Formative moments in serial killing

When I was about 9 years old, and we had recently moved back to Minnesota, fulfilling my lifelong dream of Not Living in Virginia Anymore, there was this 16 year old kid named David Brom who murdered his entire family with an axe in a town about 70 miles from where we lived. Of course I heard a thing or two about it, but, being nine and of the overly imaginative and spazzy type, I was forbidden from reading any of the newspaper accounts or watching anything on tv about it.

Except that my parents were good hippies and kept a stack of newspapers next to the fireplace to be bound and brought to the recycling center in St. Peter (this was before everyone had recycling pickup, if you can believe it). So, of course I snuck downstairs after my bedtime one night and sat in the middle of the living room floor reading a long and gory account about how he bashed in their skulls and then went out for drive through with his girlfriend.

I spent the next few nights wondering whether it would be better to close my door so I could hear my sister coming when she inevitably axe murdered me, or if I should leave it open so I could die peacefully in my sleep*.

I decided I couldn't take her even if I heard her coming, so I'd rather die peacefully, and I have slept with the door open ever since.

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* It should probably be mentioned that this is the first time I had my own bedroom, upping the scary factor, since she'd have to stalk down the hall with the axe, rather than just coming down from the top bunk. Actually, maybe the top bunk thing is scarier. You decide.

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