It's been a while since my knife tasted blood. The last one wasn't even intentional. I told her to shut up and she didn't listen. I'm not proud of it. I did what I had to do. It had become a habit, instinctive, like muscle reflex. But I lost my appetite for killin' that night. I guess killin' an innocent defenseless woman brought me to my senses!

I left Kansas that night. An old friend of mine, my only friend, was on his way to Kentucky to claim his inheritance of a motel along highway 751. His father had thrown him out of the house when he was a young boy. Somehow the old man had a change of heart on his deathbed and left Ronnie everythin' he owned, the motel and a warm little cabin next to it. He invited me to come along and stay with him.

Ronnie knew who I was and where I came from. He's been the closest thing I've had to a friend for a very long time. We hustled on the streets together before we found us decent jobs.

My baby sister and I grew up on the streets where our father abandoned us. Our mother left us when we were kids. I guess she couldn't put up with the shit our father put her through, so much that she didn't think about us before leaving. Helen and I had no one but ourselves for each other. We were homeless and we considered ourselves orphans. Ronnie and I took up odd jobs at supermarkets and pizza joints to make a livin'. Helen danced at the local theater. We lived in a small house, the three of us, each chippin' in a share of the rent. Ronnie cared for Helen just the way I did. We were like family. We didn't have a lot, but we were happy.

But life never let me stay clean for long. 21st street was run by the Knucklebrass gang, a bunch of thievin' bastards out every night sellin' drugs and breakin' into houses. Their idea of entertainment? Arson and battery! Vincent Braga, the 'Alpha-Wolf', was untouchable. No one dared to lay a finger on him. Anyone who tried didn't live to see the mornin' sun. Even the Sheriff pissed himself before Vincent.

But he should have kept his filthy hands off my sister. She choked on a piece of dirty old rag stuffed in her mouth as Vincent had his way with her. She came home that night, in torn clothes, with deep cuts and bruises over her body, bitterly in tears. She didn't wanna see a doctor. She just wanted to be alone that night. I shouldn't have left her side. I opened the door of her bedroom in the mornin' and found her lyin' dead on her bed, her wrist slit open with a blade. The sheets had turned crimson with her blood.

What did I do then? You must have guessed it already! I grabbed the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen and paid Vincent a visit that night. Found him makin' out with some tramp in a back alley. He didn't say anything, neither did I. One clean sweep and his neck was slit by the edge of my knife. I gave him no chance, no opportunity to open his arrogant filthy little shithole to say a word. I avenged Helen's death. I killed him. Even I died that night, and I was born again, by the blade.

The gush of blood from Vincent's throat and the sight of the scarlet blade of my knife changed me that night. I knew there was no going back. One after another, I took out all his gang-bangers, all except for one - Eddie. He made me famous. He got the sheriff and his pack of dogs on my tail. They were not lookin' for Tommy the store clerk, they were looking for Cut-Throat Tommy, a fancy little name that Knucklebrass piece of shit and the cops in town gave me. I was runnin' and hidin' for days until Ronnie found me and offered me a place to hide in the back of his truck on the way to Kentucky.

I woke up this mornin' in the cabin next to Ronnie's motel. The sun was already halfway up. The glare from a broken window glass hit me right in the eyes. Ronnie walked in and threw a copy of the local newspaper on the bed. I turned my eyes to it and saw the front page news. One of the headlines caught my attention. "Teenage Girl from Tennessee Murders 2 Boys and Her Own Father in Cold Blood."

I picked up the paper and read the full article. The girl apparently slit all their throats with a kitchen knife. She reminded me of someone - myself - the part of me I left behind. She was only just as old as Helen was. I broke out in a cold sweat.

Amanda! Who was she? A copycat? Looks like! An admirer? Highly unlikely! What are the odds? I think I gotta find her! Or what if this is a message she's sendin' me? What if she's out there tryin' to find me? I hope I'm not at the wrong side of the knife this time!