The girl in the faded childhood photograph looks harmless, even sweet — wide-eyed, small-framed, and unaware of the darkness waiting for her. But she would grow into one of the most infamous female serial killers in American history, a woman whose life spiraled from early trauma into violence that shocked the nation.

Born in 1956 in Rochester, Michigan, she entered the world already marked by chaos. Her father, a man with a long record of violent and sexual offenses, was sentenced to life in prison for kidnapping and raping a seven-year-old girl. Not long after receiving that sentence, he died by suicide behind bars. Her mother disappeared soon after, leaving the little girl and her brother abandoned before they were old enough to understand what was happening.

The children were taken in by their maternal grandparents. Any hope of stability died quickly. The girl later alleged that her grandmother drank heavily and that her grandfather physically and sexually abused her repeatedly throughout her childhood. She grew up in a home soaked in fear, instability, and secrets — a breeding ground for future tragedy.

At just fourteen years old, she became pregnant after being raped, and rumors circulated for years that the father of her child may have been her own brother. She gave birth to a baby boy and placed him for adoption immediately, believing it was the only chance he had at a decent life. Before she could legally drive a car, she had already endured more loss and trauma than most people face in a lifetime.

When her grandmother died, she dropped out of school and survived by selling her body on the streets. It wasn’t a choice — it was survival. Between 1970 and 1980, her life unfolded like a police blotter: arrests for disorderly conduct, drunk driving, assault, shoplifting, and prostitution. She was constantly drifting, constantly scraping by, constantly fighting. Her brother died in 1976, and her grandfather ended his own life not long after. Each loss pushed her further off the rails.

Eventually she hitchhiked to Florida, hoping distance might reset her life. Instead, she plunged deeper into instability. In 1982, she was arrested for armed robbery and served time. By then, she had already attempted suicide six times between ages fourteen and twenty-two. Mental illness, trauma, and poverty were carrying her toward a breaking point.

Florida was where her story took its final, violent turn.

Working as a prostitute along highways and truck stops, she met Richard Mallory, a 51-year-old electronics store owner. The two ended up together in a secluded wooded area outside Daytona. What happened next would become the center of national debate. She shot Mallory three times, leaving his body to be discovered two weeks later.

She initially claimed they argued over money. Later, she testified that Mallory assaulted her, beat her, and raped her before she fought back in self-defense. Her story was complicated by the fact that Mallory had a history of sexual violence — something that would only become public after her conviction. But by then, the narrative was set: a dangerous drifter had killed a man.

What no one yet knew was that she would soon confess to killing seven more men.

Between December 1989 and November 1990, her trail of victims stretched across Florida. All were middle-aged white men. Some were construction workers, one a rodeo hand, one a retired police chief, one a truck driver. The pattern was the same: she met them while prostituting, claimed they attempted to assault her, and shot them in what she insisted was self-defense.

But the sheer number of bodies and the consistency of the circumstances overwhelmed her claims. Police linked the murders through ballistics and stolen items. Her confession calls — emotional, frantic, and contradictory — sealed her fate.

She was charged with six counts of first-degree murder. One victim’s body was never found, though she admitted to killing him as well. Ultimately, she received six death sentences.

Her name was Aileen Wuornos.

Dubbed the “Damsel of Death,” she became a media obsession. Her life story — the abuse, the homelessness, the violence — was picked apart, sensationalized, and debated endlessly. Was she a predator? A victim of lifelong trauma who snapped? A woman fighting for her life on the margins of society? Psychologists pointed to severe mental illness, untreated trauma, and years of instability. Prosecutors painted her as a cold-blooded killer.

On October 9, 2002, at age forty-six, Aileen Wuornos was executed by lethal injection. In her final years, she vacillated between claiming self-defense and expressing rage and paranoia. To some, she was a monster. To others, a tragic product of abuse and neglect. To most, she remained an unsettling reminder of what can emerge from a childhood steeped in pain.

In the end, the little girl in the picture didn’t stand a chance. The world failed her long before she ever laid a hand on anyone — and by the time she became infamous, there was no path left back to who she might have been.