Tag Archives: crime

10 worst Serial Killers, North of the Border


10 worst Serial Killers, North of the Border

almost don’t want to write about these murders as it gives them once again, more attention

I can't help but feel for the family's left with such tragedy's
I can’t help but feel for the family’s left with such tragedy’s

According to the FBI, the definition of a serial Killer is someone who kills 3 or more people, with a cooling off period between each murder.

10 Convicted Canadian Serial Killers

The 10 Top Serial killers , who have been convicted in Canada, are as follows;

  1. Paul Kenneth Bernrdo with Karla Homolka
  2. Wayne Boden
  3. John Martin Crawford
  4. Russell Maurice Johnson

  5. William Patrick Fyfe
  6. Gilbert Paul Jordan
  7. Allan Legere
  8. Clifford Robert Olson Junior
  9. Robert ‘Willie’ Pickton
  10. Peter Woodcock

Below will detail who each one of these murderers were and what happend or is happening to them. Remembering there is no death Penalty in Canada and the maximum sentence for life is 25 years.

Thankfully you can convict a serial killer with more than one life which means they still are eligible for parole, again, in 25 years regardless.

1. Paul Bernardo and Karla Holmolka

Paul Bernardo (and Karla Homolka)

Also known now as Ken and Barbie

Paul was Canada’s most famous serial killer who raped over a dozen women in Scarborough, in the 1980’s. It was only after his arrest for murder that the Scarborough Rapist was identified as Paul Bernardo.

In February 1991, Bernardo moved to St. Catharine’s, Ontario, wanting to be with his fiancée, Karla Homolka. She enjoyed encouraging his sadistic fantasies. The two had already killed Karla’s fifteen-year-old sister, Tammy.   They drugged and tried to rape her less than two months earlier. Tammy’s death had been ruled accidental. Unbelievable.

Paul and Karla kidnapped, tortured and murdered two schoolgirls in 1991 and 1992. They filmed extensive video footage of their victims’ ordeals, as well as the rape of Tammy and another girl known as Jane Doe. The tapes proved invaluable evidence at the trial. Karla quickly turned against Bernardo in exchange for a deal. She served ten years for manslaughter. She now lives in Montreal.

The press went nuts with the two good-looking suburban couple – so much so  that another serial killer, John Martin Crawford, received almost received no press or attention while on trial at the same time, for several rape and murders in Saskatchewan.

Bernardo was convicted on three counts of murder, and serves a life sentence in solitary confinement at Kingston Penitentiary, Ontario. He has since changed his name to Paul Teale.

He legally cannot serve more than 25 years regardless of how many murders and tortures he executed. This is Canada’s legal system.

I have been to Kingston Federal Penitentiary and can tell you it is no where near what I would consider a maximum security facility. In addition he is so famous in prison he gets everything he wants.

2. Wayne Boden

Wayne Clifford Boden

Also known as the Vampire Killer

Wayne killed at least three women in Montreal and one in Calgary, between 1969 and 1971. He had a habit of viciously biting the breasts of his victims.

Different than many serial killers, Boden knew most of the women he killed. Friends and co-workers of the victims identified him, but sadly police circulated the wrong suspect photo. Wayne fled to Calgary.

There, he murdered a schoolteacher. The woman’s breasts had been mauled, as his ongoing trademark, and Calgary police instantly made the connection thankfully to the vampire killings in Montreal.

His trial was the first in North America to ever use dental forensics as evidence, or bite marks as evidence, to convict a killer. He received three life sentences, and served time at the Kingston Penitentiary. He died of cancer in 2006. No one attended funeral services and to this date have visited his grave. I might have only to set it on fire.

3. John Martin Crawford

John Martin Crawford

a.k.a. The First Nations Murders

Crawford raped, tortured and murdered Native women. His first kill was in 1981, at the age of 19. Unbelievable, after serving less than ten years, John was released in 1989, and moved in with his mother in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

He drank heavily, sniffed glue and solvents, and injected drugs. Almost nightly, he spent his time, looking for prostitutes. A former fellow inmate, Bill Corrigan, now a friend, frequently joined him.

May 1992, 16-year-old Shelley Napope asked the pair for a ride. They raped and beat her, and John stabbed her to death. Then raped, tortured and killed two more women in September of that same year.

A hunter discovered the remains of these women in 1994. Police arrested Crawford in January, 1995, but not before he had beaten and raped yet another woman.

Investigators believe he killed at minimum six women, and assaulted many more. In May 1996, Crawford was convicted on three counts of murder, and now serves concurrent life sentences in the Saskatchewan Penitentiary. He will still only serve a maximum of 25 years.

4. Russell Maurice Johnson

Russel Maurice Johnson

known as the Bedroom Strangler

Russel would climb up balconies to the height of fifteen stories. Between 1973 and 1977, Russel killed at least seven women in the towns of Guelph and London, Ontario.

