcards, four hundred—odd lines of scrawl: our life together. Why are you standing there like that? my daughter asks me. I must have been away somewhere, I say. But I'm back. Yes. You see, Mother, I always come back. That's the distance that separates us. But on summer evenings, when the windows are open to the dusk, I sometimes smell cities … wheat fields … oceans—strange smells from far away—all the places you've been to that I never will. I smell them as if they weren't pictures on a postcard, but real, as close as my outstretched hand. And sometimes in the middle of the night, I'll sit bolt upright, my husband instantly awake and frightened, asking, What is it? What is it?

My day begins again with a drone of the same ringtone of the alarm. Getting up to open the window forgetting about the same old raven bird that stares at me with its whole black eyes sending you into a black spiral. The sense of nostalgia hits, rain leaves its own scent like the scent of an ex-lover’s. After all eternity doesn’t wait for the past to catch up, you just keep on going with your life as I have. Making my way to the kitchen I avoid all the papers on the floor scattered like a tornado threw up and shredded its life. My hands twitches to grab the phone eager to check for the ghost messages and calls. Putting down my arm as soons as it raises “don’t do it”. I turn in circles to find someone but in its leave was nothing. “ I know” I whispered to no one. The hallway was filled with darkness except for one room whose light was slowly dimming. Darting past the shadowed hands reaching for me I went into the room. Searching for that dark grey raincoat that was hung up on a hanger in the half empty closet.