On my first day of school, the teacher called each of us by name to pick up school supplies from her desk at the front of the room. She was tiny, young and skinny. A blond woman--named Frau von Sass. I don't remember her first name. As I walked toward her, I fell totally in love with her. This was the beginning of my love for skinny women--she was so thin--and she was my teacher.

We were all boys in the class and I had to walk down the aisle between the desks in order to get to the front of the room. As I walked up to her front desk, Michael Horn made me trip, and I almost fell. I was very embarrassed as I walked the rest of the way. Each time, Frau von Sass handed me an item--I thanked her. I must have said, "thank you," about seven or eight times and she started smiling at me. As I walked back to my desk, Michael Horn tripped me again, and everybody laughed at me. Frau von Sass laughed at me, too. It was then, when I wished for Michael Horn to die.

On the weekends, I used to go with my parents to the cemetery where my father's mother was buried. I always liked to go to the showroom to see all the coffins on display. Some of them were open and I could look at the dead faces. This time, as I strolled along the individual displays, I came across a small white coffin, one of the ones used for children. It was closed. The nametag read: Michael Horn. There was no doubt in my mind that this was he.

On Monday morning our skinny teacher came to the classroom a little later than usual. I already knew what she was going to say. She told us that over the weekend Michael had been riding his bike. As he approached an intersection his brakes failed and he was run over by a truck. The truck crushed his little torso and he died in the street. He would never embarrass me again.

A few days later, the class was asked to send six representatives to the funeral. I was not amongst them.

Every day, as I walked to school, I looked over my shoulders. I had to make sure nobody was following me. First--I would look back over my left shoulder. Then--I would look over my right shoulder. I felt unbalanced if I didn't look back over both shoulders.

I lived in Munich, Germany, with my father and mother, sister and grandma. My father was a mechanic for AGFA and my mother was a housewife. My sister got me my first ass ever. Her name was Manuela. She looked like a Gypsy. She was twelve.

My mother told me that Manuela had sex with older men, like thirty-fifty-year-olds, and I should stay away from her, because she was a bad girl. I was twelve, too. So I couldn't compete with these older men. But she was my sister's friend and she was right here, in the basement room of our house and the door was closed, but not locked and I wanted to be with a bad girl. My sister (eight and a half) was there and so was my friend Ken. Ken was fourteen. It was clear that we guys wanted to have sex with the girls. My sister said that she didn't want to do anything, but she wanted to watch. I was a bad boy myself. I had devised a sex game. It was a list, numbered from 2 to 12, called by a pair of dice. The girls had to roll the dice, and depending on what score they got, guys got to do whatever was described for that number on the list.

2. Touching her
3. Kissing her cheeks
4. Fondling her breasts
5. Pulling up her shirt
6. Kissing on the mouth
7. Squeezing her tits
8. Kissing her tits
9. Pulling down her panties
10. Fondling her pussy
11. Her playing with the guys
12. Getting under the blanket

We made Manuela roll the dice. Ken and I were in heaven. We had a horny bitch rolling the dice and she was willing to do all the sex--games we asked her to. I got a hard on when I fondled her small boobs. And when she then rolled the dice for Ken, she hit the twelve, and he disappeared with her under the blanket. I heard him moaning and was worried that he would get her pregnant and that my father would probably beat me up if he found out. I imagined his rage when the parents of twelve-year-old Manuela approached him to tell him that her daughter was pregnant, because of a kinky sex game devised by his son. I panicked and told them to stop. I examined the sheets and found a little wet spot. I was outraged and yelled at Ken for being so inconsiderate. But he assured me that he hadn't been inside her. We just had finished playing when my uncle entered the room. We had just put back on all our clothes and were just standing around. I could see in his face that he realized that he'd missed his chance to get a good look at some young children's sex play.

We just had finished playing when my uncle entered the room. We had just put back on all our clothes and were just standing around. I could see in his face that he realized that he'd missed his chance to get a good look at some young children's sex play.

My father was an epileptic. He had met my mother at a dance in Munich and they got married shortly after. His mother had been eager to see him get married, because of his epilepsy.

My mother found out about it one day soon after their honeymoon. They were riding together in a streetcar in Munich and he had one of his attacks. It was so violent that he lost his balance and fell to the ground. His face became distorted and he bit his tongue.

My mother realized that she had been tricked into marrying a very sick man. Her family lived in a small village in a German--speaking part of today's Czech Republic. Her father hid from the Nazis when they roamed the villages to draft soldiers. When they found him, they sent him to the Russian front. He was killed a few months later. At the end of the war the rest of the family was deported by the Czech government and wound up in Munich, where relatives took them in. My mother was only in seventh grade and at the age of thirteen, when she started working as a hat--maker and fashion model.

I was afraid of my father. Every time I brought home new friends, he would squeeze their hands so hard that they started crying and would refuse to come to my house again. He also shouted at me each time we had a conversation. My relatives said it was, because he worked in a very noisy environment. I have never believed that.

