They grabbed me on my way to work.
It happened so fast. All I saw were flashes of badges from different agencies, mostly FBI. Commands barked from all directions: “Hands up.” “Turn around.” “Don’t move.” With all the commotion, I found it hard to know exactly what I was supposed to do. I wasn’t resisting, though I can see how it may have appeared that way to them.
My head jerked from one officer to the next, trying to make sense of the chaos, trying to catch a single thread of meaning in the noise.
In the end, it didn’t matter. A taser shot out from the crowd. Fire shot through my body. I tensed up and fell to the ground. They clambered on top of me, wrestling my twitching body into submission.
Someone read me my rights, the others continued to scream at me.
Through it all, I caught the name of the first person I killed and it all made sense.
I understood why they were there, who they were and why they wanted me so bad that they all screamed over each other.
They had found their man, their target. They were angry, and scared.
There was no need for theatrics. Their tactics could have been saved for someone who deserved it. Then again, I suppose I did deserve all of it and more. I understand that now.
Still, all they really had to do was ask me to surrender. I would have without hesitation.
I can’t fault them, though. There were only four victims to my name, but they didn’t know how deep my cruelty ran. I lured innocent people into the shadows, broke them down, stripped them of hope and dignity. When my work was done, I strangled them and left them to rot.
I never carried a gun. I didn’t need one. Fear was the only weapon I needed and people were obedient when a voice called out from the darkness, an icy hand wrapping around their throat, the voice of a disturbed man whispering cruel things into their ears.
That’s what the police did to me. They used fear to make me docile. So they thought.
The truth? I had no fight left in me. I was tired. Tired in a way that killing never cured. The lies, the late nights, constant stalking. Endless watching. Hiding in the shadows of other people’s lives, aching for something I could never have. It wore me down. The hole inside me had grown too big to fill.
Then there was the charade. Soccer practice, dance recitals, bake sales, chaperoning field trips. Date nights, anniversaries, birthdays, in-laws. Meetings, slide shows, spreadsheets, operations. Data. Data. Data.
Playing the part I fell into before slipping out to play the part I was born to play, the role of the monster, was exhausting.
So I gave up, and gave in. Let them slam me into the pavement, bloody me up nice and good for the cameras. Smear it across my face and let my eyes go angry, my smile turn sinister.
My mugshot made the rounds, went viral. Hair wild and unkempt, nose broken. A face people wanted to believe was evil. My lawyer, a good one who deserved a better client, told me he could make it all vanish. Harassment, abuse. Out on bail. Wrongful this, unfair that, charges dropped.
So I fired him.
We were appointed to one another. I’m sure he was glad to be out of the interview room with me and far away from the madness. I thanked him and apologized, but I was done fighting. I didn’t want the trial to drag on. I didn’t need to fight for my freedom. I did it. Everything they accused me of and more. I did it all.
I struck a deal with prosecutors and handed them everything they wanted. Unfettered access into the psyche of a deranged serial killer. They frothed at the chance, desperate to be the one to earn a name from my case. I watched them scramble over one another clawing for a chance to write books, launch podcasts, build careers on my back.
I gave them every disgusting detail.
They kept me in a glass box and negotiated my value. Not the courtroom. That came later. The real work in locking me away forever happened in small windowless conference rooms on third floors of courthouses in the city.
Proffer sessions, they called them. Closed doors in stale white rooms with plastic furniture made to look like wood. Shining metal legs on the chairs matched my chains as I stared at my feet and recited the horrors for every new interviewer.
There were lawyers, the judge, prosecutors, detectives, reporters. All walks of life stopped by the zoo to watch the creature they had locked in chains. I danced for every peanut thrown into the exhibit.
I spoke. They listened. I told them about every body, every cut. I drew out diagrams in their yellow notepads to show them how I arranged the bodies. Most of it was true, but none of it mattered. Each confession was a building block to their success, another brick to my prison.
They didn’t want the man. I was worthless to them as a man. They wanted the monster, the spectacle, the proof that their cages were necessary. The more gentle I became, the less they cared; the darker I became, the more they applauded, even as they called for my chains.
So I danced for them. I gave them the show and proved my value to them.
I never knew their names until after their murders appeared in the news. Even then, I did my best not to learn their names or see their faces.