The first four victims were concluded to have died of natural causes. Their apartment doors were locked, and there were no signs of a struggle. Then, the attacks grew in savagery. Police tracked down a Mr. Russell Johnson, an auto worker with a criminal past.

Russel pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity to 3 murders. After, he confessed to raping and killing four more victims. He is incarcerated at the Mental Health Centre in Penetanguishene, Ontario. He has confessed to 7 additional murders, and 17 attacks, but has not been charged.  And I am sure he never will be.  May he at least be living his days in a straight jacket.

Convenient confession to being mentally insane after being competent enough to defend himself in the trial. He will not see the light of dy again given his admittance to being criminally insane.  Hope the food is good.

5. William Patrick Fyfe

William Patrick Fyfe

a.k.a the handyman killer

William acted as a yard worker or handyman to gain entrance to the homes of single women in the Montreal, Quebec area. He confesses to have killed his first victim in 1979, when he was twenty-four. In 1981,then confesses to brutally raping and murdering a 52-year-old Montreal woman.

In 1999, William went on a killing spree. He confesses to the sexual assault and murder of nine women. Neighbors thought of him as a friendly, well-liked man. In December 1999, he brutally murdered Mary Glen, 50. Police tracked him down with fingerprint matching, and found spots of human blood on his sneakers and clothing items.

William Fyfe confessed to the murders, and now remains in treatment at a psychiatric facility in Saskatchewan, Ontario.

Must be the place to go – wonder if they all play bridge together.

6. Gilbert Paul Jordan

Gilbert Paul Jordan

a.k.a the boozing barber

Gilbert was the first serial killer to use alcohol as a murder weapon. A s a retired barber, he drank over fifty ounces of vodka a day, and then craved drunken sex. His victims were transient addicts and prostitutes in Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

Between 1965 and 1988, Jordan killed at least ten women, and most likely more. He would pay a woman for sex, take her to a hotel and encourage her to drink until she passed out. He then forced alcohol down her throat until she died.

Eventually, police linked fingerprints at one crime scene to another, and placed Jordan under strict surveillance. They thankfully rescued his next targeted victim as Jordan was plying her with alcohol.

The Boozing Barber served only six years for manslaughter. He was re-arrested for parole violation, and died in 2006.  I wonder if he had a drink first?

7. Allan Legere

Allan Legere

a.k.a monster of the miramichi

Allan terrorized the Miramichi region of New Brunswick for many months. He was already serving a life sentence for a brutal murder and rape but had escaped custody at a hospital in Moncton, New Brunswick, in 1989.

While still running free, he beat 75-year-old Annie Flam to death, and raped and beat her sister, Nina, then proceeded to set their house on fire. In October, he attacked two sisters in their 40’s. He beat, raped and murdered them both, then again set fire to the house.

Gun and home security sales rose in the Miramichi region. People, terrified, moved in with friends, and Halloween was canceled. In November, an elderly priest failed to show up for mass. Parishioners found him brutally beaten to death.

This was one of the most massive manhunts in Canadian history, police recaptured Legere on November 19, 1989. He is currently one of ninety inmates at the Special Handling Unit in Quebec, a dubious distinction he shares with the notorious child killer Clifford Olson.

Hope they clicked as friends, could get boring when your not able to be a sadistic murder.

8. Clifford Robert Olson Jr.

Beast of British Columbia

In 1980 and 1981, Clifford Olson drove around B.C. on a spree of rape, torture and murder. Olson killed eleven children and teens, and sent letters to their parents, detailing the tortures and deaths. In August, 1981, police arrested him when he tried to abduct two girls.

Olson confessed, and offered to show police the location of the bodies in return for a payment of $100,000, made to his wife. The demand sparked public outrage, but the payment was made, and Olson located the bodies.

Clifford Olson is serving eleven concurrent life sentences at the Special Handling Unit in Quebec, Canada. He is now eligible to apply for parole every two years.

9. Robert ‘Willie’ Pickton

Robert “Willie” Pickton – The Pig Farmer

Vancouver pig farmer Robert Pickton is Canada’s most prolific serial killer. He confessed to killing and butchering 49 women between 1983 and 2002. His victims were sex trade workers and drug addicts from Vancouver’s notorious Downtown Eastside.

Pickton invited them, with other guests, to wild parties at the pig farm. In 2002, police raided the farm looking for firearms. They discovered human remains, and personal belongings of women on Vancouver’s “missing” list. Pickton had fed some of his victims to the pigs.

He is charged with twenty-six murders, and has been convicted on six. An appeal hearing is tentatively scheduled for

March, 2009 in Vancouver.After-Word: Edmonton,Alberta

Following the arrest of pig farmer and serial killer Robert “Willie” Pickton in British Columbia, the neighboring province of Alberta formed a task force (KARE) in 2003 to investigate the deaths of transient women and sex trade workers.

