The Documentary of a Mass Murderer: Murder House

PROLOGUE | an introduction to a mass murderer

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The tiny microphones were hooked to my black jumpsuit hurriedly as if I was able to viciously bite anyone with the silver metal scraping the skin off of my scarred wrists. I was not allowed anything other than subjective freedom from my own personal little hole that I refused to ever call my home.

This place isn't home to me because I won't let it be. I won't become comfortable being silent, being ignored, being isolated, and being completely humiliated in front of everyone, nor myself. I watched with snickering eyes at the expensive setup.

I let out a humorous chuckle. "All this for me? Why, don't I feel special."

I attempted a joke, but not one acknowledged me or laughed. No one scoffed at me, nor did anyone tell me to blatantly hush.

My eyes flickered to the shivering yellow woman who will be interviewing me for her documentation. She hurriedly flipped through the tan pages she had in her vibrating hands and pushed her fat glasses up beyond her nose bridge. She was getting her blood honey hair styled to the hairstylist poor content, and her blinding makeup was getting touched up by a man.

It's something I wish I could get done for myself. But I stopped wishing a long time ago and I won't start now all because I want a bit of hairspray. This interview, it's nothing I want to do, but I don't really have a choice in doing anything nowadays. I'm not given choices to choose from. I get what I get, and if I don't like it, then I just have to deal with it.

But that's not me becoming comfortable with it, that's just how it is.

"We're starting this thing in five minutes!" The short, stubby man with a mustache shouted in a whispering tone. "Everyone get in position!"

"Looks like I already am," I chuckled.

He cautiously ignored me, just as I expected him too. I was told to speak into the microscopic microphone, which I obeyed, and that was it. The large cameras started rolling and I adjusted in my uncomfortable chair with my scarred confined wrists in my thick lap.

The yellow woman peeked at me for a quick second, only to hurriedly turn away once she realized I had caught her staring. The stubby man with the mustache yelled a few more things out, which I didn't listen to because they had nothing to do with me. Then, the tall lights glared hotter, and the yellow woman with small eyes was now staring at me.

"Would you like to get started with giving a little intel about yourself?" She asked.

I became aware of her foreign accent. She's not from here and neither is her team of cameras and whispering-yelling men. She had traveled here to interview me, and that did not make me feel the slightest bit special.

"No hello?" I joked, knowing she was not going to laugh.

She was plain silent, just as I expected.

I sighed. "My epithet is Abigail White. Some people called me Gail, some called me Abby."

"Who called you which?" She asked, her foot tapping on the ground unconsciously.

I smiled at her foot. "I thought I was the one being interviewed?" I smirked. "Let me finish and I'll tell you."

Her foot stopped its bouncing and she was completely silent.

"It's quite a prolonged story, actually," I laughed just thinking about it. "My old clan - the dead ones! - Yeah, they're the ones who termed me Gail. I know it's wretched, and it's a bit revolting to even contemplate, but they're dead and I feel no remorse, I genuinely don't! - and I know I should, but then again, I should feel and do an assload of things that I don't.