When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Yeah, right, as if I was getting out of this one.
Bleeding, gasping for air, and dragging myself through the stinking dark alleyways of Westgate, I caught sight of two motorcycles heading my way in my peripheral vision.
On the parallel streets, the wailing of police sirens echoed everywhere, cars skidding and drifting as they moved to intercept and block my path.
But I wasn't backing down. I wasn't about to let them catch me. Not after everything I'd done. Not when my face was plastered across the top of every news site, my facial sketches dominating the most-wanted lists, slapped on walls, trees, and every other surface in nearly every corner of the city.
For fuck's sake, I hadn't even gotten laid.
I kept running, my heart thundering against my chest. One hand pressed against my stomach, trying to stem the bleeding from the bullet I'd taken earlier.
I bit my lower lip hard, a desperate attempt to numb the pain. Taking sharp turns between buildings, I hoped to shake the horde chasing me, it honestly felt like the entire police force was on my tail.
But as if the gods had forsaken me that night, I hit a dead end. A massive wall loomed in front of me.
Spinning around, I heard the roar of motorcycle engines and tires screeching to a halt right in my path, loud enough to scatter the night owls perched on the lamp poles.
"Hands in the air, Steven! You're under arrest!"
"Damn it," I thought to myself as the officers began reading me my rights. "After everything, this is how it ends?" For the first time, it truly felt like the end.
There I sat in the squad car, knowing there was no evidence, no jury, no witnesses that would cast even a shadow of doubt on my guilt, let alone suggest any leniency in my sentence.
Days turned into weeks, and finally, after two weeks in custody, I was taken to court.
Unsurprisingly, I listened as the judge sentenced me to death.
That night, l was provided my favorite treats to eat, knowing they would be my last.
As l munched on my kentucky fried chicken, chugging it all down with a large bottle of coke, l began reminiscing about the past: how l turned out to be what I've become.
(March 2001)
I was a thirteen-year-old antisocial kid who loved nothing more than a thrill. My parents had been estranged ever since their divorce three years earlier, and nothing had felt the same since.
I was bullied at school for not having a steady home, and many of my teachers disliked me enough to turn a blind eye to it or even condone it.
For a long time, I felt like I had no purpose.
That changed when I played my first FPS game. Counter-Strike was a whole different world, one where I felt invincible.
The sheer rush of destroying anyone with a click of the mouse was electric, it felt like a dream I never wanted to wake from.
About a year of playing passed, and eventually the thrill wore off. It started feeling like just another simulation, where I fought and died over and over. It left me anxious.
"Now what? Am I going to slip back into being the soulless loner I was before?"
Fortunately for me, I found another activity to bring the thrill back. Unfortunately for the school, it became my target.
Case #1: School Shooting.
My uncle's stash of unlicensed firearms didn't help my growing fixation on combat and shooting—it only fueled it, acting like a catalyst for the life I seemed destined to live.
The feeling of walking through school with an AR-15 in my backpack was dark and irresistible. But before going that far, I had to be smart about it.
(The night before)
I hopped the back fence of the school and slipped through the entrance that was always left ajar.
"Looks like your poor maintenance finally got to you," I thought as I moved carefully into the building, sticking to blind spots the cameras couldn't catch.
I made my way to the control room and meticulously disabled every camera controller and storage system.
Before I knew it, I was out again.
The next day, as I walked into the cafeteria, I knew no camera would capture me. With that confidence, I cockily pulled out the assault rifle and opened fire.
I murdered 45 kids and injured 34. It was my first and most adrenaline-fueled killing spree.
Though the cops were called, I was long gone before they arrived.
It was unlike anything I'd ever felt: freeing, therapeutic, and above all, fun. My heart raced the whole way home.
When I got there, I was greeted by my horrified mom and dad. They'd heard the news of the killing spree from school and were terrified for my life, treating me like I weak.
The irony wasn't lost on me, the killer being consoled. My bloodlust was finally sated, but I couldn't stop wondering: What if the Investigations Office found me out? What if my plan had even the smallest hidden flaw?
Luckily, after months of fruitless investigation, the case was cold and was officially closed for lack of evidence.
But then I shocked the entire city with another spree: this time, it wasn't confined to school grounds. I could open fire on anyone for the slightest provocation, real or imagined.
A girl rejecting me? I put a bullet into her head. An old woman refusing to give me her purse of cash? I shot her like nobody's business.
I should've felt guilt. Remorse. Something human.
But I didn't. I felt alive, ecstatic, even. Like I'd finally found the piece that had always been missing.
Before I knew it, I'd become a full-blown sociopath.
One who could kill without batting an eye.
TBC