Twenty-five sex trade workers have been killed in the Edmonton area since 1975. Investigators suspect a serial killer is responsible for at least eight of the murders.

Police have made one arrest: Thomas Svekla. Svekla killed one woman, and was charged with the murder of another. In 2007, he pled guilty to manslaughter in one death, but is not linked to others.

10. Peter Woodcock

Peter Woodcock – Teenage Child Killer

Peter Woodcock was only seventeen when he lured a seven-year-old boy into the deserted Toronto Exhibition Grounds, and raped and killed the child. He claims that killing made him feel like God. He then killed another little boy in Cherry Beach. His third victim was a four-year-old girl, whom he raped and strangled in a ravine. He claims to have attacked several more children.

Police arrested Woodcock, a grade eleven student, in 1957. The courts declared him legally insane, and sent him to the psychiatric facility in Penetanguishene, Ontario. In 1982 he changed his name to David Michael Krueger.

By 1991, Krueger seemed a model patient and received his first day pass. Within the hour, he had stabbed and hatcheted another inmate to death.

Krueger remains under treatment in Penetanguishene.

Documentary ‘Ken and Barbie’ Murders-Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka

Death Penalty in Canada-It’s History and Disappearing Concept

The only method used in Canada for capitol punishment in nonmilitary contexts was hanging. Before Canada eliminated the death penalty for murder on July 14, 1976, 1,481 people were sentenced to death, with 710 executed. Of those executed, 697 were men and 13 were women. The last execution in Canada was on December 11,1962.

In 1961, legislation was introduced to reclassify murder into capital or non-capital offences. A capital murder involved a planned or deliberate murder, murder during violent crimes, or the murder of a police officer or prison guard.

Only capital murder carried the sentence of death. In 1967, Bill C-168 was passed creating a five-year moratorium on the use of the death penalty, except for murders of police and corrections officers. On July 14, 1976, Bill C-84 was passed by a narrow margin of 130:124 in a free vote, resulting in the de jure abolition of the death penalty, except for certain offences under the National Defense Act. These were removed in 1998.

However, since Liberal cabinets after Lester Pearson’s victory in 1963 commuted all death sentences as a matter of policy, the de facto abolition of the death penalty in Canada occurred in 1963, with the legal abolition a formality.

First-degree murder, which before abolition was the offence of capital murder, now carries a mandatory life sentence without eligibility for Parole until the person has served 25 YEARS of the sentence.

Canadian life sentence convictions

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Canadian Sex Offenders

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Do you believe Canada should have been able to convict these serial Killers to the death Penalty?

  • 67% yes
  • 33% no

Do you believe in the Death Penalty, regardless what Country?

  • 57% yes
  • 43% no

US Information

Some Facts on the US You many find Interesting;

Who was the US’s first Serial Killers?

The story of Big and Little Harpe, who terrorized Kentucky and Tennesse after the revolutionary War.

America’s recent history is filled with the horrors committed on society by those people we brand as “serial killers.” Names such as Ted Bundy, Jeffy Dahmer, and Ed Gein are commonplace and even school children recognize the names of recent killers. Others are only known by the names given to them by the media such as The Zodiac Killer and BTK. Many modern horror movies are at least partially based on the stories of these killers and several killers have had movies made based on their lives and crimes.

While at lot of people think that the phenomenon of serial killers is new it is really not. Albert Fish is well known as a cannibalistic serial killer who operated in New York in the early 1900’s. Fish is known to have killed at least three children and suspected of three others. He was convicted and died in the electric chair in 1935 at the ripe old age of 65. Before Fish, H. H. Holmes was known to have murdered at least nine people. He had confessed to killing 27 but many think the actual number is much higher. He killed his victims in his “castle” home and sold the skeletons and organs to medical schools. Holmes was executed by hanging in 1896.

One of the first murders which they were accused of happened in Knoxville, where they were believed responsible for the murder of a man named Johnson. Johnson’s body was found in a river, ripped open and with his body stuffed with stones in an attempt to weigh him down. This became almost signature of the killers. In 1798 they were arrested for the murder of a man named Langford in Kentucky whose body was found disposed of in the same way. These are the earliest murders that are known to have been committed by Wiley and Micajah, but some historians claim their atrocities started years earlier with kidnappings, rapes and murders. Some historians believe that they killed as many as 40 people during their life, and showed no distinction between killing men, women or children. It is believed that both men killed several of their own children with Big Harpe bashing his infants daughter against a tree because it’s crying upset him. It is said that Big Harpe confessed that was the only killing about which he felt remorse.

