Character: Andrew Compton

I did not have no prospects in life, only a small amount in the account and an insatiable appetite to kill young men. It turned out, this is enough for me to live the remaining months.

I suddenly realized that I have a talent to leave dark places.
I wanted to hope I find a corner where you want to stay.

I gave the boy-Greek ticket. He touched a finger of my hand, when I gave it back, and for a moment I desperately wanted to slit his throat.

I avoided large gatherings because there is always someone to be there when you want to go unnoticed.

I was too calm, too reserved. To anyone not addicted. I have so always. My interlocutors themselves fit, seeing in me what they need.

I lived, feeling like a representative of a different kind, not human.

I drank whiskey until the room swam before his eyes, vomit in the sink and sober to sleep, losing another love.

Everyone I loved, died long ago. <...> In the world there is nothing left what I wanted to learn, there was fun that I could enjoy.

I never doubted that the body is the last to die of the ego. I saw the last spark of helplessness in the eyes of my boys when they were aware that go to the other world: how could this happen to them? And what is the soul if not the particle of ego, which is not able to believe that she was pushed own treacherous body?

What do they do with the bodies after the autopsy? - I asked to keep the conversation and out of genuine curiosity.
- Throw back as a hit, and sew. Oh, and leave the brain for research. Especially if it's a brain killer. I bet you also stashed a vessel with alcohol, Mr. Compton.

On the court I was called a necrophiliac, not thinking about the ancient roots of the word, its deep meaning. I was a friend of the dead, the beloved dead. And first of all I was a friend of himself and loved himself.

It is wrong to say that I had a pleasure to dissect them to pieces. I have not experienced the joy of mutilation and dismemberment, then yet, but I liked the quiet whisper of the blade. I arranged my men in pristine form: big dead dolls with two red crying mouths instead of one. I kept them for almost a week until the apartment began to spread the smell. There was a smell of death. As if in a vase for too long kept the flowers. Tart sweet scent stuck in his nostrils and reached the throat with each breath.

"You look like a suspicious faggot, drenched in blood," said I decapitated the corpse, but the young mister White England have had nothing to say in his defense.

I don't like, period. I always knew that I wasn't: I couldn't quite go through life, chewing the cud, that will be in my mouth, as do others.