mysteriousheartache-blog

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karlas adopted kitten in Jail .

#karlahomolka #paulbernardo #truecrime

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Lori , Karlas Sister . Also known as Logan Valentini .

#homolka #karlahomolka #lorihomolka #paul bernardo #loganvalentini

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Karla Homolkas Sister Lori (Logan Valentini now)

 Personal Note : The internet never forgets .

#loganvalentini #lorihomolka #karlahomolka

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i was waiting more than 4 weeks of it , mum paid it and said its your easter gift .The first 3 Nights i got terrible nightmares of it , but its pretty good written .

#lethalmarriage #karlahomolka #paul bernardo

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"People," she says with that inimitable Karla view, "are always going to interpret what I do as bad. They'll pick out one bad thing from a sea of good and I'll be judged on that." 

karlas letter to Mr. Williams

#karlahomolka #paul bernardo #truecrime

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A visit to hell in Bernardo wing

Nick Pron, The Toronto Star, June 21, 2005

The sliding steel gate into hell opened slowly, and reluctantly I stepped into the closed world that is Paul Bernardo’s home, and will be for the rest of his life. Moments later, I was looking into the eyes of Canada’s most notorious criminal. My heart filled with rage over what he had done. I had the overwhelming urge to scream at him.

While his former wife, Karla Homolka, will be a free woman in a few weeks — albeit hounded by the media — Bernardo will live out his life caged in a cell about the size of a walk-in closet. How I came to be inside the Kingston Penitentiary that day is a story on its own.

A few days earlier, I had been out drinking with some buddies when one of them leaned over and whispered: “Would you like to see Paul Bernardo?” “Of course,” I replied, “but he’s in jail.” “It can be arranged,” said my friend. The next morning I was standing at the front door of Kingston Penitentiary, on the shore of Lake Ontario. I had written about the institution many times, but had never been inside. That was about to change. The door clanged shut behind me as I walked into the facility that was home to the country’s worst criminals. There was not a wisp of fresh air inside the walls. My tour took me first to the open range. As I craned my neck upwards and gawked at the rows of cells, I noticed that the receivers on the pay phones at the end of each floor were all off the hook. I was told that, if you wanted to use the phone, you first had to ask for permission from the inmate who controlled that particular floor. This was prison culture. But Bernardo would never be part of that closed society. “Our guest of honour has his own special area,” said my guide.