After their arrest for the murder in Kentucky they escaped in March of the next year and their spree began. They joined the group of bandits and river pirates at Cave-in-Rock on the Ohio river. After only a month they were forced out because of their brutality toward captured river boat passengers. It really speaks to their brutality that a group of bandits who routinely killed all the passengers of the boats they robbed were sickened by the two brothers. The last straw was when the Harpes had taken a prison, stripped him naked and tied him to the back of a horse. The horse was then blindfolded and forced off a cliff, both horse and rider were killed upon the rocks below.

After leaving the pirates they traveled through Tennessee and Kentucky leaving death in their wake. In August they took shelter at the cabin of Moses Stegall. They came to the cabin after they learned that Moses was not at home and his wife kept 40 dollars in silver hidden in the cabin. They showed up and asked if they might stay for the night. Mrs. Stegall agreed but told them they would have to share a bed with another guest, Major Love, who had arrived earlier. The men readily agreed. Major Love did not survive the night. The next morning Mrs. Stegall informed them that breakfast would be late because she was having problem quieting her infant child. The brothers offered to watch the child while she finished cooking and she agreed. After the meal she commented on what a good job the men had done in quieting the child. When she walked to the cradle she found that it’s throat had been slashed. When she began screaming they used the same knife to slash her throat. They then set fire to the cabin and left.

Fleeing the cabin, the Hapres encountered two men whom they accused of starting the fire and arrested, shooting one in the head and beating the other one. The death of Mrs. Stegall and the baby was the final straw for the community. A posse was quickly formed that included Moses Stegall, John Leiper, John Thompkins and four other local men. Tompkins was , according to legend using a rifle loaded with powder that had been given to him by Big Harpe himself a few days earlier. It is said this was the rifle that brought Big down. The posse came upon the outlaws camp but Micajah and Wiley fled leaving their wives behind., Big was riding a horse stolen from the Stegall farm and Wiley disappeared into the brush on foot. The posse went after Big Harpe but only Tompkins had a horse fast enough to keep stride with him. Leiper attempted and missed a long range shot but his gun jammed before he could get off a second shot. He traded horse and gun with Tompkins and went after Harpe. Micajah knew leiper had not had time to reload so he stopped his horse to aim for a good shot. Leiper fired a shot from his borrowed gun that pierced the outlaws spine. Mortally wounded he still eluded his capture for another half a mile before dropping his weapon and being pulled from his horse.

There are different accounts of exactly how Big Harpe met his end. Some say he was shot in the head by Leiper and then beheaded by Moses Stegall. Others say Stegall cut off his head while he was still alive. Some say he prayed for forgiveness, others say he died unrepentant. However he died his head was removed and placed at the crossroads that has been known as Harpes head since in Kentucky.

Little Harpe escaped and for awaile rejoined the river pirates in Cave-in Rock that were lead by Samuel Mason. Four years after the death of Big Harpe, Little Harpe killed and beheaded mason and attempted to claim the reward on his head under an alias. After collecting the reward money someone recognized him and he was immediately arrested. In 1804, he was tried and found guilty in a court in Greenville, MS and sentenced to die by hanging. After his death he was beheaded and his head placed on the Natchez Road. The path of destruction of the Harpes had finally came to an end.

The Harpes traveled with three women as their wives. The women were believed to have originally been kidnapped by the brothers and bore them many children. Although the two outlaws had a penchant for killing their own children, some did survive and there are probably descendants of them living today. Many Harpes changed their name due to the reputation of the two killers. Wyatt Earp is even believed by many to be a descendant although there is no known proof

The Harpes stand out not only due to their brutality but also to the fact that they appeared to kill as much as for pleasure as for gain. They were killers of opportunity and would kill and rob their victims when the chance arose. Mostly though they killed for fun and revenge against anyone who slighted them. While the modern media makes much of the ills of society today, serial killers are nothing new. As evil as the modern killers are, Big and Little, Micajah and Wiley, deserve their spot right along side them.


I’m trying to find out how to write like me

My life as a white, female drug dealer, with all the elements excluding the audiobook which will take a little longer to complete.

First the Novel‘s trailor in video;

VIDEO for novel promo

Revised Cover

Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.  This novel is far more than a story about a drug dealer.  It is delivered however by it’s core context through the eyes of a girl named ‘SKY’ who sadly is also an addict.  She kindly let’s us accompany her along her journey to the gates of insanity due to drugs, no direction as a child, a desperate search to be loved, trying to feel normal, when violence never left her life since the age of 8.

Amazing to be alive today, she hopes sharing her chaos and consequences may touch someone who needs to know they are not alone and there is hope.  We all have a story, and when we share a little bit of ourselves we never know who, but almost always help someone else.  She thought she never had a chance.  And look at her today, no known explanation, but she is sharing her story as hard as it may be.  She is learning that writing is very healing.  She has just begun.

