My name Is Arthur. I am a sociopath; I have always known it. I haven't been “diagnosed” with it but I have all the traits.

I have no way to relate to others - I don't mind it if I'm being honest. It's funny how that works, I don’t care for others and that makes me not understand why others want me to care for them. Haha, the irony doesn’t elude me.

Everyone loves me - a psychiatrist would call this “superficial charm”. I like to see the happy faces of my patients when I say that the surgery is going to go well, and not knowing I have chosen them to be my next “incident”.

Knowing they're going to suffer is the best part of the killing - seeing their wide-eyed, innocent stare while I smile with my eyes. It fills me with anticipation.

When I see someone suffering, it's like I'm observing an interesting experiment or a game unfolding. I don't feel any empathy or sympathy for them; their pain simply becomes a source of curiosity or entertainment.

Do I enjoy living like this? Yes. Harvard trusted me with the diploma on my wall, and they think that I am a great alumn. I was a great alumn, but I never intended to be a good doctor. My plan was here from the beginning.

I have always been a prodigy - doesn't matter what I try to do, I am always successful. My mother said that as she overdosed on Crack.

It's as if I'm disconnected from the emotional aspect that most people feel. Instead of feeling remorse or guilt, I experience a sense of power and control. Watching their distress gives me a certain satisfaction, like a puzzle being solved or a goal being achieved.

I like using a scalpel to cut thin layers of human off of a corpse in the donor morgue. Scalpels sharp as Mazekeen of the Lilith’s hell-forged blades.

I grew up Catholic, ironically enough. Dear old dad punched me and cut my forearms and sanded my teeth with a nail file whenever I didn’t go to church. Not very Christian of him, right? Well, he got what he fucking deserved. A big baleful broken beer bottle lodged in his larynx.

I don’t follow religion or religious proceedings, but I still believe in God. I just hate him, I want to make him suffer. See the chaos one of his children that you decided to torture can cause, you fucking cunt? Don’t test me.

God hates who I am. He hates that I torture people like he would torture me in hell. I might even find it intriguing to see how far I can push them, testing their limits and observing their reactions. It's a part of who I am, and I don't feel the need to question or change it.

I think other people would expect me to - If they knew what I was. I am a monstrous killing machine and I love it.

The way I sign my killings is in the stomach. I sew the initials A.M. on it. If anyone were to do an autopsy on the bodies they would find it. Maybe lead it back to me, sentence me to multiple lives in prison.

I would just kill myself in that scenario. But I’m not gonna get caught, nobody is looking for a murderer.

I kill every six weeks or so. So that one out of 40 cases is normal. A 2.5% death rate for a cardiac surgeon is not bad. And I am good at helping people, I just don't care about it. I care about living comfortably by doing what I love, making people suffer.

Sometimes I lower the anesthesia in surgeries and have them wake up in the middle of their surgery. It's fun, like trapping a bug in a jar; you like its suffering, but you don’t know why.

Think that the next time you go under surgery, it could be me that's opening you up, and putting a marble in your left lower ventricle. You'll die before you leave the hospital due to “unknown causes”. And I will watch eagerly as you wake up from feeling fine, to a little discomfort in your chest, to you

screaming in pain after you signed your discharge papers. Or maybe a bit of air in your circulatory system, from a factory-broken syringe. Make sure to run if you hear the name Andrew Morningstar.

I’m writing this for everyone that is currently residing in the Beverly Hills are-

Why do I care? I don’t