Chapter one

You open the door. The wind cools your face. You have worked for the postal service for years. Antisocial wasn't a strong enough word to describe you. Insane or disturbed would be the words used by some. You hated people, all people. You have never had one true friend. This would make an ordinary person feel lonely. Not you! You enjoyed the quietness, and the loneliness, the truth be told.

Moving your feet as fast as they can go, you swing open your mail truck, slamming it behind you. Time to deliver the mail to these assholes. You start the engine. Pulling out of the driveway, your eyes see your neighbor. Her name is Angelica. She was a gorgeous girl. She was shy and quiet. All the other neighbors gossip. Angelica keeps to herself. She has waved at you once, which you ignored.

You pull into the first house on your route. You think being a mailman would be friendly. The residents don't try to speak with you. They all understand your hatred for people. You pull up to the mailbox and place the letter inside.

You see a little boy playing in the yard. His laughter is annoying to you. He waves. This makes you feel more aggravated. You speed towards the second house. You watch a young lady walk towards her car. You close your eyes, imagining cutting her head off. You picture blood squirting out of her neck. It makes you smile in wonder. What it must feel like to kill someone.

You watch her get into her vehicle. She looks nervous, pulling out of her driveway. This thrills you. You like the feeling that somebody is scared of you. It makes you feel empowered.

You grab a knife from your pocket, slicing your palm. You rub your blood all over her letter and stick it in her mailbox. You noticed her name was Alma.

Alma would be a delightful first prey for me to stock. You often dream about killing people. You have killed random animals and pets that you had as a kid. Your mom has sought psychological help, but no psychiatrist was successful. Some labeled you a devil child. This was a great compliment to you.

You pull into the next house, and an old lady is waiting for her mail. stupid Conte.

"Good morning, sir," she says with a smile.

"It's hardly a good morning," you hiss.

She shakes her head and turns to walk away.

"Next time, don't wait at the damn mailbox," you yell through the window, before speeding off to the next house.

You look back, and she makes the sign of a cross over her chest. You chuckle out loud. God has never helped me, and never will, you think.