This story is about a sociopathic teenage boy who gets into trouble with the law, learns things about life, and about himself.
I am a terrorist. It was a trap god damn it. They found my black spiral notebook that matched all my others and I couldn't tell the difference when they asked if it was mine. It had my name written on many pages with half-completed in-class assignments. It had pen marks and sketchy doodles of demon heads, blackened eyes, and long sharp fingers. It had a few other names in it as well though; that's where the trouble came from. There were bullets along the lines with names right beside and above them read, "Hit List." I guess I could have been more subtle, but instead, I followed those names with a ten-page guide on how to torture and maim these selected few. Cutting the lids from their eyes, applying rock salt to their wounds, stitching holes open or closed with rusting metal wire and a dull sewing needle, I wrote it all. It's kind of hard to refute that kind of evidence.
When the principal, the notebook-discovering teacher, and the school police officer sat me down in the disciplinary conference room to talk, I told them the truth. I told them that I got my ideas from video games. I told them that it was a way of "dealing" with these bullies, but these kids never bullied me. They pissed me off once and I wished for their death, simply enough. But in the face of authorities, the judge, my mother, I was a confused victim that only wanted to be left alone so that I could study and make good grades. But these notes and guidelines to felonies weren't scribbled while crying or being humiliated in front of the class, they were daydreams on paper. They were deep desires. They were not strange to me. They weren't foreign or impromptu; they came naturally, fluidly, and abundantly.