But I told the reporters that I would cut out newspaper clippings, print out articles and stare at them for hours on end. Every second I managed to escape my family, I was staring at pictures of the girls. It was a lie. A shameful show for the hungry wolves. When police confirmed they found nothing of the sort in my residence I simply declared, “and you never will.” The mystery festered and turned into a legend. People turned in binders of clippings and claimed I asked them to hold onto it for me. The lies built, I rejected them all, but a few names stuck to mine as the interviews went on.
But the monsters get boring. Once the shock fades and my name gets into the hands of every wannabee breaking into the industry, it loses value. The books, the podcasts, the headlines, they all fizzled out sooner than I expected. Good riddance.
Then came the sentencing.
Families of the dead, lovers left behind, friends with no one to call at the end of a hard day all gathered to tell me the cruelty of my actions. Voices cracked under the weight of their grief. Rehearsed, but no less sharp. They clutched photographs of my victims in their manicured hands as they called for my forgiveness from high powers. Mothers spoke of emptiness in their lives. Fathers tried to remain steadfast, not allowed to grieve, not allowed to falter in the eyes of their family. If he broke, they would all break. So he refused. The fathers clenched their jaws and stared at me, wondering how they could hurt me the most, but knowing they didn’t have a chance. I was safe from them, but they would never be safe from me.
The judge listened, solemn, his face carved from stone, not giving away a single thought that crossed his mind as the words painted the courtroom with my deeds.
Prosecutors drooled. They wanted death. Finality. Closure for the families and a notch on their record. Monsters slain, plus one.
At the time, I don’t know if I would really have called myself a monster. I was the product of all I had ever known, a creature pushed to become one thing and one thing only. I was as I was instructed to be. I never faltered. Never revealed my pain. I never gave in to my emotions. I was always ready to be sharp and focused, intent on death. Ready to lose and to die.
The judge left me with a long winded speech about having to suffer a longer life with no end in sight. But he didn’t know the real me, just the version that had been specially curated for him in that room.
Freedom for me, wasn’t what I was promised as a kid. I needed to escape.
I wanted death.
But they gave me life.
I settled into the monotony of prison quicker than I expected. My own cell. Made friends with other estranged husbands and fathers. All of us lifers.
Every morning, we woke up at six for headcount. Lined up inside our cells. A loud buzz, then the doors clanged open. We shuffled into a single file line and headed to the mess hall where other prisoners ladled slop into our trays. Gruel too salty or too bland, never in between. The other fathers and I developed our own ranking system for the slop. Some gruel was better than no gruel, and now and then we even looked forward to some of the higher ranked gruel.
A few of the wives of our group were good cooks, others preferred the gruel to what they were fed at home. On days where things were rough, when one of my new friends had a heart attack and had to spend time in the infirmary, we would reminisce on better meals. Those days, the gruel seemed worse.
Our thoughts stayed within the group. The cooks took pride in their work and some of them tried their best to make the meals more palatable.
I grew fond of the grits. Hated the powdered eggs. Fish patties were horrid and gray as ash, but the chicken stew almost tasted good. We became inventive, mixing commissary snacks into the slop, turning the worst meals into something edible.
After breakfast, came work. Long stretches of labor, interrupted with a short lunch. Even in the confines of prison, we were unable to escape the soul crushing day to day of going to work. Eight am to four sorting sheets and jumpsuits, feeding them into yawning steel mouths that spit them out steaming. The work is steady, the heat relentless, and I sweat through my shirt every day.
Despite the exhaustion of it, there was a tranquility to the job. A strange peace awaited at the end of a long shift. I sweat like it was a good workout. I traded jokes and stories with whoever worked alongside me that day. Nobody told me I was folding wrong. No one sneered that real men don’t wash clothes, despite being the only one washing the clothes. No ambition hung over my head because there was no pay raise, no corporate ladder to climb.
Nothing to prove. No one to prove it to. Just life to life stretched out in one long routine. Endless folding, endless laundry. No hopes, no dreams. No failing. Almost pleasant. Almost a dream.
Inescapable.
After working, we’d get time in the yard. Some played sports. Some walked or ran in circles or lifted weights. I liked to walk. Sometimes I ran but after sweating it out in the laundry every day and the meager food they served in mess, I didn’t have much energy for anything too strenuous.
