I came into this life thirty-nine years ago. My mother was my family. She raised me fatherless until I was nine, when she hooked up with a man. He would turn out to be Gay.

When I was nine, I had fantasies about causing pain to others. I enjoyed squashing insects, pulling their wings and legs to see how they would react. I got a thrill when I squished them between my fingers. Sometimes, I would hold the insect up to my face, smile, whisper goodbye, and then focus on what happened.

“I can do what I want. You are an insect. You are nothing to me.”

 These words, especially the act of killing the creature, made me feel special. Bedwetting was something I couldn’t control. It was humiliating, and my mother would punish me. I found that killing insects and setting fires gave me a sense of power, of being in control.

Mother would sometimes lock me in the closet, scolding me for ruining my bed, telling me how Jesus wept when I pissed the bed. Then she would place me over her thighs and spank me with her hand, leaving welts. I got used to her spankings. Before long, she tired as her hand got sore. I knew I was stronger each time she stopped. I knew it was because she had quit. I won.

My mother met and married a man when I was nine. He was ok and paid our bills, but it wouldn’t last. Soon after they got married, he realized he was Gay. So they separated, and he continued to pay for us. Mother resumed her work. It was the thing she knew to do. She was a sex worker, on top of being a religious person. She was a contradiction.

 Mother sent me with Michel for the summer, saying I needed to learn to be a man. Michel accepted. I could tell by his narrowed eyes he wasn’t happy about accepting the responsibility. And maybe he felt he could be a beneficial influence on me. I wanted to see more of life. I understood nature had plenty of tiny creatures. I would be with him from the end of June through August, two months, with plenty of time to have fun.

My mother, Violette, was trying to make more money and couldn’t have me in the way. Her clients came first. Food, shelter and clothing cost money.

Michel, my stepfather, brought me up to his Chalet in the Lanaudiere region here in Quebec. The Chalet was a log cabin on a bluff overlooking the village of Sainte-Beatrix, a small, populated town. Close to the Chalet flowed the Assomption River, one of the major rivers in Quebec. There are also plenty of lakes, one just a short walk from the cabin.

Michel was with his friend. They didn’t hide their kissing all the time. I don’t care. Seeing their mouths locked together as Mom did with men is fascinating. One afternoon, all three of us were fishing in a small boat. I saw them sitting together and wondered how they would react if I fell over. I couldn’t swim well at all. The lake was crystal clear. I could see the bottom. It looked deep. The more I looked down, the more I felt pulled. I let out a little scream to attract attention and let myself fall into the cold water.

I hit it and felt the shock of cold water on that hot day. The contrast felt strange. I struggled to stay at the surface, arms flailing, legs moving as I tried to yell, swallowing water as I felt myself sink. I heard someone speaking, then a splash, hands grabbing me, pulling me up. Michel was holding me up, keeping my head above water, as he reached the side of the boat, pushing me up to where his friend could grab me and pull me back to safety. Michel followed. Once onboard, they covered me in a large beach towel, rubbing my shoulders and arms to warm me up. I didn’t feel upset or scared, just fascinated by their reactions. I would have done nothing to save someone from drowning, not even if I could. Instead, I would have been mesmerized by the struggle.

I pretended to cry while seeing how to take advantage of their concern for my well-being. The men brought me back to the cabin, enquiring if I hurt myself or felt pain. I gave my best sad face, made whiny sounds, and asked for my mother.

Michel said we should get pizza and ice cream since they already needed groceries. I begged out, saying I would sit and watch a video. They agreed and left me alone.

I waited. I wanted to be sure that Michel and his boyfriend were far enough away. Thirty minutes passed, and the wristwatch told me enough time had passed. I looked around, finding cigarettes Michel had left. I placed an ashtray beside the fireplace, ensuring it rested on some newspaper. Then, taking one of my stepfather’s cigarettes and lit it until it burned, letting it rest on the paper as if it had fallen from the ashtray. I waited to see the fire take hold, catching the wood next to the fireplace, then the sofa chair, which became a blaze that spread to the wall. I walked out the door, soot sticking to my hair, face and clothes. I looked as though I had come close to being caught in the fire, and I would blame it all on him for forgetting a lit cigarette.

