Dear Kendra: Journal of a Female Serial Killer Volume 1 & 2

I was born on February 14, 1970 at 5:35 a.m. My mother was pronounced dead at 5:37 a.m. Women had not achieved equality with men in any country. Four students at Kent State University in Ohio were killed by National Guardsmen at a protest about American incursion into Cambodia. The unemployment rate stood at 3.5 percent. The cost of a first-class stamp was six cents. The Beatles broke up. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin both died drug-related deaths at age twenty-seven. IBM introduced the floppy disk.  
 
Yes, it was quite a year.  
 
Possibly, it was even more so for my grandmother. My mother had died that year and I never knew my father. My grandmother said that the angels came down one night and took my mother away from her pain and suffering. I asked my grandmother once if I could visit my mother’s grave and her response was, “Your mother isn’t buried anywhere dear, she is everywhere.”  
 
I never asked again.  
 
Grandmother also told me stories of my father and said that I got my looks and personality from him. I can only confirm this through photos she had of him when he was younger.  
 
I was somewhat of a tomboy as a child, which I suppose explains the person I am now. I once punched a girl in the face at school, causing blood to spurt from her nose. That happened when I was in first grade and I suppose they should have seen the signs then. However, my grandmother always came to my defense. The other girls at school were always making fun of my clothes and the fact that I wore jeans all the time. I hated dresses and only owned one, which I wore to church every Sunday. God forbid if I got that dress dirty, then I would have to face the music with my grandmother.  
 
My grandmother’s house was filled with items and knick-knacks. Pictures of all sorts lined the walls, as did furniture and lamps. She even had a collectible circus train built into the wall that ran on a small track just below the ceiling. Even though the house was filled with these objects, it always felt so empty. Objects symbolizing structure and life, yet no life was to be found. 
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“Hi, my name is Cassandra, my grandmother is crazy, I wear nothing but black clothing these days… oh yeah, did I forget to mention the fact that I am carrying on the family business? What? Oh no… my dad never owned a bakery or flower shop… No, my father is in the killing business. Yep, that’s right, he kills people for a living. What? Yeah, I think I may be carrying on his legacy.”  
 
I am so confused right now. I am also angry as all hell at my grandmother. That crazy God-loving witch is going to pay for this some day. I’ll figure out something later.  
 
Right now? School is still the same. Even without Tiffany there, the kids still treat me the same. One kid asked me if I was going to a funeral. I responded with a simple, “Yes, yours.”  
 
Boy, would I love to take him into a dark alley and rid him of this earth. He and Tiffany could have a prom date in hell for all I care. All in due time though.  
 
I started reading about the Wicca Religion. I am really tired of organized religion. Seeing people go to church every Sunday, yet, committing sins the other 6 days of the week. As if contributing money to the basket every Sunday is an atonement for the week’s atrocities. All the lying, cheating adulterers who come in on Sunday services and expect to be forgiven. The hypocrisy is sickening and maddening. Yet, it somehow feeds me. Their lip service is intoxicating.  
 
I am beginning to understand what my father was writing about. There are many people in this world who shouldn't have been bestowed the gift of life upon them. They are just wasting it. Drugs, prostitution, leading a mundane life.  
 
Grandmother says that we should be “Living for the Lord”. Whatever that means.