It was the ground floor wing for the worst of the worst, the sexual offenders who had to be housed by themselves for their own safety. Plexiglas across the bars in this area of the prison prevented other inmates from hurling objects at them. In prison culture, men who rape and kill children are considered the lowest of the low. Injuring them would be a badge of honour. The gate to the “Bernardo Wing” suddenly opened and I stepped inside, albeit hesitantly. The air inside was pungent with the rancid smell of caged men who are seldom allowed out of their cells. As the gate clanged shut behind me, an inmate in the first cell jerked bolt upright from his bunk, pressing his face tight against the bars. His face was chalk white, his eyes wide as saucers, his gaze not of this world. He stared at me, at times grinning, drool seeping from a corner of his mouth. Opposite the cells was a bank of small television screens, two guards monitoring the activity in each cell via a closed circuit camera. Extending upward from the floor and arching over the guards was a Plexiglas shield that ran the length of the range. “Why the shield?” I naively inquired. Just then, a stream of yellowish liquid came hurtling from one of the cells. “Duck,” yelled my guide. I dove for cover as the urine hit the shield and trickled harmlessly to the floor. “That’s why,” said my guide, somewhat amused as I picked myself off the deck and looked upward at yet another white face peering down at me from the second row, grinning, his front teeth missing. The shield was dotted with urine stains, spit, feces. Then came a second volley of yellow fluid. The two guards seated at the screens never even looked up. Such was life in this special section. One of the inmates started yelling. “Forty-seven,” he screamed. “Forty-seven,” over and over again. His screams cut through the deathly silence of the range. My temples began throbbing in pain. And then I saw him. A chill ran through my body. Paul Bernardo, probably this country’s most despised killer, was standing at the front of his second floor cell, glancing down at the wary visitor in the prison’s most restricted zone. Our eyes locked. His appearance was shocking. Gone was the smirk, the cockiness that was Bernardo’s trademark. He was heavier, his features blowsy, his face white. The man who terrorized women for years in Scarborough, the monster who killed two teenagers in St. Catharines, the villain who stalked potential prey in Orlando, Fla., was safely behind bars. Hopefully forever. At his trial, I sat three rows directly behind Bernardo in courtroom 6-1 on University Ave. Although I work the court beat, for years afterwards I couldn’t bring myself to even venture into that courtroom for fear it would rekindle memories of that gruesome trial. Even though he was shackled and watched closely by several guards during the trial, he still had that trademark smirk, that cocky attitude that somehow he was going to talk his way out of a lifetime sentence behind bars. As his four-month trial dragged on in 1995 I began fantasizing about hurting the man who had hurt so many people. In my daydream, I would vault over the benches, grab him by the neck, throw him to the floor and give him a punch in the mouth for each of his victims. For good measure, I would throw in a couple of extra blows for myself. Was I losing it, I wondered. The Star had brought in a counsellor to talk to those who were covering the trial and editing the copy. “I’m fine,” I told her. I wasn’t. One evening after court, when a group of reporters covering the trial gathered at a bar to drown our anguish in booze, I blurted out my fantasy. To my surprise, several others had been thinking the exact same thing. Like me, they wanted their frontier-style justice. Such was the hatred for this evil creature staring down at me from his cage. I thought about that as I looked back at him. I suddenly had the urge to yell at him, like two of his friends had done shortly after his arrest, standing outside the Metro East Detention centre and cursing at his cell. But the words got stuck in my throat. His gaze was vacant, the cockiness long gone. My anger eased. He disappeared back into his cell. The moment passed. We continued the tour. “People wanted him to rot in jail,” I said, and my guide finished my thought: “I think they got their wish,” he said. “If you really want to experience what life is like right now for Mr. Bernardo,” said my guide, “you have to go inside a cell.” We found an empty one, similar to the cage where Bernardo lives 23 hours a day, 365 days a year, getting out only for his daily bit of fresh air in a small, fenced-in compound, or showering twice a week, always watched. The cell was tiny. If you want the same experience, step into a small walk-in closet and close the door. There was a bunk on one side, a toilet at the far end. The cell was about three paces long, and about as wide as Bernardo’s arm span. Claustrophobia set in immediately. I felt trapped, and thought of animals in the zoo in small cages, and how horrible must be their existence. “I’ve had enough,” I said, turning to leave, just as the bars behind me shut. “What are you doing?” I asked my guide, now my jailer, standing on the other side of freedom. “You wanted the full experience,” he said. “But I didn’t mean it,” I pleaded, grabbing at the bars. They didn’t budge. I turned back into my new home. I shuddered. The throbbing in my head was now a pounding pain. A minute in a locked cage and the big, tough crime writer was on the verge of tears. My guide fumbled through his pockets. “Oops,” he said, “I may not have the key.” “I need to be out,” I pleaded, as he searched his pockets. He was taking his time, enjoying the moment. I was terrified. Finally, he found the key and I was freed. My total time in captivity: a minute, 30 seconds. I vowed never to get so close to a story again. “Someday — not now — but someday I want you to write about your little visit to Kingston,” said my guide. “Mr. Bernardo will live, grow old and die in there. He’ll have plenty of time to think about his crimes. The public should know that each and every day for the rest of his life will not be pleasant.” The door to the prison shut behind us. I had my freedom. Bernardo never would.He was declared a dangerous offender, which allows the authorities to sentence him indefinitely to jail, pending regular reviews. “Know what?” I said to my guide. “I would rather take a needle in the arm than live like that.” “Just be thankful,” said my guide, “that we no longer have capital punishment in this country.”

#karlahomolka #paul bernardo #truecrime

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their song was patience from one of my fav bands guns n roses , the song will never be the same after ive found out .

Paul and Karla during a kiss at their wedding party. 1991

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all about lynch <3

btw its so funny when all these 14 years old teenager act like lolita and blue velvet are their favourite movies ^^ im always like yeah , all right you totally understand whats about it cause your old enough right? ^^.

Sorry about the sarcasm <3

#davidlynch bluevelvet

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Found this at our school homepage with the title flying hairs , this picture is from 2004 .. remember how everyone called me pregnant, ugly, pumpkin or a rabbit 🐰 maybe I sound like an asshole now but I think these bitches were just jealous because of my beautiful blouses , my ‭‭hair and my character, and the boys just treated me that way because that's how boys act when they find out ,that their penises can do more than just pee 😂 I wasn't such an ugly child , they made me believe it but I'm so grateful for these experiences in my life because I'm better than this , I know how it feels and so I can give teenagers with similar experience hope & strength 🌿💐🔥 the most ppl who get bullied are creative intelligent people with a own personality, that's exactly the same way animals treat other animals who are different as the stereotype. ☕️🚬 Don't change yourself for anyone , be always yourself cause at the end no one cares who you was , they remember what you did . 🌿🌺 #throwback #fuckbullies

#fuckbullies

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me.

