The letter came on May 17th, a Saturday. It was delivered to my home around three but I didn't open it until I got home around seven. It opened my eyes to ideas of life I thought never existed. That letter and the letters that followed manipulated me changed me and ultimately turned my life into a lie. Every thought I had as I read that letter is burned into my brain. Every feeling I had left a scar inside me. The two months of terror I went through will stay in my heart until the day I die. The sadistic person that wrote the letters made me a new person. Before I was young and naïve. After I was torn and independent. Manipulation became my way of life and trust disappeared forever. Before the murders I had a good heart. Now, I don't have one.

In the beginning I couldn't believe it. My picturesque life was slowly disintegrating and I was denying it. I couldn't believe someone I thought was a friend was trying to destroy me. I didn't think people could be that harsh. I had never met anyone that didn't show remorse after hurting someone they cared for.

As time went by my thoughts began to change. The people I called my friends became rivals. I watched for clues and began to expect the unexpected. I slowly began to think of everyone as a suspect. I didn't know who was on my side and who wasn't. My life had become a mystery and my mind didn't know how to make it out on top.

I never looked at life as survival of the fittest. I never even thought about smart Darwin's theory. I learned to avoid suspicion and lost trust in everyone. People became nothing but accomplices. I was kind only if it was going to benefit me. I learned nobody is going to help you up when you fall. I learned if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. I learned to stop at nothing to get what you want.

In two months I changed more than imaginable. In two months four people I cared about were murdered and I sat and watched it happen. I think most people may have broken down after two months of what I went through but I think it only made me stronger.

I guess I'm writing this because I need the money. A book about the true story of a prep school slaughterer would definitely make the Bestseller List, especially if the only survivor writes it. I'm not sure if that is why I'm writing it though. I went to a prep school. How bad could I possibly need the little money you get from writing a book, even if it does make the Bestsellers List. It could also be because I want my story heard but maybe not.

The truth is I don't know why I've decided to tell my tale of manipulation, seduction and deceit. Writing is like therapy to me. Maybe if I get my story on paper it'll make me feel better.