He was very violent. He used to cane me for any mistake I made. He called the cane "The Spanish."

His favorite game was when we were watching TV and the plot of the movie reached a turning point, he would send me down to the basement to get him something, so I would miss the important part of the storyline. One day, when he ordered me to get some beer and I hurried, so I wouldn't miss anything, I tripped on my way up the stairs and fell, breaking all the bottles I carried and cutting my fingers severely. He cared more about the broken bottles, and the mess I'd made in the stairwell, than about my injuries. He punished me and sent me to bed, so I would miss the rest of the movie.

Once I became a filmmaker I never knew how to create a complete film--I could only make short flicks. I was into fragmentation and I did it well, but a coherent storyline never appealed to me.

When I was eleven, I started to play with a film camera my father brought home from work. It was an AGFA normal 8mm camera that rolled 16mm film that was cut in half and then spliced together in the lab to make a complete roll of 8mm film. I filmed a few scenes off of our black and white TV; mostly war footage. Then I added some stop motion using plastic tanks and miniature soldiers, which I blew up using firecrackers.

The first narrative film I made was a sci-fi called "UFO." It was a story about a pilot, who was stationed on the moon to intercept UFOs with his spacecraft, which was designed to shoot a rocket mounted on the nose of the craft and save the earth from the evil invaders. I talked my father into operating the camera and I starred and directed. I didn't know how to edit, so I decided to make the cuts in the camera by filming everything in sequence.

I always was drawn to futuristic stories, because they were an escape from reality. My reality at that time was being at the mercy of the moods of an epileptic with a violent temper. The only escape I could imagine was to make a movie. I thought that maybe if I involved him in the process, he wouldn't have time to think of any more sadistic things to do to me.

However, he remained a complete asshole. For every little mistake I made, he would hit me with a rod, sometimes so badly that I had bleeding marks on my ass. I showed them to my mother and she convinced him to throw the rod away, but this was just a superficial gesture and did not change his character. If I wanted to be free I had to put an end to all of this. I had to get rid of him for good.

The only weapon in the house was a BB gun. Not exactly the kind of tool that would solve my problem. I didn't want to fuck up my life by being labeled as a parent killer. I had to be smart about it. Something that looked like a natural death would be perfect.

In the local bookstore I found a small booklet called "Demon Killer." This sounded kind of promising. I bought the booklet with my pocket money. I brought it home and read it at night in bed with a flashlight under my blanket. It was a spooky story about a professional vampire slayer whose goal it was to save the earth from evil powers. That was exactly what I needed to do, to free myself from the power my father had over me, otherwiseÑand I knew this for sure--this guy would mess up my life completely. If I wanted to be happy and feel safe, he had to go.

Most of the methods the vampire slayer used were out of the question. How would I, for example, a twelve-year-old boy with limited physical strength, drive a sharp piece of wood into my father's chest, while he was asleep? But in one of the chapters of the book I found a method that seemed practical. I read it over and over again and the more I thought about it the more it became the method of choice. I only had to assemble a few props and follow the instructions in the book.

I made a wax doll and wrote my father's name on it. Then I heated up needles over a candle and stuck them into the doll. I stuck the first needle into its stomach. The second needle went into its head. It made me feel like I was taking matters into my own hands.

A little while after my evil performance he checked into a hospital with excruciating stomach pain. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with him and they cut his belly open to take a look. He wound up with a big scar that looked like an ass crack. Later on they drilled holes in his skull to conduct tests related to his epilepsy. But the doctors could not help him.

He deteriorated more and more over the next few month and years, although he didn't die. But my ritual was partially successful, because as his disease progressed, he didn't have the energy to get on my case any longer and he left me alone.

When I was 15 years old, I was coming home from a party when I turned onto our street and saw the paramedics parked in front of our house. The lights were still flashing. First I thought my Grandma had had another stroke, but my mother told me it was my father, who didn't wake up from his afternoon nap.

They tubed him and put him for a week on the respirator. Then they cut off the life support. He never regained consciousness. I never visited him at the hospital. I felt it would be a waste of time. I knew he wouldn't come back.

I had to go to the funeral, though. I started crying when everybody was shaking my hand and said what a wonderful man he was. I thought to myself: "You guys have no idea." When Lia came up to me and hugged me I could feel her breasts and I kissed her on her neck. She was a tall skinny chick with nice perky tits. She was a few years older than I was, and that turned me on.

Lia used to help me with my homework. One day shortly before my father died we were working late. When it got dark we didn't turn on the lights and started making out. My father walked in on us and threw her out of the house. I hated him for that.

I felt very relieved after his death. We had to struggle financially, though. My father had been demoted at his job because of his epilepsy and he hadn't been making much money at the end. So the pension my mother received was a joke. She started cleaning other people's houses to make some additional money.