Ramona Wilson:

Picture the screen for me if you will.

Ha-ha-ha. I did it! I did it! Crimson wine spills all over the pearly floor. They make murder look difficult; that’s not really true. I convinced this woman I met earlier to come to the bathroom with me. Once isolated, I stabbed her in the stomach and dragged the knife up to her chest. She stands there with wide, pale eyes. She doesn’t make a sound. Blood rains out as she sinks to the ground at my feet.

Funny, I don’t feel a thing. No guilt, no sympathy, nothing. I don’t even know her name. She may be someone’s wife, mother, and daughter. But somehow, I don’t care. I was only curious about what it was like to kill someone before I die. She doesn’t make a sound.

Now that the woman’s dead, it’s time to get of the evidence. I look in the mirror. My leather jacket and jeans have blood on them. I need to clean up the miss first. I look at the floor. Boy, she made a mess as she bled out. I scan the bathroom for my bag. I remember hiding it behind the toilet. I grab it up and open it. I have what I like to call my cleaning supplies in here. This little errand took years of planning, you know? I reach inside and pull out the bleach bottle and some towels. I turn on the sink and dump the towels in. I look down and notice the body. The bitch finally stopped bleeding. This makes my job so much easier. I cut off the water and wring the towels out. One by one, the four damp towels are dropped onto the bloody floor. It’s lucky that I killed her in a small bathroom; less of a mess to clean up.

I look over the floor three more times to make sure there isn’t any blood left. It’s like a pest that you can’t see that ruins everything. I sure as hell am not going to let myself get caught by the police just yet. It all looks white to me. Now, I have to destroy the DNA. I watch CSI too, you know. I bought only the best for a kill like this. The trick is to get every inch with care. I use my shirt to block out the smell of chemicals. Those could even knock out the manliest of men. I leave the door open for a crack to let in the fresh air. The park ranger badge I am wearing on my jacket comes in pretty handy in case some nosy bastard tries to use this bathroom. I’ll just tell them that I’m sick and I don’t need their help. I get on all fours and scrub the blood from the cracks. In the middle of the task, I pause and wipe my forehead. I cannot stop. I force myself to keep cleaning.

Afterwards, I stand up and look around. White as far as the eye can see. I breathe out. Now to clean up myself. My jacket is easy to fix, but my jeans are another problem. Cotton gets stains on it easily. Such a bitch if you ask me. I look down at the body again. Maybe, she might have something to the stains on my pants she caused..

I reach into her little tan purse. Perfect! She has some of that Tide to Go stuff. It was brand new as well. I twist it open and dot it over my jeans. This should take a couple minutes to take effect. I take a paper towel and wet it in the sink. I wipe the blood off of my jacket and look in the mirror again. After washing my face and neck of leftover blood, I am all cleaned up now. I look down at the body once again. Oh, I should do something about her. I brought along trash bags for that. I begin packing the woman into three trash bags that I had leveled to prevent a bigger mess in disposing of the body. She folds up rather easily into a bag. The body isn’t heavy at all. The rush of my deed gives me the strength of twenty women. I tie up the bag and carry it out of the bathroom with me.

It’s all so easy. I just make the kill, clean up the mess, and stuff her into my trash bag. I just drove out to the woods and dropped off the bag. I didn’t care about what would happen after that. I only wish that I could have been there when those hunters discovered the body the next morning. Not a single person noticed me or what I did the day before they found her. Nobody asked me about the bag. The police didn’t even question about it and they stopped me along the highway not once, but twice! They just warned me about an accident along the road and that I should be careful. Either they were so stupid or they just didn’t care that day. The last one didn’t even ask to search my car after he noticed that my license plate was on its last day. Despite that being boring, it did save me the trouble of making up a story about the bag. But just in case, I had planned to tell people that I was going to burn the trash. I just needed to act natural and keep driving. That is what I did until I reached the woods. After that, I just went home, ordered a pizza, watched TV while having beer, taking a shower, and going to bed.

Now why did I do it? What can I say? I did it because I felt like it and I just could. That’s it. I don’t have an abused or broken childhood. I never was a victim in my life. So, don’t limp us murderers together in that depressing shit that you always do; we all aren’t damaged people. I had a boring life growing up. It was just like any other single parent life. My mother was obsessed with going to church and tried to drag me every chance that she could. To be honest, I didn’t want to go. The preacher just preaches the same thing other and other again anyway. Who needs that? I just wanted to stay in bed and shoot things in the woods. I had quite an interest in guns and knives since I was a little girl. I always wondered how something so small and shiny could cause so much damage. The cold metal felt so good between my fingertips every time I pulled the trigger to shoot some bottles and beers cans in the woods that I would find on my way to school. Of course, my mother didn’t like it. But, what did I care?

When I was twelve, I wanted to kill somebody. Not out of hate, mind you. I just wanted to know what it was like. For years, the curiosity built up in my mind. I would even draw out scenarios in my head of how I would lure away any random person and put a bullet in them. The other girls at my schools found me rather odd because of it. I made no apologizes for my murder fascination. Why bother? They wouldn’t understand me. Oh, you should’ve seen it when I brought a knife in a box to show off to them one day during spring in my freshman year of high school. The color drained from their pretty, fake little faces. I got suspended for ten days because of it. I didn’t mind it; it was like a paid vacation. Oh yes. My childhood had its moments.

Over the years, the thought of killing someone only grew. I had many opportunities to do, but no one just sang out to me. Like I said before, I even gathered up a bag of things I would need for the murder. Then four months ago, I met that woman and killed her. I forgot her name now and I don’t even care to learn it again. In fact, my arrest was rather, how do you put it? Anti-climatic. After three days, I got bored and turned myself into the police. Hell, I didn’t even want a trial. I was like, “I did it. Yes, I killed her. Arrest me.” But, they insisted on trying me anyway. I just decided to humor them for the heck of it. Eight weeks led to me being here in prison.

So why her? Why not? She was walking along to her car in the parking lot of that park and she just screamed, “Please kill me.” To me, it didn’t matter who my victim was going to be. I just wanted to kill somebody and kill them now. It took almost no effort to lure her away either. I just convinced her that she left something in that bathroom and she followed me to her death. So easy that it bores me just thinking about it. The killing did make up for it in the end, however. I don’t remember what I did with the purse, though.

Do I feel any remorse for what I did now? No, I don’t think I ever will. It just is what it just is. We done here? You are starting to bored me with your questions. Go talk to Lee in the next cell. She’s got one hell of a story to feed you about her murderous weekend. Sure impresses the hell out of me!