My name is John Henry Carver and Iím mad as hell for the life that was taken from me. No, Iím not dead but I might as well be since Iíve been hiding out for the last ten plus years for murders I did not commit. Sure, thatís what they all say, isnít it? I didnít do anything wrong. Iím innocent. Youíve got the wrong man.
In this case it happens to be true.
Iím not sure how to tell my story. To some it will be unbelievable since all the cards are stacked against me. I guess I should start at the beginning to give you a better understanding of what Iím up against, what Iíve been up against for way too long. But first there is this.
When I do return to Delight, I mean to leave no stone unturned until I find out the devil behind that atrocity that I was blamed for. I donít care how long it takes. I donít care who I have to run to the ends of the earth to get the revenge due me.
I have a good idea of who the black-hearted beast is. He will be the first I go after. When and if I find out he is responsible, not only for the mutilation of those poor defenseless girls but forcing me to live my life in what is essentially solitary confinement, my vengeance will not be slow or easy. It will be as painful as I can make it.
And it will taste sweet.
I intend to use the same form of butchery that was used on those three unsuspecting girls whose lives were cut short. I will drive the knife into his flesh again and again. I will listen to his screams of agony and smile into his face with each thrust of the knife.
Why should I give one shred of consideration of who he is today? Why should he not pay in the worst way for the lives he took, for the pain he caused their loved ones? For the lives that were cut short?
I could, I suppose, slice the knife across his throat quickly and be done with it. But that wouldnít give me the satisfaction I seek. I want him to suffer like those girls did. I want him to suffer for what he took away from them. I want to watch him die, watch him bleed as his life slowly ebbs away. I want to see fear in his eyes. I want to hear him beg for mercy which he will not get.
If I was a good Christian, which Iím not, I wouldnít be having such thoughts. But watching the bastard suffer is something Iíve been dreaming of for so long that any Christianity I may have possessed is long gone. Nothing could please me more than to cut out his black heart and feed it to the dogs. Whatever it takes. I will do. Wherever it takes me. I will go.