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They whisper about "nature versus nurture," don't they? A pointless debate. Are monsters born, or are they made? I can't speak for the others, but for me, the answer is simple: I've always been this way. Empathy? A foreign concept. Emotion? A weakness I do not possess. My purpose is singular, my desire pure: to inflict pain.
My work began in Boston, a proving ground for my particular art. However, a change in circumstances led me to New York, with its endless supply of vibrant, naive youth. They are my chosen medium. At each scene, I leave my mark, a tribute to my craft. Two simple Polaroid photographs: one capturing the fleeting spark of life, the other, the stark, beautiful emptiness of its absence.
Then, he appeared. A rival artist in my new city. His methods are crude, reveling in ritualistic mutilation, feeding on the fear he creates. A different kind of predator, but a predator nonetheless.
Now, a new dynamic has emerged. I've begun to work in his hunting grounds, and he, in mine. The authorities scramble, asking themselves the wrong questions. Are we competing? Communicating? They fail to grasp the exquisite simplicity of it all.
How the Games Began dives deep into the minds of these two sadistic killers as they unleash unthinkable evil, highlighting their need for media attention, notoriety, manipulation, and control over everyone around them. The desperate race to stop them before they strike again has begun. The novel is gruesome, with a lot of graphic detail. Check author website for TW.
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