I believe everyone gets at least one chance to be legendary. No, not a hero. Not an average Joe who helps the skinny kid getting picked on. I mean a legend. Someone who cannot be forgotten for their great good… or their great evil.
Unfortunately, I am not in the first category.
They put me up there next to Hitler, Stalin, and HH Holmes. I consider myself more of a Dr. Moriarty or an Aaron the Moor.
I may or may not be the most infamous, wicked, and cruel person to ever live. I only say “may” because well, you never know.
It’s actually a bit exciting to know that people view me in such a way, though I mostly don’t care.
Well, I didn’t. Until you.
You know me pretty well, sweetheart, and even if you know me better than anyone else, you don’t know me. Get what I’m saying? Maybe this will clear things up.
My name is Mickey. M-I-C-K-E-Y. Not the girl version. It makes me feel weak when women share the same name as me. I’m not weak, and I’m not effeminate. I don’t have a last name or a past for considerable reasons, because I also happen to be the most legendary serial killer to ever live.
Yes, I am the Red Herring. Why do people call me that? I don’t know. I don’t care. A lot of Strays kill because they like attention. They had a bad time as a kid. They want to feel in control or some other crap like that. (Notice what I did there? How I didn’t cuss? You’ve really turned me into something, haven’t you?)
Basically, they’re just crazy.
Am I crazy? I don’t know. Don’t care. If an IQ of 174 makes me crazy, then heck, oh well. (I did it again.)
I like power, but I don’t feel a need to have it. I know I have power. People who try to usurp my power just make me laugh, but usually, they give it to me freely without any questions or second guesses as to who’s in charge. I’ve never done anything out of revenge or reconciliation. Well, I wouldn’t say never, but it wasn’t because some old guy smiled at me wrong when I was a kid.
I don’t care for attention. I don’t care if no one knows who I am. If I get credit for murdering people or not. I say this only for the sake of expression when I tell you that I do what I do because I want to. (You’re judging me right now. I can feel it. You haven’t even read this, and I can literally feel the judgment.)
So I’m a terrible person. Bad things amuse me. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t have morals. I’m not fair. But you already know all this, sweetheart. This is just my bit of confirmation to let you know that I would never, ever, in a thousand years even think of denying it.
Strangely enough, I still have a weak spot. I know. Even I’m surprised.
I suppose this is the small part of me that makes me human.
And you found it.
I didn’t really know what to do or how to react. I know you didn’t either. So I just sat there in utter confusion trying to muster a response.
You’re probably going to be confused as to why I’m writing this letter. I know. I tried this before, and it didn’t go so well. Thankfully, you burned that without ever batting an eyelash at it.
The truth is, I’m writing this entirely for my own sake. I’m not doing this to ease my conscience because as far as I know, I don’t have one, at least not towards other people, and this is going to hurt me very, very badly.
But I need you to know.
I suppose this is one instance where I will thank God that you never truly learned what sort of monster I am because really, honey, you have no idea.
This isn’t my past. That doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. It doesn’t define me in any way. How I changed doesn’t matter either.
I wouldn’t care to tell you this, but this isn’t just my story. It’s my story about you.
You may not want to know any of this, and I’m sorry. But this is about you, too.
This is my confession. Not to God. Not to society. Not to judges or victims.
This is my confession to you.