Let me tell you a tale; my tale. The tale of William James Powell, of Sutton Surrey, England. It began on April 5th 1991 when I was born. I was born very premature, a twin along with my brother Leonard. He unfortunately didn't make it, but I did. Grew up in a happy family household with my parents, surrounded by a loving family. I can never really remember enjoying drawing. Sure, there is evidence to contradict this, specifically old drawings of Spiderman and Sonic The Hedgehog that I did at a young age, but as far back as I can remember, I've loved writing. I did pretty good in primary school writing, loved to write short stories to read out in show and tell, and would always beam with joy in secondary school when we got a creative writing homework assignment. Me and my wonderful parents, Tina and Richard. I had absolutely everything mapped out after finishing with two A's in both English Language and English Literature in my GCSE's - I was going

I open my eyes, and whisper quietly to myself, “Thirteen days.” It has been thirteen days since I have killed anybody. Normally I would look around, and notice that everything is as it was – no change, no difference. Same place, same time, same hellish existence. Not today. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling, and reflect; I reflect on what has brought me to this point in my life. All the violent and destructive things I’ve done, and how each day I have to wake up and deal with the inner torment and the consequences of those actions. I’m still Vincent Williams, and I’m still alive… much to my chagrin. My outbursts are becoming more and more frequent. It’s a rarity these days if a month goes by without me taking a life. The shame it brings me is unspeakable, but I continuously tell myself that it’s for the greater good. It wasn’t but a few months ago that Daniel looked up at me, with fear and anxiety written on his face, but also a fire and defiance in his eyes

This is what it feels like to be Dean Moxley. You are brought into this world with nothing. You carry the stigma of being an orphan around as a child, and naturally, the rest of the kids bully you because of it. And yet, you do nothing. You migrate to the United States and find work at the local police station. First as a guy who files papers, does all the boring and mundane jobs that nobody else wants to. You’re viewed as a pushover by everyone, except the person that matters most – the Commissioner, George Wilson. Yes sir, George Wilson takes care of you well and good, he is a fellow Brit after all. Heck, he even takes you under his wing, tells you he sees something special in you. You become his personal assistant, doing all the jobs the rest of the force wish they could do, and before you know it, they’ve all stopped giving you shit. You’ve become somebody. Until one day, you get too big for your boots. You feel invincible, so you go out for a drink one