Of course I did it. I brought Mackenzie to my cabin, telling her that I wanted her to meet my friends. She happily came with hardly a thought. She loved me. Then I killed her. If I could feel things like compassion, love, happiness, sadness, or regret, perhaps I could have loved her back. Unfortunately, I don't know what any of those things are. But, I sure as fuck can pretend I do.
The problem was, she lied to me. She told me that she hadn't told anyone in her little group of friends about me yet. But she did tell one of them, her best friend, Anita. She told her all about where I was taking her, and how long she would be gone for. It fucked me. I realized how fucked I really was when I saw Anita and some others on the television crying and begging for whoever it was that took Mackenzie away to bring her back. Obviously I couldn't do that. I chased her around with that knife in those goddamn woods for an hour before I finally dug it into her back. Now she's buried out there with my other seventeen ex-girlfriends, the random girls, and some of their boyfriends.
Now tell me, how the fuck am I supposed to bring her back?
I was sitting in the cold-grey room, waiting for that moronic asshole detective to come in. I was nervous as all hell. They could have had so much information on me. They were about to find the cabin, but they needed my brain to tell them where everyone was buried. They also couldn't definitely say that it was my cabin. It would all just be Anita pointing her finger at me in a line-up. It was just a random, small building I came across when I drove out that way to bury the first girl I took out there. Still, I worried what else they might have to hold against me.
“Mr. Gardner,” Detective Morras said, entering the room.
“Yes,” I replied, standing up.
“Please sit, we're going to be here for a while,” he said.
“What's happening?” I asked, playing dumb.
“Oh, I think you know,” he said, obviously resisting an urge to smirk, possibly laugh in my face.
“No, sir, I don't think so,” I replied.
“We believe that you had something to do with the disappearance of, Mackenzie Potts,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I replied. “I don't have anything to do with that. What the fuck?”
“We have information that puts you with her within a few days of her missing persons report,” he said.
“This is bullshit,” I snapped. “Who said this...tell me who fuckin' said this.”
“We have a testimony from an Anita Lowemen saying that she went out to some sort of cabin with you,” he said.
“Great, words from some random person who thinks she knows something,” I replied.
“We also have this,” he said, pushing a picture towards me.
It was a photo of Mackenzie and myself at the gas station where I filled up my spare can and car. That was it. I was fucked. This specific portion of my life had brought me to the end, landing me in prison, and cutting off every way to do what I do. I sat back in my chair, locking eyes with that moronic asshole. My fingers were tingling, and my heart was beating out of my chest. I took a long, deep breath, taking in the enjoyment of my last memory of slowly removing flesh from a body to eat it.
“So what now?” I sighed.
“Is that you?” Detective Morras asked, his smile coming though.
“Yes it is,” I replied.
“And that is, Mackenzie Potts?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Where is she now?” he asked. I leaned in close, my own smile streaming across my face.
“Here and there...I ate most of her,” I smirked. His face went white.
“Excuse me?” he exclaimed. “What did you do?”
“I stabbed her to death, and then spent the following three days eating most of her,” I said.
“Excuse me,” he replied, standing, his hands shaking. He went for the door, his movements stuttering as he tried open it.
“Take yer time,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
I spent the next two weeks between a jail-cell and a small room where I had to disclose everything I had done. I didn't have to give them everyone's name, but I did, just to relive a memory I had kept and cherished. They asked me how I killed each person (knives, blunt objects, suffocation, drowning, hanging, beating, biting out their jugulars) and where the bodies were buried. With every word I spoke, I knew I shouldn't be giving them more than what they were asking for, but the looks on their pale faces as they grew even paler and green made me keep going. And then when they brought me out to my cabin to point out where everyone was, I knew it was over. I'd never see that place again. They confiscated my tools that were there, my (buried) jars of preserved and dried meat, and I was even told that they would be tearing the whole thing down.
The media called me (in-human) a monster. My family denounced me. My friends never came to see me. The public wanted me dead for my heinous crimes. When I was sitting there listening to all the relatives tell me that I was evil and should be put down, I could only cry for me. I was the one that was going away forever. To a place where I would be pushed around and beaten nearly everyday. Despite what I had done, prison was no place for me. Even though I had killed and ate thirty-seven people. I'd do it all over again no problem, with no regret. Whatever that is.