It was a cold, rainy night when I came home and found a package on my front porch. The sender’s name and address were missing from the label. I opened the package and discovered inside of it a manuscript titled “Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I” I was instantly pulled into the mind of a serial killer and introduced to a reality that far surpassed any definition of normal in today’s society. “Psychopath’s Diary Vol. I” is the essence of taboo. It can only be described as a poetry of violence. A symphony of torture. A tale of sexual deviance with a drop of incest and necrophilia. You want to stop reading, but you simply cannot. It is like taking a bite out of a forbidden fruit even if the taste of it spoils the sensitive stomach of our morality. One question ran through my mind over and over, why me? Why did the killer send his confession of the crimes he had committed to me? I searched for an answer within the pages of the manuscript, but could not find one, not even a hint. There is something that has to link him and I, but what?