I remember sitting on the sidewalk with her blood stained on my hands, smiling at my very first murder. The night had been beautiful, a full bright moon and a clear sky, a perfect night and there hasn�t been one like it since. It�s funny how some things stick with you threw the years and others don�t. I had only been twelve at the time yet I remember that night as though it had just happened even though the events after are all blurry. Maybe it�s because that was the first time I had taken someone�s life from them, or maybe it has stayed with me so well because it was my mother�s life that I took.

I left her there in the bedroom, laying on the bed naked like the whore she was. And that would be how the cops would find her, bloody and naked. They�d think it was a rape and murder and certainly would never look at her only living son as the suspect. No, I was the victim, the little boy who tragically had his mother taken from him by a sex-crazed pervert.

The more I killed, the more natural it became. It was like a drug, I couldn�t stop once I started, that was until I met my first employer. He taught me to fire a gun, use it. He was the one who taught me which people needed to be killed and who should be spared. I don�t even remember his name now, but I remember everything I learned from him.

As the years went on, my killing slowed down. I no longer needed to kill for a high. I no longer killed for fun. The fun had vanished, washed away with my childhood. It happened after I met Brent McFarlen. From then on in, I became more concerned about doing my job well.