At the end of this chapter, you will read my confession. It will be terrifying, in the manner of a rabid dog attacking an infant, ripping it to shreds with sharpened fangs. It will define the evil in man, a black spot on the soul of humanity, dedicated to darkening the lives of others. My confession will make you hate me. It will make you hate yourself because you will wonder if you are like me, in some deep part of your soul. You will question yourself, your values, your desires, your inner voice. My confession will stir you to search within, wondering whether you could do the things I’ve done, knowing the consequences of your actions, and validating them with some sick moral resignation. Best of all, my confession will be true, and that should scare the shit out of you.
I am a thirty year old man. I grew up in small town in New Jersey with one innocent younger brother and two mentally disturbed parents. We were wealthy, not in the jet-set sense, but relative to our neighbors, which is to say we were upper middle class. As a child, I got what I wanted. If not, I’d throw a big enough fit and demand it, to the point where my parents would submit to my whims. Watching them give in to me, as I pressed my words against their hearts like a foot against a throat, brought me joy. Watching them break aroused me. The psychiatrists consider that a sign of depravity. I think it’s simply marvelous. Oh, the psychiatrists? Yes, I see them religiously. I watch them twirl their pens between their fingers as if they seek to twist the inner workings of my mind into some final sculpture that a sane world will scream “Yes, genius is evident here!”. I watch them take notes on yellow legal pads, the mad musings of a troubled soul running beyond the tiny lines, like an escaped morality searching for another path to confine itself to. I watch them nod their heads in understanding, lost tourists receiving directions from Chinese locals – it is polite but they have no idea what the fuck I am talking about. They can’t. They are locked in the prisons of educated minds. The white spires of knowledge spent nine years banging research and study into their heads and if any one of them had an original thought, it would create an aneurism so beautiful I might even stick around and watch. But then, these days I’ve no time for heads coming apart.
My mother is cooking soup over a burner. Accidently, I touch the stove, wincing in pain, learning a lesson for the future. Five minutes later my mother screams. Well, that is my assumption, because all I see is her open mouth and the veins in her neck getting larger as she rushes over to stop me from holding my brother’s hand on the burner. See, my brother is screaming so loudly that I can’t really hear anything. At the time, it disturbs me a little bit, because there is something arousing about my mother screaming with fear. I feel it coursing through my body, a strange adrenalin that is already becoming addictive.
After that incident, the psychiatrist visits became a regular part of my childhood. Until I was thirteen, I’d have weekly interaction with shrinks who told me I had a lot of rage and anger. Ironically, there was this little pit-bull that lived next store and I felt the same way about him that the shrinks felt about me. Hence, I got to watch him transform from an aggressive survivalist into a pacified puppy as he consumed my daily doses of drugs. I sure as shit wasn’t going to take them.
It’s funny how quickly a child learns. I could pacify the doctors with a feigning look, soft words, pretending insecurity. They’d succumb to my acting and tell my parents I was healing. Emotional repression was effective, exciting, and simple. As a consequence, I become stolid about life, showing emotion when required, but feeling nothing.
Emotional Numbness (def) Insert my picture here
By age thirteen, I was attracting women. Well-endowed, I learned quickly that girls thought sex was painful, but women wanted more. Apparently, rumors traveled rapidly amongst the female student population and several mothers began to take interest in me. I spent much of my freshman year of high school in bed with mothers around the city.
“Yes, Mrs, Callahan, I’d love to come over for lunch and wait for your daughter to come home.”
“Thank you Mrs. Callahan, for letting me enter through your backdoor and making all that noise as I did it.”
“No, Mrs. Callahan, I don’t have time to help you clean up that magnificently elegant pool of blood. I have to get back to school. I’m meeting your daughter for lunch.”
So this chapter is ending and I made you a promise. I said I would confess. So, here it is. I am your neighbor. I have friends over for barbecues and go to Starbucks on weekday mornings. I have good skin, a clean-cut look, groomed brown hair, and an athletic build. I’m easily mistaken for a small business owner who grinds the nine-to-five day and hits the gym after hours for a quick workout before returning home to his family. Small children smile at me when I walk down the street. And I kill people on a very regular basis. And I get away with it because I have mastered my craft.