Some Reviews;

What an amazing story … I saw the size of you … and couldn’t help wondering how unbelievably strong, brave, courageous and determined you were to stay alive despite all of what happened to you! I am truly in awe of you? You are a true survivor!  I agree that there is a reason why you were able to survive all of what happened to you … your book is the first step.
I so enjoyed reading it … once I got a chance to start … I could not put it down.
Absolutely, you need to share your story in the high schools … and I urge you to make contact with CAMH as I know that they welcome clients to share their stories on many levels.  I think your idea to bring it to the high schools where you get to address the “youth” is a must do.  Think of how many teenagers you can reach … girls that may have experienced or are experiencing what you did … by telling your story you will encourage young girls to speak out against rape and/or any other criminal behaviour towards them!  It will also make teenage boys think twice and/or be more aware of how unacceptable that kind of criminal behaviour is unacceptable and “girls” will speak out against them to prevent others from being hurt – and that there are consequences.  (The same goes for any boys that may have been invaded in the same way.)
THANK YOU for sharing your story with me … my “food addiction” and “unemployment status” in comparison with what you have endured in your life since the age of 8 … helped me to get a better focus on my life … I have lived in a “glass house”.  I am grateful especially for the richness I have stemming from family (my backbone) and friends.
You are an amazing woman …
I will pass your book along
  • Anonymous
As I read this, I wanted to jump right into the story and help this lost child. Well written. I will be looking forward to the next chapter.
  • Anonymous

Where to begin? This book is both compelling and shocking. The author pulls no punches and takes the reader on a journey; an honest, brutal journey which examines the nature of drug addiction and mental illness. Rarely have I come across a book which is thought-provoking, tragic, violent, uplifting and educational…all at the same time.

Frankly, not only was I unable to put this book down, I was also unable to stop thinking about its content for several days after reading it. If you only buy one book this year, make sure it’s “My life as a white, female drug dealer.” Not only is it the most important book this year so far, it will change your perspective about the life of an addict, forever.

The rest of reviews and available in eBook format and softcover format can be found on facebook, amazon, smashwords, LuLu and createspace, then also distributed for sale at Barnes and Noble, Kobo, apple, Diesel, kindle, etc.
I hope I have included what needs to be said, in this one post finally!  Thank you for your patience as the scattered newbie in me is trying to find my voice.
Two poetry books of a series are also available just the same as above.
I MUST add, all graphics and the execution of this video were designed and formatted by Chris Harrison, Creative Director.
Thank you and have a safe 24!
Centre for Addiction and Mental Health

Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

book Chapter two-sneak peak-My life as a white, female drug dealer

book cover

chapter two

They say everything happens for a reason
Not today in this rainy season
At some point I had to be leaving

He freed me from my apparatus and my limbs fell limp.

I had been demoralized beyond recognition, stripped of my virginity by force, lost my strength through blood and beatings, lost all faith as I was sure to die, and threatened by pure experience. I tried to think and absolutely nothing became of it. Absolutely, catatonic, nothing was there. It was impossible to feel free of John.

When I could muster strength to focus through my swollen eyes, I saw him. He stood over me smug and very proud of his accomplishment. He lifted me from my armpits and stood me up. I buckled from shame and pain. He lifted me again, and I stood. From behind me he gave me his last kick between my shoulder blades.

I fell and lay face down, now less fearful. Anything he could do now wouldn’t come close or be worse than what he already did. He picked me up, my Raggedy Anne dead weight was able to barely stand again.

I climbed the mountain of stairs, opened the front door at a broken snail’s speed, walked out into the rain and didn’t look back, got a block away and could still hear his music blasting.

School was just getting out and I limped towards a detour route to the only place I had to go; which was home. I was too traumatized to think of what my mother would ask, what students that did spot me would say, or how I could explain to anyone the physical damages so detailed and exposed.

All I could do was keep taking breaks by standing and feeling so grateful for such a heavy rainfall as it was washing the blood remnants away, all the while stinging my cuts and fresh bruises.

When I reached my mother’s apartment door, I stood there for an eternity in fear. I was sure to be in trouble, having to lie and being rebellious for so long that nothing I said she would have believed. I had no keys and finally knocked. The expression on her face when she saw me was one of shock and caused her to cry, pleading with me to tell her what happened. I convincingly swore I fought with a girl at school over another boy. She told me to go to my room.

Soaking wet I climbed under my bed covers and pretended I was asleep when anyone entered. I did not move for three days. Nor did I sleep. That third day was a shock I never thought I would see. It was the only thing that stopped my mental obsession from needing that numbing cocaine, and how would I get it. Where could I find a drug dealer, as I lay there also wondering what could I sell to get some money?

The knock at our door was my grandiose father I had not seen for six months. My mother had not seen him in two years. He in the entire time since leaving, helped none of us financially or cared either way. For me that day, I would learn, without knowing it, he would free me from the fear of the unknown as to what was going to happen next.

