# An Hour With The Monster --- You never picture yourself in a room like that — still, cold, waiting. Maybe it was my curiosity… *the one that killed a cat*. Maybe fate. But there I was. Then he walked in. The man who murdered 37 young couples, leaving their little ones behind to face the world alone. I had sixty minutes to find out *why* — not as a detective or a journalist, but as someone trying to understand what turns a person into a **serial killer**. Honestly, I’d pictured someone else — cold grin, piercing eyes. But, there was none of that. Just an old man in his sixties. Thin hair. Slouched in his chair. Blinking slowly, staring at nothing — as if he’s tired of being seen. One fluorescent light flickered overhead. But inside me… emotions swirled like a deafening tornado. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding, and worried *he* could too. Fear, anger, doubt… and above all, a pressing curiosity: *What makes someone do what he did?* A few seconds passed in silence. “*Why?”* I finally asked — barely a whisper. He sighed, *“That’s the question, huh?”* There was a long silence. He leans back. I wasn’t sure if he would ever answer it. But then he spoke. Not to confess, not to justify, but maybe to empty something out. *“It never starts with a murder. It starts with the pain… I didn’t know how to exist without the pain. So I gave it away.”* I didn’t feel sympathy. But it hurt. Like hearing *pain* speak its native tongue. *“But why parents? Did you ever think about the kind of life their children would be left with?”* *“When you’re drowning, do you care who you drag down with you?”* I didn’t want to *answer* that. He didn’t expect one either. He continued. *“My mother used to lock me in the basement when I cried. Said I needed to learn how to behave. I wasn’t even ten…”* He swallowed hard, like the words were heavier than he expected. *“My father? He used me to dump his frustration — on the rare days he was sober enough to stand. I don’t think he saw me as a person. Just a punching bag — the reason his life didn’t work.”* He paused, eyes fixed somewhere I couldn’t see. *“I just wanted to play. Be a kid. But the others wouldn’t let their children near me. They’d leave the park when I showed up, or stare at me until I left. Close their doors if they saw me on the sidewalk.”* His voice dropped. *“They all thought I was a monster. And so I became one.”* I didn’t know *how* to respond. I felt his pain but didn’t want to admit… to him… or myself. A few minutes passed in silence. I thought about stepping out to give him space and give myself distance. But one question lingered like a thorn in my mind. I couldn’t walk away without asking. *“Did you ever want to stop?”* He chuckled — not out of comfort, but something closer to helplessness — then dropped his gaze. Maybe he was searching for the right words. Maybe just avoiding to *face* the question. I didn’t dare interrupt. I stayed still… just like I used to as a kid, waking up in the middle of the night, frozen in bed, convinced something was lurking in the dark. One small movement, one sound, and it would know I was there. He finally spoke. *“It was the only thing that made me feel anything. Stopping meant facing who I was without it. And I didn’t think there was anything left by then.”* **It struck deeper than any life lesson or philosophy I’d ever read.** --- The door opened. The hour has passed. I stood to leave. He looked into my eyes… *for the first time directly*. And then, from somewhere deep inside him, came two unexpected words. *“Thank you.”* I didn’t understand *why*. Maybe it was gratitude, surfacing in the final days of his life. Or maybe… I was the first person who listened long enough… for him to finally let go of *what* he’d buried for decades. I walked out unchanged on the outside — but rearranged, disoriented inside. **The monsters aren’t born. They are cornered, stripped, and pushed to become one.** ![](https://cdn.hashnode.com/res/hashnode/image/upload/v1754164859476/e91b1100-de79-4a35-8bfd-79dc555df5e4.png align="center") --- ## **Author’s Note** If you find this story resonating, consider [subscribing](https://breakpoint.ing/newsletter) to receive future stories straight to your inbox.