I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the sounds of the bustling city outside my window fading into the background. Another day, another pointless existence. I glance at the clock; it's way past midnight, but I don't care. Sleep is for the weak, and I've got nothing to wake up for anyway.

The teachers at school think I'm a lost cause, always giving me those disapproving looks and whispering behind my back. The other students aren't much better, avoiding me like I'm some kind of disease. Not that I give a damn. Friends are overrated, and I don't need anyone's approval.

I live with my grandmother, a frail old woman who's probably the only person in this world who gives a crap about me. She's always trying to talk to me, asking about my day and making sure I'm fed, but I mostly just ignore her. It's not like she understands what I'm going through anyway.

My parents died when I was just a kid, some car accident that I barely remember. Grandma never talks about them, and I've learned not to ask. It's just another piece of my messed-up life that I try not to think about.

As I'm about to drift off to sleep, I hear a faint sound coming from the living room. It's muffled, but it sounds like... crying? I slip out of bed and tiptoe to my door, cracking it open just enough to peek through.

There, in the dim light of the living room, I see my grandmother hunched over the coffee table, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She's clutching something in her hands, a book of some sort, and tears are streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.

I've never seen her like this before, so vulnerable and broken. A part of me wants to go to her, to ask what's wrong, but I know better. Emotions are messy, and I don't do messy.

Instead, I wait. I wait until she finally composes herself and shuffles off to bed. As soon as I hear her bedroom door click shut, I creep out into the living room, my curiosity getting the better of me.

The book is still there, lying on the coffee table like a beacon in the darkness. I reach for it, my hands trembling slightly as I pick it up and examine the cover. It's old and worn, the title faded and barely legible. I squint, trying to make out the words, and my heart skips a beat as I realize what I'm holding.

It's a photo album, and on the front, in my grandmother's shaky handwriting, are the words "Our Family".

I carefully open the album, my hands trembling slightly as I begin to flip through the pages. The first few photographs are of people I don't recognize, but as I delve deeper, I suddenly find myself staring at the faces of my parents. They're smiling, their eyes filled with love and adoration as they hold a chubby, giggling baby.

That must be me, but try as I might, I can't conjure up any memory of these moments. The photographs are few and far between, scattered throughout the album like precious gems. Each one is a snapshot of pure joy and laughter, a window into a life I never knew. It's a stark contrast to the emptiness that has consumed me for as long as I can remember.

As I reach the end of the album, a bundle of papers catches my eye. They're tucked into the back, hidden behind the final photograph. Carefully, I pull them out, noticing how yellowed and brittle they are with age. The papers crinkle beneath my fingertips as I unfold them, realizing that they're newspaper clippings. The headlines jump out at me, the bold, black letters seeming to scream from the page.

My heart begins to race, pounding against my ribcage as I read the words that will forever change my life.

"Young Couple Brutally Murdered in Their Home"

"Police Search for Killer, No Suspects Found"

"Community Mourns the Loss of Beloved Couple"

I read on, my eyes widening with each word. The articles describe the gruesome scene, the blood-splattered walls, and the lifeless bodies of my parents. The police had no leads, no witnesses, and no motive. The killer vanished into the night, leaving behind a shattered family and a mystery that remains unsolved to this day.

Tears blur my vision as a mix of emotions overwhelms me. Shock, anger, and a profound sadness that I've never known before. Why did no one tell me the truth? Why did Grandma keep this from me all these years? The betrayal stings, but it's overshadowed by the sudden realization that my parents didn't just die in an accident. They were taken from me, stolen by some faceless monster who still walks free.

With trembling fingers, I pull out my phone and begin to search for more information about the murder. I scour old news articles and police reports, desperate for any scrap of information that might lead me to the killer. I read about the extensive manhunt, the dead ends, and the frustration of the detectives who worked tirelessly to bring the murderer to justice.

But the trail is cold, the case long since relegated to the dusty archives of unsolved crimes. The killer had disappeared, leaving behind a shattered family and a wound that would never truly heal.

As I sit there in the dark, the album clutched to my chest, a new emotion begins to take hold. Determination. I may have been too young to remember my parents, but I won't let their killer go unpunished. I'll find him, no matter how long it takes or what I have to do.

I glance at the photograph of my parents one last time, memorizing every detail of their faces. They may be gone, but they're not forgotten. And I won't rest until I've brought their murderer to justice.

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