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The True Story of Connor J. Gordon MAG
I honestly don't know why I am telling you this. I have nothing to gain. I swore to carry this knowledge with me to my grave, to keep my life a secret, but now I feel you must know.
I pray that when I die, God will grant me some kind of mercy, that he'll pity me in any way. I have done horrible, evil things I doubt he, or anyone, could forgive. What I'm about to tell you will change your perspective of what is real and what you thought could happen only in your nightmares.
My life, well, it isn't like anybody else's. The people I have seen, the things I have done … they're horrible. In order for you to understand my story, everything, I will have to start at the beginning.
My mother died giving birth to me. So I've only seen her in pictures. I know deep inside I am this way because of her. Perhaps she was like me and carried this curse (or one of her relatives did). I know I'm not this way because of my father or any of his family.
I always knew I was different, even when I was little. To some I was evil; many believed I was sent from hell to be a plague upon this earth. Humans, well, they're inhuman, cruel even, they mistreat those who are different. They would point, laugh, and beat the hell out of me. Children are much more cruel than adults. I think they fed on my suffering.
The teachers knew I was different too. They thought I was possessed by the devil, like that movie … what was it called? No matter – my father wouldn't allow me to watch such things, said they were too scary for a little boy. I don't believe that; I believe he feared that the things people said about me were somehow true. That if I watched those kinds of movies, I would get “ideas” and sneak up on him with a hatchet or some such nonsense. But my father would kill himself long before I would have the idea or the gall to do such a thing.
I had no interest then, or now, in killing my father. I didn't hate him, but I didn't love him either. Partly I believe he blamed me for my mother's death. And somehow I knew it was my fault. Though we rarely spoke about her, I know my father loved my mother. Her death was his too; it just took a little longer for him to go, is all. He was dead on the inside, and that is the only part that really matters.
I didn't “transform” into what I am today until my thirteenth birthday, when I hit puberty. That was the first time I killed a man. Seemed like a fairly decent guy too. I remember everything ….
That night after the party (and when I say party, I mean my dad and I ate cake and then he went to sleep), I was in my room. The window was open but the moon wasn't out, so you can't say it was because of the moon – don't believe everything in movies and books. I was fine one moment and the next in excruciating pain. I remember every second of it. It isn't anything like the movies. I didn't wake up the next day, naked and confused. I knew what I was doing; I was pretty much in control, except for the hunger, the need for flesh, for meat, for blood that takes over.
I hope you are not the squeamish type, because the things I am going to tell you get much worse from here. I was transforming.
You want to know what it feels like? Well, it's worse than anything you will ever experience. It's like someone has poured an entire vat of acid on my body. I burn all over until the transformation is complete. My skin peels and peels, pound after pound comes off. Layer after layer. Blood pours. I scream, but only low raspy whispers escape my mouth. I feel like I'm on fire. I grow. By the end of the transformation, I'm probably 12 feet. I must weigh a ton as well.
Once transformed, I'm covered in thick blond – that's right, blond – hair. You see, in my human form I have blond hair and blue eyes, and in my changed form I'm still blond and blue-eyed. I would explain it to you further, but I don't understand it myself. I don't know if I am a werewolf or shapeshifter or some other mystical creature. But I do know I'm not the only one. I have never seen another like me, but something tells me there are more.
That night, for the first time, I tasted human flesh. In my changed form, I can see in the dark, hear things, smell fear. What does fear smell like? It's a mixture of urine, blood, and sweat.
Running on four feet feels like flying. I can go 30 … maybe 60 miles an hour. That's a guess, of course. But it's very easy to catch whatever I am stalking. Especially with that hunger that pushes me to go faster, try harder.
I remember the first man I killed. He was waiting at a bus stop – a homeless person, I believe. I can recall his taste – just like body odor smells. You'd think that would have turned me off human flesh for all eternity, but after eating that homeless man, I craved flesh more and more. The more I ate, the more I needed. It got harder and harder to fill the craving.
After reading this I know you will think less of me, but soon that won't really matter, unless you are somehow related to the people I have consumed, then I'm very sorry for your loss. Honestly, I wish someone had killed me or locked me up long ago where I could no longer kill or harm.
When I attacked the homeless man, he screamed bloody murder into the night. It's not like the movies where the monster just scratches up the victim and leaves him there to die. I consume the entire body so there isn't any evidence. I have seen missing people reports on television many times and I know immediately what happened to them. The families are pleading, begging this phantom captor to bring their loved one home safely. I guess I'm supposed to feel remorse or sympathy for these people, but I feel nothing.
First I eat my victim's heart, then the other organs, then the rest including the bones, until there's nothing left. In my rush, I consume the clothing too. Back in human form, my body rejects these things, I've thrown up so many buttons, shoelaces, entire shoes even. It hurts like hell, but my body can take just about anything.
That night after eating the homeless man, I returned home, a naked 13-year-old boy, trembling. I know how drug addicts feel; to me, human flesh was like a drug. I needed that fix. I wanted to feel the high, the power, of taking a life. It makes my hands shake just thinking about it. It's better than any drug.
By my eighteenth birthday I must have killed over 200 people. Each had a face, a name. I can recall everyone I murdered, even animals. Sometimes I got so desperate for meat that pets were the only solution. I was addicted. I know that's not a good excuse.
