Edward H. Clifford
October 8th, 1928
Dear Diary,
My slow descent into madness has not been a quiet one. I feel myself growing more and more aggressive as each day passes. My hands shake, my brow sweats, and even daily phone calls from my sweet mother no longer help me. The voices in my mind overpower hers now. Sometimes a scream escapes that I cannot control. It is a scream of rage. I try to keep my grievances private, but occasionally my roommate will hear me through my locked door. Ever since I was sent to Lawrenceville School for Boys in New Jersey, I have grown farther away from myself. The headmaster found me stomping through the halls at two in the morning last night after several noise complaints from my peers. I was babbling loudly about my desire to kill and that concerned the boys in my dorm building. Some days, I even scare myself, but other days are filled with the fulfillment of my utterly joyful and unquenchable desire for human flesh. I want to feel the warm ocean of blood rushing over me. I want to know what it feels like to wrap my slender, pale fingers around someones sturdy neck. I am only 18, but I am above all of these low-life prep school boys. I am worth more than they will ever be. After all, my father is a billionaire. I hardly ever see him but he gives me beautiful clothes and the sharp ivory knife I always keep in my right hand pocket. I will inherit Clifford Industries and I will bathe in the blood of those who stand in my way. I must go now. My roommate is arriving and my little knife needs something to cut.
E.H.C
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