My mother and father called me into the living room where they sat at the dining room table in the same room. There was an empty chair, reserved for me. Still badly bruised and swollen, my father began to cry as he nodded to my mother, who told me to sit down.

My alcoholic father proceeded to tell me he got sober and that my behavior and attitude indicated I had a problem with drugs. He flew into town to help me get sober too. There was a rehab, one of the best in Minnesota, and I could be there in two days for a 30-day treatment to detoxify.

Like a lifeboat I was just handed a means to get out of my city, my school and mostly, away from John. Manipulating both my parents I lied and confessed I was injecting cocaine for some time, and needed help desperately. They were proud of me for wanting help and the next thing I knew I was in an admitting room, knowing no one, in drug rehab. In my mind I was never going home again, I just had to figure out how.

The counselors, while compassionate, had very strict rules. Which I liked, given it was a co-ed facility. I don’t know how I convinced these professionals I was a junkie or maybe they knew I wasn’t and kept me there sensing I needed to be safe. Either way I had to participate in all groups: for drug education, relapse prevention, sharing and learning how to live a sober life. At turning just 15, I was becoming an expert about drugs I had never used and now, learning how to use them.

The clients, rather young adults, stayed hard-core and laughed at stories that were definitely not true. Mine included. Within a week I was promoted from the new bruised kid at the Centre to one of the family. Rebellious still, I had my fair share of punishment.

This, my first of many rehabs to follow, taught me the basis of being a drug addict and the means on how drugs were bought and sold. It also taught me that my attitude was indeed one of an addict. This became crystal clear when I was discharged on my 28th day out of 30. Discharged for breaking rules and not working the treatment program as outlined for me.

So there I was, locked in a waiting room with two chairs, waiting my eight hour estimated time until I had to face my, sure to be, livid father. No clue what was to happen next, I knew I couldn’t go back home. Not under any circumstances. As I waited in that quiet room alone, I glorified the day I could start using drugs and feel numb like the cocaine made me once feel. I had learnt so much. I was actually prepared, in my limited understanding to embrace the possibilities that I would be sick, with illicit drug addictions.

The key seemed to have jammed in the lock as they were opening the door to my holding space. Then, when it opened, my father entered first. Afraid he was going to hit me I stepped back but stood tall. He can’t hurt me here, I remember thinking.

He hugged me, crying, explaining this was all part of the process of recovery and he was taking me home to Texas where we could find more treatment. For some reason that was just as scary as returning home. As lost as I felt, boarding that 747 headed south, I, at the time, had no idea what to expect. No idea that I had just completed my first semester in drug usage, habits and behaviors of drug dealers and lastly how drugs destroy your life. That part fell on deaf ears, I just wanted to get high. In retrospect having really done cocaine only once was enough to trigger a chemical reaction in my body that would stir in me my entire life.

The flight was only three hours, but long enough for me to find trouble. I went to the washroom only to find a bachelor party gathered at the rear of the plane, using the bathroom to snort their coke. I had to be dreaming.

I was offered a line with no payment or dues, and gladly accepted. I railed it on that steel counter with my door locked and occupied. They had given me a fifty-dollar bill, which I learned to roll up really tight for a straw. I snorted my left nostril then my right. Put some drops of water in the tip of my nose and inhaled until I felt my throat numb from the coke dripping down.

Both hands on the vanity I stared directly into the mirror. I realized I was barely showing signs of my beating or rape, and was looking healthy again. I smiled at myself a long time and uttered out loud “You’re home Sky”.

Without a care in the world, happy and eager to continue treatment I plopped back down in my seat and buckled up. So naïve. It took my father 30 seconds to notice my mood change, behavioral shift and physical symptoms of using cocaine. He, after all, had spent the better half of 20 years snorting and drinking daily.

He was beyond furious. Preaching he was devoting everything to helping me, and this is the way I participated in wanting to recover? He told me I had to want it myself; no one can do this for me. His voice didn’t faze me, or his militant tone. He couldn’t hurt me anymore and I was going to play this man like he once did me. I’d be his perfect daughter with no meaning, love him, with zero truth, obey him, like I cared, and respect him, with spit in my mouth.

I cried with the crocodile tears I inherited from him. Swore I was struggling staying clean, this was not a drug I had, and someone on the plane did. “Daddy please, I won’t mess up again, I’m so sorry. Are you going to send me home?” He said no as his breathing softened back down to a normal rhythm. “Your mother is to blame for all this. But listen, I have been where you are and I have a back up plan. You really didn’t think you were just going to shop, play golf and swim, did you?”

Sky, we are going directly to a facility in Texas that the rehab centre recommends. They believe you are struggling with a mental illness and this is a secluded, lock down psychiatric ward: small, with professional help. A four-month admission on a form, meaning the police will arrest you if you get out. You are not allowed visitors, but we will write. You will be safe and can continue to recover.

What could I say? I said nothing.