I sat on a large rock beside a fire pit and watched the blaze. It was hypnotizing and made me feel good. The flames rose high, threatening to spread to the wooded area. I walked away from the heat, choosing a safer spot in the driveway leading to a dirt road. The smell of the fire, its warmth, everything about it was exciting, and I felt so much energy running through my body. It tickled.

As the cabin burned to the ground, heavy smoke rising to the sky, two fire trucks arrived, announcing their presence with their sirens, but too late for the cabin.

Michel followed, jumping out of his car not far behind, frantic for my safety. The look on his face at the sight of his cabin was entertaining. He looked lost.

He yelled out my name, saw me and ran toward me. Wanting to know what happened, I looked up, looking sad, and said I was on the couch, watching a video, when I heard a strange noise. I turned my head toward the fireplace and saw the flames shooting out from the logs and chair next to it. The fire chief asked Michel if he smoked, and he answered yes. So I sat there as he told Michel the fire’s source was a cigarette left unattended near the wood and some newspaper.

 Michel, shoulders slumped, face red from tears, looked up in my direction. For an instant, I noticed a quizzical expression in his eyes as he looked at me sitting here, waiting as he dealt with the first responders. Then he filled out some papers and called my mother. Michel was trying to explain that he had lost his cabin to fire, but I was ok. Still, he would have to bring me back home.

He didn’t speak to me or talk to me about it. Unease set in after he asked me how the fire started and where I got out. I could tell him he suspected me.

 His boyfriend tried and didn't raise Michel’s mood. The drive was quiet. Michel and Mother argued after he drove me home. She got angry that he had left me alone. He got in his car and drove away. I would never see him again, and I didn’t care.

I was home in an area I knew, and there was always some tiny creature I could play with and kill when I got bored. So I smiled, happy to be home. With the rest of the summer ahead of me, I felt pleased.

 My next special moment came when I was twelve. Our neighbour, Mrs. Warren, who gets around with a walker and is in her seventies, needed someone to do small chores in her home. So, my mother volunteered my services to teach me more responsibility and make a few dollars on weekends.

Mrs. Warren is forgetful, often not remembering where she left her keys or if she took her pills. Once, she mistook a garden gnome for a child and called 911 to report it. When the first responders arrived, they realized it was a wasted trip. My mother and I had gone over to see what had caused the commotion. Seeing the commotion, she turned around, walking back towards our house. Mother mumbled under her breath. “The senile old bitch is seeing things now. Won’t be long before they cart her off to the old folks’ home.”

The chores Mrs. Warren needs help with from me are small ones, such as vacuuming the living room carpet, emptying the compost bucket under the sink, sweeping the front and back outdoor landings and ensuring I feed the fish. This last chore I will cherish. A few weeks before, while I was with my mother at the grocery store, I overheard two ladies talk about how one of their cats got very sick after nibbling on a car tree freshener and coming close to dying. I wondered if it would affect fish the same way; I had to know and began planning to experiment. I was feeling excited. My tummy had this strange sensation, like when I set that fire, and my thing was tingling as if someone was tickling me there. It felt good.

Taking the pine tree freshener mother had in her car was easy. I waited for that following Saturday, which was difficult because it meant I had to do the ordinary things a young boy did; I always had to remind myself to act like other kids my age. I couldn’t risk someone finding out about the pleasure I got from hurting animals and setting fires.

I kept the freshener in a small plastic baggy. I didn’t want Mother or anyone else to smell the scent. I didn’t want someone to know I had it in my possession. Four days passed before I could run to Mrs. Warren’s home and do the chores. As much as I wanted to go straight for the aquarium, I kept my excitement in check and got the vacuum out of the hall closet, pulling that bulky monster on its two small wheels into the living room and plugging it in while she disappeared in the kitchen to have tea. I began vacuuming the worn-out old carpet, checking to make sure she was still seated at the kitchen table. She was reading a newspaper.

Leaving the vacuum on, I dragged the couch pouf up to the stand with the aquarium and climbed up on it. Reaching for the cover and raising it, I used her grabber tool to hold the freshener and placed it behind a decorative rock. Making sure it weighed down and wouldn’t float up, I replaced the cover, wiped off the bit of water that dripped off the grabber when I removed it, climbed off, and put the pouf back in its spot in front of the couch.

I don’t know how long I stood there, watching the fish move around their limited universe. Something fascinating happened. The fish appeared brighter, their colours enhanced, as if they were putting on a show just for me.

