This is my favorite part (aside from the actual killing itself). The research phase. It's just a good feeling knowing there's a 50-50 chance of the person existing. If they don't, I go further along with the plan. If they do, I spend the rest of the day mentally going through with my plan as if they really are my victim.

I keep repeating his name in my head the whole walk home. As I put my key in the door and start unlocking it, I can't help but think of all the potential ways I could go about breaking into his house and knocking him unconscious. I can't wait to go to my laptop and start working -

The door opens and I'm forcefully pulled inside by my arm, then slammed against the closed door.

"Where the hell have you been?" my Uncle demands. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. "Do you realize if CPS comes here for a spontaneous check-in and I have no idea where you are, I'm the one who gets shit?"

"I just sat down in the park for a few minutes," I say nonchalantly.

"What part of 'Straight to school and straight home' is so difficult for you to comprehend, you little shit... ?"

This is my uncle, Billie. My parents died in a car crash when I was 7, and he's had custody of me since. Really, he just does it for the money. He's always drunk, angry, and constantly blames me for their deaths. Maybe that's what gives me the incentive to kill in the first place. I don't know. I've never analyzed the psychology of myself. And to be honest I really don't want to. As much as I hate the guy he's the only thing keeping me out of the foster care system. Though now that I think about it, the targets there would be more vulnerable than the ones at school. This makes me smirk.

"Hey!" He slaps me. "That's your problem, you're always zoning out."

Okay, I'll give him that. I didn't even know he was still talking. My brain will wander a lot and I'll often lose touch with reality. Like I said before - I live in my head. "Can I go to my room?"

He rolls his eyes but lets me go. "I better not see you for the rest of the night." He calls when I'm ascending the stairs.

He won't have to. On nights like these, I'm so pumped about what I can find (really not find) about my next victim. Of course, I've thought about killing Billie, but he's still my family. The only one I have left. Also, CPS would be the first people to notice.

After an unabridged time surfing the internet about Brendon, the only thing I've been able to find is his FaceBook page.

"Rarely used," I mumble.

I write as much information about him in my journal:

Public, but only 133 followers. No girls. Relationship status: Single. Even if he never uses it he would've changed that if he were married. Total loner. His last post was 2 years ago. There's nothing on him. He's a nobody!

My heart feels like it's about to burst out of my chest from excitement. Now all I have to do is follow him home and do the deed. Well, I have to wait for that. For now, I can actually prepare my weapon and gather my materials.

I take the butterfly knife out of my bag and open it to the blade, examining the black color all over. This knife has cut through many veins and seen a lot of blood. I smile at my reflection. It truly is beautiful.

I can't wait for this one.

My materials consist of chloroform and rope, which I keep in my closet. I put them in my bag with adrenaline rushing through my veins. There's a letter opener in my pencil case on my desk, so I use that to sharpen the tip of my blade, smiling the entire time. Once that's done, I carry out some tricks with it in case any of my victims try to put up a fight. I've never been in that situation before because they all just beg, but Brendon's a grown man. There's no telling what he could do. I have no idea what he's capable of.

And I like that.