I let my thoughts determine my limits. Sometimes, the anger rose and I found myself sprinting to exhaustion. Other times, I ran into my friends and we took time to trade barbs, push weights and reminisce about life when we were young enough to care.
After that, sometimes we hit the showers, but usually it was direct to lights out. Line up. Headcount. Lights out. Then we owned the night within our own cells. Brush teeth. Read. whatever we wanted to do for as late as we wanted to do it.
I often laid awake and thought about my kids. I wasn’t allowed to have any pictures of them, but that was fine. I didn’t want some of these other inmates here to get their hands on them anyway. Thinking of them was when the reality of my sentence caught up to me. That time alone in the dark with nothing but my thoughts to entertain me was the real prison.
There was a crack in the cement of my cell that I liked to stare at. It was at the direct center of the wall opposite the bed as if someone had stood up from the bed, leaned their head down and ran full force into the wall, cracking the cement and their skull at once.
That crack became mine for all the entertainment it had to offer until I drifted off to sleep, chasing another day in the endless routine of the rest of my life.
That was the rhythm. Day after day. Week after week. Sprinkled every so often with a small disruption. Some days I had therapy appointments, lawyer visits, an occasional interview thinking that someone else missed something. They didn’t.
A stabbing or assault would change things up, but we kept to ourselves and let it pass and soon enough, the routine carried on.
Until one afternoon, a guard came to get me.
“Visitor,” he said.
His name was Deandre and he was young, maybe mid-twenties. Tall, broad shouldered. The uniform seemed custom-tailored to fit him despite the standard-issue of it all. He was always first to respond to violent incidents. In my time there I had seen him send at least a dozen inmates to the infirmary. He was tough when he needed to be, but he also got along with a lot of us. Even me. We knew the kind of person he was. He was there to do a job, whether it was a tough day filled with violence, or just another day slogging along, he’d be there with a smile on his face.
“Who?” I asked, expecting the usual.
“Your wife,” he said.
Blood drained from my face. I nodded and stood, placing my hands through the little slot in the door. He placed cuffs on me, I took a step back, the door buzzed open and I stepped out of my sanctuary.
“You alright?” Deandre asked.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I was. He could tell, but he didn’t say anything.
I followed him through the halls of the prison, hands bound in front of me, until we arrived at the meeting room.
Most prisoners shared a single visitation space in general population, but one small perk from all those interviews with the FBI, profilers, and the press was that I had a private room for visits. A guard was always present, but that was fine. It felt like having a friend in the room. I was glad it was Deandre. Other guards weren’t so quiet or cordial during visits.
Deandre had stood silent through horrid recounting of my murders, yet treated me the same as he did everyone else. Never stood an extra foot away, never shook his head. It was as if his mind turned off and he let my words wash over him.
It could be that he was that good at his job. Or maybe he knew I couldn’t hurt him even if I wanted to. Either way, I was thankful for his calming presence that day.
The door opened, and there she was. I practically collapsed at the sight of her. Her scowl was sharp and familiar, her posture perfect, trained. She held her arms folded against her chest and she raised an eyebrow when I entered, but she didn’t turn to look at me.
I slid into the seat across from her, the chains clanging and rattling with each movement, a grim little symphony we didn’t need. She let out a slow, deliberate sigh.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” I said. “How are you?”
Her gaze lifted. Eyes like daggers pierced mine. Cold and precise as if reaching in and ripping out my heart as we spoke.
“Do you not want me here?” she asked.
“No, that’s not what I said,” I replied.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yes, thank you for coming. How are the kids holding up?”
“Those kids,” she said, shaking her head, eyes rolling and looking everywhere but at me. “I swear, they're going to be the death of me. One won't do his homework. His grades are sinking. I keep having to pick up Josie myself because your son is always in detention, fighting, talking back. I’ll be cooking his breakfast until he’s forty. I swear.”
“And how's she?” I ask.
“She's...you know. She's how she is. Impossible. Always quiet. I never know what to talk to her about. It's like talking to a wall. I yell and shout but nothing gets through to her.”
“She can write to me. I can write back. She and I were always close.”
Her glare sharpened.
