- Intro Video
Name – Rowan Thorpe
Alias – Goth (not The Goth or A Goth, just Goth)
Age – 25
Occupation – …Serial Killer
- Who Am I...
P S Y C H O K I L L E R
- Romantic Interests
- Relationship Status
- My Story Is...
I was just 4 years old when I saw my first cold blooded murder. My parents, April and Harrison, were heading to Oregon to visit my mom’s brother, Simon, in prison. They wouldn’t let me go with them, so they left me with my other aunt and uncle, Deborah and Jeremiah, who lived one county over.
While staying there one night, I was watching some cartoon I can’t even remember now, when I was rushed upstairs by Deb, who kept telling me that “Uncle Jeremy isn’t feeling well. He is in pain, and Aunt Debbie is going to help him. I need you to stay upstairs, under your bed, until I come and get you for ice cream.” And I did stay under the bed, terrified of the sounds I heard in the hall. Why was Uncle Jer cussing so much? Then he pushes her right back through that bedroom door, knocks the damn thing clean off its hinges. I remember Debbie bouncing on the door as it, and she, fell to the ground. I could see Uncle Jer standing over her, but I could only see up to his knees. He asked where I was at. She said she “sent me to the nearest police station as soon as she saw him coming home drunk.” She looked away from him then, right at me, and we locked eyes before he blew her head to pieces. Then he stumbled right back out the door, shouting my name.
I didn’t come out when I heard the front door slam. I didn’t come out when I heard him drive away. I didn’t come out when I heard the police car come up to the house. I sat there for a good hour, in complete silence, just staring at that graphic, gorey hole where my aunt’s face had once been.
You don’t need to know anything between that point there, and this one here. If you have any inkling of what that does to a person, you won’t ever feel the need to ask me why I do what I do, to the people I do it to. There is no innocent child left alive in here, there is only what came out of that house. A soulless killer, a shell of a human being. I don’t feel empathy, or regret, for any decision I have ever made since then.
People will always tell me, this doesn’t make me any different from my murdering Uncle. And I say to that, “good.” There were only two other people in that house besides me, and only one of those two left it alive. I can either be like my Uncle, or I can be like my Aunt. Yeah. The one without a face. Fuck you and your moral compass.
I’ve been a survivor without mine. And I always will be.
Believe in the devil. He walks among you.
- My Appearance
His gauntlet (Murder weapon of choice, right hand only)
His hooded duster
Beneath the mask
Mask, Hoodie, Claw Gauntlet, and various tools used for making messes (and cleaning them up.)