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You have no idea what it__ like, knowing you__e going to die in an hour. Sixty short minutes are now the only things that separate you from the other side. From the country undiscovered by the living. From that inevitable end we all must face. Guess that__ what the whole death row thing is about, though. If you ask me now if I feel sorry for what I__e done, I__ have to tell you plainly the answer is no. I__ do it all again, given the opportunity. I__ kill them all. Over, and over, and over. The court-appointed psychiatrist described me as having a __evere antisocial personality disorder with excessive violent tendencies._ But I__ letting you know now I never stood out in a crowd. Never drew attention to myself. I was just a regular woman, one you__ see in the convenience store, and smile at politely. Who would have ever suspected what I was capable of? All those people. Those useless, useless people. I gave them a use. I was an artist. And my canvas of choice was the clean human skull.