“They don't ask about you. They did at first. ‘When’s dad coming home?’ But that stopped. I think they figured it out. I mean it's all over the news. They have phones. I’m sure the kids in school aren’t making it easy for them. Now I'm stuck being the mom and the dad. Everyone says what a good mother I am. I don't need them to tell me though. I know I'm a good mother. Not that you've ever been any help. Running around. All this time. I thought you were busy with work. You lied to me.”
“I did. I'm sorry.”
“Oh, you're sorry. Sorry?” She hissed. “That's all you have to say? Do you know what people are saying? What they're calling me? These people think I couldn't keep you. Like it's my fault. And those women…what did they have? How are they so much better than me that you had to sneak away to be with them?”
“Be with….be with them? I didn’t—those weren’t affairs. I murdered them. I wasn't spending a romantic weekend with them, I just, I had this thought in my head and once I had that thought, I couldn't stop myself. It was an addiction, a compulsion. It wasn’t about cheating.”
“Oh please. I've seen pictures of them. You always had to pick the pretty ones, didn’t you? Like you were making some kind of statement. I know what you were really doing—you wanted me to notice. You thought I got ugly since having kids? You think it was easy for me to watch my body fall apart on me the way it did?”
“No, it isn’t anything like that,” I said.
“Don’t think I don’t see through that. Those girls, they weren’t better than me. They were just… placeholders. Dolls you broke because you didn’t want to touch me anymore. And in the end, all anyone will ever talk about is me—the wife who stayed with the monster.”
"They're dead. I murdered them. They weren't—my therapist, she's helping me understand.”
“Therapy? You think talking to some woman who’s paid to pretend she cares makes you better? Please. She’s not fixing you, she’s feeding your ego. You'll do anything to avoid admitting that you did all of this to hurt me.”
“Maybe I'll realize that as I work through these things.”
“How are you able to call yourself a man? Talking about feelings and begging for forgiveness. Some big, bad killer you are crying to a therapist.”
“That's not what it is. Don't belittle the work I'm doing.”
“The work you’re doing?” Her voice rose almost to a shout. Deandre adjusted in the corner, reminding her to stay calm. “Look around. You’re in prison. You’re going to die in these walls. You’ll never set foot outside ever again. What’s the point of therapy? Your life is ruined. It’s over. You’ll never make up for what you did to me. You’re worthless. Even if therapy helps you realize that, it won’t stop it from being true.”
“Stop.”
“Oh, am I hurting your feelings? Cry to your therapist then. A real man protects his family. You? You destroyed yours. Maybe while you’re in here you’ll learn what real men look like. Hopefully during a nice shower.”
“That’s really not—”
“People look at me. Everywhere I go. I had to change salons, use a fake name. I had to buy a new car because mine got vandalized. All because of you.”
“Well, do you want to get divorced? My lawyer said it would—”
“Divorced? You think you have the right to divorce me? What, so you can go marry one of those little sluts who write to serial killers in prison and marry them? Oh, I know all about them. Is that what you want? You’ll probably kill them too. Maybe I should divorce you and let them learn a lesson for writing to some serial killer. Divorce. Are you kidding me? After all I’ve sacrificed, all the humiliation?”
“No, people would see that—”
“It’s bad enough they think I can’t make you happy, now you want to leave me after all I’ve done for you? I stood by your side even though you went out, lying to me, looking for other women. You think you can cut me off like I’m disposable? Go ahead. Divorce me. The kids will hate you forever. I’ll make sure of it.”
“It would make things easier for you.”
“For me or for you? No. When I’m ready, then we’ll talk about papers. Until then, nothing. Understood?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
A clock ticked away in the corner of the room, protected behind wire mesh.
“I should be the one in therapy,” she muttered to herself.
“It might help. You might find some relief,” I said.
“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? No one gives me sympathy. No, I get judged. They accuse me of helping you. Can you believe that? If I was helping you, you wouldn’t be locked up in here, I can assure you. Not that I would help you with all these little sluts you’re running around with. No, you can’t do anything right. I’m surprised they didn’t catch you sooner. You can’t even pay the bills on time or take out the trash without me reminding you a thousand times. I should have known. You were always weird.”
“That’s not true. You don’t need to say these things.”
“Oh? So what should I be saying? Should I be pitying you? Asking if everything is alright in there? How are the showers, huh?”
I stay silent and take a deep breath as she continues to berate me like she always did and always will. My mind wanders off to the mess hall, wondering what slop they’d be serving for dinner.