In my mind I was wondering if life was really going to be okay for me. I went from years of doubt, and then I was tattooed, with horror. Now here I was, miles away from my mother, whom I had still not spoken to since I left and a father who was dropping me off at a facility where no one could hurt me. Starting with him.

It was scary, as one would imagine. There were nine other patients, all men. The closest to my age was 31 and a severe alcoholic. One supervised cigarette an hour was allowed, outside by the exit doors. No groups or meetings, no art therapy or individual counseling, just a psychiatrist and continual trial cocktail of medications. That equates to a lot of down time over the span of four months. We slept in our own rooms with locked doors and intermittent fifteen-minute flashlight nurse checks every night. Daytime we were allowed one crayon and a piece of paper. I felt crazy. Maybe I was. One thing for sure, crazy or not, I was nowhere near John or my Father.

Four months finished, and I an even more defiant teenager, was released from the crazy house. My diagnosis was Rapid Cycling, Bi-Polar illness, and severe Attention Deficit Disorder. I did not know what that really meant, only that a cocktail of prescribed pills kept me calmer.

I should have guessed my father was not available to pick me up when I was released. I called my mother for help. She explained she could not tolerate a drug addict and was not secure having me return home until I completed a treatment program. I hung up and turned around to find myself being introduced to two men that were going to escort me to a Juvenile Detention Centre and Rehab. Back in Minnesota, this time Minneapolis. I was being escorted and tagged as a drug addict who was underage and diagnosed as a potential harm to myself…………………………………………..

My life as a white, female drug dealer, chapter One


Chapter One

Chapter One




What has not killed me in my life, has defined me.
My behaviors, actions and mistakes have defined me more.
My entire life revolved around, selling, buying and cooking drugs.
I never knew I had any other choice.  My name is Sky.

It isn’t hard for me to remember the first time I saw drugs.  It was the very same afternoon I saw a pistol, not like the standard 10 or 12 gauge shotgun Dad had kept at home.  But Dad had been gone and remarried five years by then.

There was a new kid at school. He was popular, adored by all the girls, and the son of a Federal Agent for Law Enforcement, just transferred to our city.  No mother and no reasons offered as to why.

I had no clue why two weeks new to school he asked me to ditch to spend the afternoon with him at his house.  No one would be home and he had some cool cop stuff to show me.  Nothing felt safer than hanging with a policeman’s son.

The rebellious and fearless teenager I was at 14, confidently jumped at such an invitation.  I too was very popular and desired by most of the boys.  I never let on to the rumors that weren’t true, specifically of me being a slut or promiscuous.  I opted to say nothing.

Truth be told, I was a virgin and had no plans in giving up my secret truth by breaking a childhood oath for reasons I prefer not to speak of.

At noon, he came and got me.  His name was John. It could have been any Joe, John or Jack for that matter.  The situation was a reason to get out of school.  I ditched school a dozen times, never caught, but also never anything to do when I did.  Today was going to be an adventure, for real.  Neither of our parents were the wiser, both were working, very busy and not very strict.

It was raining.  I can remember, like any teenage girl, worried that my hair would be a wreck.  Maybe I could ask John to use a blow dryer.  Suppose exposing my vanity this soon may not be cool.  Besides I was viewed as a tomboy and I had to maintain this persona to keep my friends.

Soaking wet, I entered John’s home, a huge bungalow, inner walls lined with cut logs of wood.  Surprising and shocking were the number of guns, displayed in glass cases, hanging on those wood walls.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling way out of my comfort zone.

It was a man’s home, justified by the lack of John ever mentioning his mother, or any form of a mother.  This and the absence of any female belongings.

He pranced around telling me the history of his dad’s guns.  I couldn’t hear him over my own self-consciousness thoughts that my hair was getting frizzy.

He couldn’t hold the excitement any longer to show me the rest of the home.  Starting first with a bolt-lock door into the den. Inside there were huge bricks marked evidence and wads of cash stacked neatly in an open safe.

He said the bricks were his father’s confiscated drug evidence. Mainly heroin and cocaine.  Not mentioning why they were there, I didn’t ask nor really cared to find out.  He took a knife from the desk drawer, stabbed a grey wrapped brick, exposing powder. It was white, and John’s confident offering told me it was cocaine.

There it was.  This was a twofold, potentially awkward situation.  First, I didn’t know why he spooned it out and kept it on the knife.  My expression surely gave up to admitting having never done this before.  Secondly, if I demonstrated fear, he would surely ditch me at school for all the kids to know something, not knowing what he would also make up.

I played it cool; like I understood what he meant by asking me to take a toot.  I said, “Right from the knife? Don’t you get more by taking it other ways?” He laughed and said “Trust me there’s lots here to play with”, then proceeded to snort some from the knife.  I am pretty confident he did so knowing I had no clue what to do.