#vhs footage 90s madonna bonita bobbiejeanbrown pamanderson

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Today , I was visit the House where last Saturday have been two little boys (4&5years old) killed by their own father. its one bus station from my hometown . The whole Communtity is shocked of the terrible news.

In lovely Memory of two innocent children.

#truecrime

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Karla's full letter to her friend Debbie Purdie

Letter To Debbie Purdie Dated: Feb. 19, 1991 I just got your letter. I always seem to only get letters back after I write you. I’ll answer your questions before anything else. 1. We’re getting a dog as soon as we can. I’ve been writing to breeders for the last six months. I could have a puppy in July because the breeders have no puppies until then. It’ll cost between $600 and a grand and I can’t afford that right now. What a piss- off. 2. Our whole house is done in neutral shades, which I love. There’s light gray carpeting everywhere except in the living room which has hardwood floors. You’ll love it. 3. We decided a long time ago we weren’t going to be living in Toronto: a) too dangerous; b) too expensive; c) too many immigrants; d) too crowded. 4. Paul’s business is going fine but it’s on hold until the wedding. 5. Our wedding plans are okay. More on that later. 6. Your bridesmaids dresses are in. I need to know when you’re coming so I can schedule a fitting. 7. About my mom and dad, more on that later. 8. Never feel guilty about taking from Dale, or anyone else. The world will screw you in every way it can. So take as much as you can while you can. I would love it if you gave me china or crystal for the wedding. I’ll register for what we need and I’ll tell you when we register. What we need is a Dust Buster, china, crystal and money. Please let people know we want money. If they say they don’t believe in giving money, tell them to take a flying f—. The wedding plans are going great, except my parents are being assholes. They pulled half of the money out of the wedding. They say they can’t afford it. Bullshit. Now Paul and I have to pay for $7,000 to $8,000 of this wedding. So money is tight considering all of a sudden we’ve been hit with such a huge bill. We’ve been compromising like crazy on everything. No hors d'oeuvres, a cash bar, etc. But on Saturday Paul and I said f— it. We’re doing everything the way we’ve planned. Real flowers for everyone. Paying for the bar. Everything!!! F—–g parents. They are being so stupid. Only thinking of themselves. My father doesn’t even want us to have a wedding. He thinks we should just go to city hall. Screw that. We’re having a good time. If he wants to sit at home and be miserable, he’s welcome to. He hasn’t worked, except for one day, since Tammy died. He’s wallowing in his own misery, and f—— me. It sounds awful on paper, but I know you’ll really see what I’m saying. Tammy always said last year that she wanted a forest green Porsche for her 16th birthday. Now, my dad keeps saying: “I would have bought it for her if I had only known.” That’s bull. If he really felt like that, he’d be paying for my wedding because I could die tomorrow or next year or whenever. He’s such a liar. And for the real reasons we moved out. My parents told Paul and I that they wanted him to stay at the house until the wedding. They told him that they didn’t want him to go to Toronto. So he stayed. Then a week before we moved they were driving me to work … and asked me when he was leaving. They said they needed their privacy (after they told him he was their son) and that they needed me as a daughter?! They wanted him to go home during the week and come back on weekends only. And after they told us he should stay until after the wedding. First they took away half the wedding money, and then they kicked us out. They knew how much we needed to be together but they didn’t care. What assholes. Now they wonder why I don’t phone them or come to visit them. Guess that’s it. When are you coming here. Please come as soon as possible. Love, Karla.

#homolkafamily #tammylynhomolka #karlahomolka #paul bernardo #true crime #serialkiller

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The case of Karla & Paul

Karla Leanne Homolka (born May 4, 1970),[2] also known as Karla Leanne Teale and Leanne Bordelais, is a Canadian serial killer who, with her husband Paul Bernardo, raped and murdered at least three young women. She attracted worldwide media attention when she was convicted of manslaughter following a plea bargain in the 1991 and 1992 rape-murders of two Ontario teenage girls, Leslie Mahaffy and Kristen French, as well as the rape and death of her sister Tammy. (source wikipedia)

my personal text is still in progress , wait for all the books ive ordered about that case . so here is the short information about the case if someone doesnt know who they are and what they did)

#karlahomolka paulbernardo truecrime

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#chetbaker jazz music prettyman

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didnt know how much i love jazz after lsitening ti Jimmy scott <3

thank you for your music <3

#jimmyscott #jazz classic music