“I should strap the kids into the back of the car and drive off a cliff,” she said.
“Hey, don’t say anything like that.”
“Oh, please. You suddenly care about the kids?”
“I’ve never stopped loving them and I never will.”
“And yet, you’ve destroyed their lives.”
“I didn’t want to. It was a drive, an addiction. I couldn’t stop myself. I tried. I really did. Every time I went out there I tried my hardest to push the dark thoughts away. Those kids and the pictures of them I had in my wallet were the only things keeping me from giving in any sooner. Those kids need all the love and support they can get right now. Please, don’t even say you’ll hurt them.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, eyeing Deandre and speaking in a huff. “I wouldn’t hurt them. I’m a great mom. You know that. No thanks to you. I’m just saying, they’d be better off not having to suffer through the storm of journalists, or the attention they have on them. But you don’t need to worry about it anymore. You’re locked away with killers and perverts like you. No, I’ll take care of everything like I always do. I don’t need you. Every time I walk out my front door, I’m the one paying for your crimes. You’re the reason I’m drowning out there, while you float in here. At least you don’t have to juggle soccer practice, mortgage payments, and neighbors looking at me like I’m trash because of what you did. I’m the one actually serving the sentence. I have to work, pay bills, take care of the kids, keep the house together. But you? You just sit here. Three meals, a bed, nothing to worry about. Must be nice…like you’re in some twisted little spa for murderers.”
Deandre clears his throat and points to the clock.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but time is up,” he said. “We need to get him back to his cell.”
I lean forward, my eyes welling with tears.
“Tell the kids I love them. I always will. And tell them I’m sorry. Please. I really am. I’m so sorry any of this happened to them.”
My eyes burst into tears at the thought of them being out in the world dealing with the hateful eyes of society. It was his burden, not theirs. She’s right. He should be the one getting punished for them but it’s like they’re fulfilling his sentence.
She tilts her head, lip curling into a half smile, then she lets out a half chuckle.
“Love? That’s rich. You only remember how much you love us when it all comes crumbling apart. I’ll tell the kids something. Maybe not what you want. But something. Remember, I tell them what I want to tell them.”
She gets up and slides her purse strap over her shoulder. The door buzzes open and she walks away, her heels click clacking down the hall. She doesn’t glance back, she doesn’t offer anything.
I deserve it. I know I do. Every brick of my cell, every bar keeping me inside. I hope the kids understand better than she does. They won’t. They can’t possibly. They’re far too young, too fragile, too tangled in the wreckage of my crimes. Maybe someday one of them will walk through those prison gates, sit across from me, and give me the chance to say the words I’ve been carrying: I’m sorry. Sorry for what I did. Sorry for how I failed them. Sorry for ruining the one thing I was supposed to protect—their lives.
That knowledge, the guilt of their lost lives, hurts me worse than the sentence handed down by the judge.
“C’mon, man,” Deandra said. He clamped onto my arm and pulled me up like I weighed nothing.
We walked the familiar path across the prison, every step pushing me back to my own personal Hell. I stepped inside and back as the door slammed shut. Then I stepped forward for Deandra to remove the handcuffs. Normally, he would unlock them and walk away without another word. Every other time had been after an hours long interview with someone prodding into my crimes.
This time was different. He held the chains in his hands, staring at them, lingering. Then he looked up at me through the bars and for one unbearable moment, I saw pity fill his eyes.
“You’re safe in here,” he said. “She can’t hurt you anymore.”
My throat tightened. I nodded, choking back the sob trying to claw its way out.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded once, then turned and walked away. His boots struck the concrete in steady rhythm, echoing through the cavernous hall until the sound thinned, faded, and dissolved into silence.
I laid back down on my bed and stared at the cracked wall where the inmate before me smashed his head.
The guard’s words echoed in my thoughts as I thought back to my kids. She can’t hurt me anymore. Not me.
Safe. That was me.
But them? My kids were trapped with her. Still walking through a minefield every day, praying she wouldn’t notice the wrong look, the wrong word, the wrong silence. I failed to protect them in a way I never realized.
Safe. Maybe. But every night I close my eyes, I see their faces. I hear her voice. And I know that whatever she does out there, I’ll feel it in here.
I hoped for death, but they gave me life.