After a while, they swim with difficulty, with jerky motions, going in smaller circles. Their gills open and close faster, then stay open as they float to the surface. Their yellow-white bellies are like small islands. I am transfixed and frozen, not wishing to move for fear of losing the feeling growing below my stomach. Instead, warmth radiates throughout my body. I’m breathless and wonder if I could die. The sensation is beyond intense. At this moment, I am above life and death.

With effort, I finished vacuuming, whistling to myself, pleased that I could control the fish and Mrs. Warren. I returned the vacuum, walked to the kitchen, and told her I had done my job. Mrs. Warren looked up at me, smiled, and gave me a two-dollar coin, thanking me for my kindness. Her teeth were yellow, and some were missing, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

Getting home, I’m alone. Mother is off with a client somewhere. I hate her. Maybe one day, I’ll do to her what I do to cats. Wonder how she would react? 

At fifteen, in my first year of high school, a bully picks on me. It’s between classes, and as I close my locker in the hallway, a student twice my size starts on me. From what he tells me, I took his chair in the history classroom, and now I’m going to answer for my ignorance. I decided not to retaliate after he pushed me. He’s bigger, and besides, he doesn’t frighten me. He punches my shoulder. I can feel the pain, but I want to see how much I can take. The bully’s fat fists hit me on the arms and stomach. A punch hit my right temple. I see stars and feel fuzzy. Stumbling backwards, I fall, landing on the concrete floor.

The incident is over before I know it. A teacher runs up and grabs hold of the bully, questioning students who saw the fight. They send the bully home with a two-day suspension. I have time to plan a little surprise for him. Three days later, Ben Tremblay is back in school, itching to make someone pay for his punishment. It was easy for me to leave a pack of cigarettes with matches on the stand where he had locked his bicycle to the stand. I am hiding in bushes only feet away, seeing him look around, then snatching the cigarettes and unlocking his bike, sit on it, grab a cigarette, light it up, pull deep drags from it and ride away.

I follow with my bicycle, keeping a suitable distance.  Ben doesn’t see me. I’m not scared of anything he could try to do to me. I just don’t want to ruin my plan. After a few minutes, I can tell he’s dizzy from how he rides. His bicycle is swerving a bit, and he’s slowing down. Good thing he’s home.

Ben leaves the bike in the driveway, walks into the house, and, feeling a little light-headed, yells to his parents that he’s going to his room to read. They are too busy arguing over dinner. I find a small tree standing off the window of his room. A light goes on inside, and I see him standing near the window, opening it as he prepares to light another cigarette. I’m sitting on a thick branch and can see him. Leaves and branches keep me from being discovered. 

Ben coughs; his movements seem agitated, like he’s about to dance to music only he can hear. He sits on the windowsill, gets up, and sits back down. He looks restless. More coughing, this time, it lasts a little longer. He’s rubbing his jaw. I see him as he tries to catch his breath and then vomits. Ben tries to call out, then falls to the floor and begins convulsing as his head arches backwards, his arms and legs extend, and his face looks grimacing.

Ben tries to get up and moves towards the door, but his hands shake uncontrollably. He has no agency over his body. He falls again and hits his head on the bedpost. His body is on the floor, with no movement, so I climb down from my vantage point in the tree, go where I hid my bicycle, and drive home, happy with my plan.

A couple of days later, we learned that one student at our school, Benjamin Tremblay, had died. There was an autopsy because of his age and the mysterious manner in which he died. They found high doses of strychnine in the urine. The coroner called in the police, and an investigation began with the parents being the primary focus until they found the cigarettes.

The Montreal police had looked at the past few weeks of his life. They were going over his actions and any events that stood out. Interviews with teachers and students brought their attention to me. When they asked to question me, my mother and the parents of others who received similar attention were present. I guess I said something that made them focus on me. It may have been because when asking me about the cigarettes, I couldn’t resist a smile or enquire if he had died from poisoning, but the next thing I knew, they were taking me into custody. I protested. Mother was livid and screamed at them to let me go, telling them they didn’t have the right to arrest her son. Being arrested did not bother me. I expected that one day, this would happen. It surprised me it came so fast. I put on my best impression of a teen overwhelmed by life. I cried as best I could and talked about how that boy was bullying me, and I didn’t see what to do, so I made the wrong choice and did something I regretted. I spoke about being raised by a single mother who sold her services to men and forced me to pray while locked up in a closet. I gave them all the details of how I went about poisoning Ben Tremblay, leaving out that I enjoyed going through with the act. I explained I thought he would only get sick from the rat poison and never wanted to kill him. They sent me for a psychological evaluation at the Philippe-Pinel National Institute of Legal Psychiatry. My diagnosis was conduct disorder after they put me through a checklist.

