"100 Before I Die" – The Journal of M

Entry #1083 –

Thursday, 7:14 AM I woke up to birdsong. Not the sweet kind, but that ugly, grating screech crows make when they’re fighting over trash. Poetic. My kind of morning. Coffee was cold again. I don't know why I bother brewing it. Habit, maybe. People love their little routines, don't they? Me too. Only mine includes carving initials into my wall—one for every soul I’ve sent off.

Seventy-six marks. Some are fading. I’ll touch them up tonight with a fresh coat of red.

Entry #1083 –

11:27 AM Took a stroll through the park. The mothers with their strollers, headphones jammed into ears, always make me laugh. They trust the world so blindly. It’s beautiful. I picked my next one there. She had a toddler, maybe three years old. Cute. Not my type—too messy. But the mom? Early thirties, lean, the kind that jogs but eats cake at night. She’ll be number seventy-seven. I’ve already named her: Dancer, for how she moved around the swings, light on her feet.

She won’t see it coming.

Entry #1083 –

3:45 PM Went back home to prep. Blades sharpened, gloves replaced. I cleaned out the basement again—God, the blood smell lingers. I don’t mind, but it gets in my clothes, and that’s a risk. There’s an art to keeping your sins from staining your daily life. I wash better than a priest after a scandal.

The camera’s working this time. Last one died halfway through #75, and I missed her final gasp. That one hurt. But I’ll make it up with Dancer.

Entry #1083 –

9:02 PM Dancer’s house was easier to break into than I expected. Single deadbolt. People have so much faith in cheap hardware. She was upstairs, putting the kid to bed, singing. Off-key. Still, something about it made my hands twitch.

I waited. Timing matters. Rushing kills the fun. At 9:41, she came down in a tank top and pajama pants. Hair still damp. She had wine. A whole glass. She plopped on the couch and turned on some reality show. I watched from the hallway—her world so small, boxed into a screen.

She didn’t even get to scream when I stepped out.

Just a gasp.

The toddler cried upstairs. I ignored it.

It took 12 minutes. My favorite number. Dancer tried to fight back with a candle holder. I let her hit me—adds spice. When her blood finally pooled into the rug, I whispered, seventy-seven. She twitched once. Perfect.

I took her earrings. Little silver dancers. I’ll add them to the chain.

Entry #1084 –

Friday, 6:18 AM Rain today. Good omen. I slept well, though I kept hearing that damn toddler crying in my dreams. Might need to do something about that. Loose ends are sloppy. I'm not sloppy. Never have been.

I made pancakes. Real ones, not the instant mix crap. I like the process—mixing, flipping, plating with strawberries that look like little red eyes. I ate in silence. The radio played some report about a triple homicide in Delaware. Amateur work. Bloody mess. No elegance. No message.

Me? I make art. Every kill means something.

Entry #1084 –

1:32 PM I visited my old high school. No reason. Just nostalgia, I guess. There’s a janitor there—old, crooked back, limps when he walks. He used to hit me with a mop handle when I was a kid. Said I was “off.” I smiled at him today, and he didn’t recognize me. I considered making him number seventy-eight. But old bones snap too easily. No sport.

Maybe I’m growing picky. Or maybe I’ve earned the right.

Entry #1084 –

11:00 PM I rewatched Dancer’s footage. The part where she reaches for her phone, eyes wide, blood bubbling from her lip—it gave me chills. The good kind. I saved the clip. Might splice it into a compilation later. I’m planning something special for #100. A montage, maybe. The Symphony of the Century, I’ll call it.

I added Dancer’s initials to the wall: E.L. And ticked the count to 77.

Only 23 left. I’m getting close. So close.

Entry #1085 –

Saturday, 10:12 AM I bought a new notebook. Leather-bound, thick paper, smells like an old library. This journal’s getting too full. I’ll transfer the best entries—highlight reels. Maybe I’ll publish one day. Posthumous, of course. Or anonymous. Let the world wonder.

You know what? I’ll write a book called "How I Got Away With 100 Murders". Bestseller, easy.

They’ll call me a monster. But monsters are just misunderstood artists.

Entry #1085 –

4:50 PM Number seventy-eight is locked in. A dentist. Male. Forty-five. Clean, precise. He’s perfect. Lives alone. No cameras. Took me two days to confirm. Tonight, I’m doing it old-school—scalpel, duct tape, a mirror. I want him to watch himself go.

Maybe I’ll make him beg. Maybe not. Depends on the soundtrack.

Final note of the day: They’ll never catch me. I’m too careful. Too clever. Too... necessary. The world’s full of rot. I’m just trimming the fat.

Seventy-eight. I can taste the century. And oh, how sweet it’s going to be.