When I was 15 my father killed himself. I honestly didn't think he had the guts, but one morning I found him on the bathroom floor. He had taken several valium and just laid down and died. It was a pitiful sight.
I never told anybody for fear that I would be sent to a foster home. I knew my secret would come out much faster in a home full of other children. So I kept his death a secret. Why not? The house was paid for, and my father had saved enough money for me to survive on.
I didn't eat his body, not because he was my father and I loved him, but because I feared that the valium in his system might kill me too. So one night, very late, I buried him in the backyard. I haven't thought of him again, until now.
I started working in a grocery store. Odd, huh? Of all places, a grocery store is so … normal. But it was a great place to choose my next victim. I would select the arrogant, the rude, the people who yelled at me for scanning too many cans of soup. I hated my job and this was a way to take out my anger.
I should probably mention that I can read minds, but only evil ones. I can hear the thoughts of the child molesters, rapists, adulterers, murderers. I can always catch someone stealing from the store, because I hear them thinking about it. And I know when someone is going to kill; I can hear the evil plan in their head. I would prefer not to, honestly. The human mind is a disgusting place. Maybe I'm supposed to stop them from doing these evil things, but I don't usually. Maybe that's my purpose in life, to save the weak, to thwart evil. But I never felt that pull. I just wanted to eat.
Then I fell in love. I honestly didn't think I could, but I was proved wrong the first time I saw Alyssa. I will never forget that moment. She was a vision.
That night I peeked through my blond hair that draped over my face and saw her. She was wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red apron. It was love at first sight: I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life staring into her deep brown eyes. Her voice is how sirens would sound calling sailors to their untimely death deep in the abyss – seductive, elegant, enchanting. I would lose touch with reality when she spoke. I asked her to sing to me on many occasions, but she refused; Lyssa was modest, though she really deserved to be the center of attention in every room. Wherever we went, she usually was.
Alyssa knew from the beginning about my curse. She believed me even though she never asked to see me in my changed form. She said she could fix me. I knew this would be impossible; I was born this way, and I would carry this curse to my grave. But Alyssa's love for me was so strong that she believed it could penetrate, break off that part of me, and we would live happily ever after.
Did I believe this? Well, I was at least willing to try to change for her. To quit transforming would be like quitting meth. If drug users could quit, why couldn't I? With Alyssa by my side, I felt like I could do anything. With her help, I would one day be normal.
We tried to come up with a cure or a way to stop me from killing again. Lyssa refused to lock me up. I guess she thought it was cruel. I can change at any time of the day, no matter how I am feeling. I can be in complete bliss, and transform. I can be angry and transform. And I can transform at will. So to stop me, Lyssa would have to lock me up all day and night, and she didn't want to do that.
One night Lyssa worked late. I couldn't stand the hunger and had gone out for a hunt. By the time I got back, naked, and climbed through the bedroom window, she was there. She cried and my heart dropped. Never have I felt more ashamed. I promised not to do it again, but I didn't tell her that the hunger, the need for flesh, was eating me up inside. I was praying for death. Lyssa was the only thing keeping me alive.
One night I came to her with a gun and asked her to pull the trigger. She refused though I pleaded for death. She took the gun and hid it. Now more than ever I wish she had killed me that night. It's like God punished her for loving me. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that's what I believe. My curse was tormenting her, killing her. She just wanted to help me, to have a life with me.
It had been a week, I think, since I had eaten human flesh. I could barely work. My hands trembled. I was sweating. I needed to feed. My mind was racing. Those around me kept asking if I was okay.
At the end of my shift, I felt like I would pass out. I needed to see Lyssa. She was the only one who could help me through this.
I went to her apartment, though now I wish to God I hadn't. She opened the door, and the look on her face was sheer terror, but she did not scream. I remember the last words she said. She told me that I was better than this, that with love and devotion, I could be stopped. She told me she loved me and she continued to say it as I consumed her. I tried to stop, honestly, I did. Her words haunt me wherever I go. “I love you ….” They will haunt me forever.
This is my hell. My sorrow is so deep, I am dead inside. She believed she could change me, and her love, her trust in me, is what killed her. I'm not saying her death isn't my fault; it is.
Now that she is gone, I have the guts to kill myself. And that is what this note is really about. I'm ending my life, running far away. Maybe somewhere cold like Antarctica. My plan is starvation. I don't know if it will work, but my guilt is too much to take.
This pain is unbearable. I can't believe she is gone. It feels like she is still here with me. Inside me. I close my eyes and she is there. I can't breathe; I can't think. I just want this to end. I'm doing this for her. There isn't a way to fix me. I am meant to carry this burden to my grave.
I miss her more every day. My love for her, even after I'm gone, will linger. The love we had for each other, like a ghost, will haunt the places we spent time together.
I doubt you will believe any of this. I'm not asking you to. I'm telling you this story so you will know what kind of person Alyssa Olivia Newton was. I want her family, her friends to be free of the torment of not knowing what happened to her. I want them to know how sorry I am.
I'm done with this life. I have given up. Lyssa told me to never give up. But it's too late. It's too late for her and for me ….
Signed, Connor J. Gordon