I interned at their facility for five years, received counselling, and completed my high school education. After this time, they placed me on a four-year probation, outpatient follow-up, and freedom. I knew I had to better my ability to cover up my special activities. I needed to become invisible, to seem like everyone else, just a regular person.

I waited until after my probation period. I am deliberate and in absolute control of myself. Finding my freedom, I became an orderly in a hospital, and in my free time, I studied online and got my pre-university college degree in psychology. While still on probation, my mother died at the hands of a client when she tried to steal money from his wallet. The police report states they were drunk and using cocaine. The client strangled her. Taking the elevator down, he exited in a panic, walking fast and never noticing the large glass door. He walked right through it, suffering minor cuts from the shards. Security personnel detained him until the police arrived because he kept trying to make a run for it. They got suspicious, questioned him, and then checked the room he had paid for, discovering my mother’s dead body lying on the floor.

No one came to her services. I had her cremated and kept her. It did not surprise me she died in that manner. She took risks, and it caught up to her. I felt nothing—no sense of loss, no sadness. I felt free, with no attachments. Going through her belongings, I found letters and photos dating before my birth. They were between her and a man, my father, who I had never known. He was a cop in Montreal, and he had a name. Joseph Dubois. My attention focused laser-like on this man. I looked him up without contacting him. Once, I discovered where he lived and that he was married and had a child. From that moment on, I followed their lives. I wanted to know who they were. I grew to hate their child, who was a teen, a few years younger than me. I knew I would one day destroy my father for abandoning me. Maybe his whole family. For now, that dark desire would have to wait. I needed to be stronger and more knowledgeable about how to kill people. My calling was to decide who died. It felt right.

 Over the past few years, I have learned more about drugs, especially Rohypnol and Ketamine and certain poisons like Cyanide, Mercury, strychnine and amatoxins derived from the common Amanita virosa, also known as the Destroying angel mushroom, and Compound 1080.

Finding people to test my poisons on was easy enough. Montreal has a large homeless population, and all I had to do was lace bottles of water with some amatoxins. All I do is collect the mushrooms during the summer months. I go for the younger ones as they have a slight rose smell, while older specimens are unpleasant. I let them soak in warm water for a time. Then, I mixed the reduction into water or any liquid we use in cooking. Boiling does not destroy the toxin or cooking. A single mushroom is likely to contain enough amatoxins to kill an average adult human being.

 My victims die as planned. Homeless people stay away from hospitals until their pain is impossible to manage. Gastrointestinal signs, including abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting and severe watery diarrhea, develop 6–24 hours after ingestion. Symptoms disappear after a day or two, giving a false sense of recovery, but the hepatic necrosis continues.

 Acute renal failure follows and leads to death. All this poisoning is not what I want. Still, it would do for now, as it’s a safer activity for me until I have all the tools necessary to embark on my path as the most prolific and brilliant serial killer in history. I revisited the same homeless hangouts. I wanted to see how those who had ingested my bottled water were suffering, and sometimes, I caught sight of some, and I could tell who had drunk my poisoned water by the smell of feces.

I kept these killings under the radar as I gained experience and understood how I wanted to go ahead, who would be my targets, and how I would play with them. I knew I would drug, torture, kill, and show for all to see my work.

So, years passed, and I even took holidays, travelled to Europe and some African countries like the Congo and Senegal, and enjoyed the sands of Puerto Vallarta in Mexico, Puerto Rico in the Caribbean, and many U.S. states. I made sure I visited all the Canadian provinces.

I took these trips for different reasons, such as not getting enthusiastic about my work and getting sloppy. I needed to cool off to avoid making mistakes that could bring the police down on me. Over ten years, my kill numbers grew higher than even the famous serial killers. Now, I would put on a show that would shock everyone to their core—the time had come to do more than stalk my so-called sister, that transsexual. The monster was ready to play!