Without hesitation, the fearless and still innocent naïve girl in me snorted as much off that knife as my lungs could inhale.  I figured I had nothing to lose, only new experiences to gain.  I prayed it wouldn’t make me lose control, but to no avail, it did just the opposite.

The first sensation was that of numbness in my nose and down the back of my throat.  My emotions for the first time in my life were controllable.  My feelings were that of a super-being.  I was happy.  I was not thinking of anything else.  I had no pain of the past, and surely not thinking of any event except that magnificent moment.  Instantly I wanted more.

As John laughed at my approach to this powder, within 30 seconds of snorting it, something inside me changed.  I knew this was the answer to my fears.

Within a minute I wanted to get higher, sustain this buzz to see how and where I could go within this world of ecstasy. This was a new and perfect world, where, anything felt possible.  John was most generous in sharing his father’s work materials.  He playfully invited me to come see his room.  He had the entire basement of the bungalow.  It was huge, even beneath the stairs exposed two secure bars.

Much less affected, I now noticed more gun racks in glass cases.  These all held pistols.  When asked, he said they were gifts from his dad.  I paid no mind to them along with handcuffs, Billy clubs and a few Officer hats.  He cranked Rod Stewart so loud it just enhanced my pleasure trip.

John was acting kinda strange, like he thought he was his father or something.

I only know that what transpired next started without me being aware, continued for what seemed like forever, and ended too late.

Somewhere between accepting more cocaine, feeling my anxiety, at the speed my heart was racing, the tone had instantly changed; I had been dragged and cuffed to the two poles supporting the stairs which would be my focal point for the next half hour.

I, in terror and strung out on coke, firmly told John to fuck off and release me as the cuffs were hurting my wrists.  Music blaring, I couldn’t scream and with just two legs free, I tried, but could not reach to kick him in defense. His response was silent and brought much more anticipated pain.

He handcuffed each leg, to what I do not know, nor remember.  I was bound for the unknown and now crying.  I never believed he was going to do what he did but was in a panic imagining what he would do.  I truly believed he was going to kill me once he stood in my view.

John stood to expose his cop hat, Billy club, two pistols clenched by two hands and that was all he was wearing.  He knelt down resting his right forearm on his right leg, grinned in that kind of way that is a mocking, warning things are going to get ugly.  All he said was:

“Sky, you act like such a lady at school, who knew you were such a whore.  You stole my dad’s drugs, well, now you have to be punished.  I got my Dad’s back.”

He slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand splitting my left cheekbone open to bleed.  It stung like boiling water.  I stopped crying and tried focusing on anything except what was happening.  Being the daughter of a manipulative genius, some survival traits kicked in.  Besides, I clearly wasn’t dealing with a stable individual.

I wondered if he and his father shared this demonic hobby, or my god, what if he came home and was drawn downstairs by the blaring music.

I loved the band Bay City Rollers.  I closed my eyes and chanted their lyrics in my head continuously.  The coke was wearing off and I could feel my cheek swelling, what a sting.  Come on Sky, you can handle this thug.  He’s just a boy who needs to feel in control. “OK John, fine you got my attention, I am the slut I am known as.  But Baby, this could go a lot easier and certainly more fun if you let me touch you too.”

Once in awhile, even now, I can still smell his skin, 30 years later.  He had refused to un-cuff me.  “Sky, you’re not getting it, I don’t want you to touch me, and frankly I don’t want to touch you either.  See, it is because I have to.  Pretty, popular girls like you make entertaining victims.  All cool and fake, you need to be brought down to size.”

That was one of the scariest thoughts, I weighed 100 pounds, he about 150 just at 14.  Size wouldn’t have mattered with his strength.  His private, well-protected fetish was to torture and I was yet to find out what next.  As a virgin I didn’t know what to expect of sex or rape.  John announced this entire plan was about just that.  His kicks and punches slowly put me in a state of a bruised and bloody catatonic detachment.

I had no strength.  Fractured, weak and semi conscious, I just made sense of his words, the last I could comprehend. “Sky, Sky, Sky, this is going to hurt.  Well, hurt you, but pleasure me.”  He knew I was weak enough to faint, and definitely not have an ounce of energy to fight back.  With that, he unlocked my ankles, now swollen, red and scraped.  Still on my legs he ripped my panties off and spread my legs.

John pressed one gun to my right temple and the second pistol was the start of my life’s sexual pain.  John stuck the pistol in my vagina, then up my vagina.

The first thing to ever enter my vagina was a pistol.  I froze.  I was already in need of medical help, and in incredible pain. I thought I could take no more, but he was just beginning.

I became lost in a moment of desire, a desire for more cocaine.  I clung to this memory, that would scar me for life, and I had to numb its pain.  Numb it like the cocaine did, take away the pain and take me away from reality.  This combination of desire followed me my whole life.  For reasons that only began with John.


© Kimberly Gray



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