Tuesday, February 01, 1994

Character Study: Psychotic Murder Rationalization

Or so they say.  I have always been a proponent of the rational mind.  It was an ongoing mental exercise to plot the murder of one whom I thought had no value at all in the world, not to me, not to anyone, including herself.  But I was wrong.

She should have been easy to kill if my assessment of her worth had been accurate.  But she was anything but easy, while she lived and afterwards.  No, I cannot say that I have a guilty conscience.  I very much doubt that I have any conscience at all.  In a way I am glad that I took her life.  Who else can say that he killed someone without anger to spur him on, or remorse to stop him?  I am proud of my achievement.

What a waste she was.  To think that in my own pitiful state of mind, I was able to pity her as well.  Through the waves of self-pity, I must have seen her suffering as being as noble as mine.  No wonder I clung to her like she was a part of me.  A cancerous growth as it were.

I went to lengths I once thought of as extraordinary to plan my dastardly deed (I snicker in sinister pride when I recall.)  I scoured maps for easily accessible, yet secluded areas in which to dispose of the body, at least temporarily.  I studied and memorized every bend and curve, every stone and stump of a certain piece of land which I shall not allude to any further.  I located a spot in a dense thicket, hidden from view from every angle, and dug a six-foot deep hole in preparation.  I practiced at digging and refilling, and covering up the grave, and of disposing of the tools.  I made certain that I could lug a heavy dead weight into the thicket, without being seen.  Disposal, for the moment, was feasible.

Acquisition was the most difficult of my problems.  How could I have my victim agree to follow me without anyone knowing?  Simply, my powers of persuasion, and the fact that she probably would trust me, would suffice. 

1 comment:

ClosetXCloset said...

This entry, a continuation of the previous one, was interspersed with frustrated self-criticism ("This is getting tiresome. I need a fresh start."; "This just ain't happenin', is it?"; "Oh well. So much for that. Try, try again...")

I had ambitions of being a writer in those days. I was trying out some ideas, but for some reason, it all felt forced and wrong. I didn't like where any of my writings were going. These were brainstorming exercises.

In truth, there was so much that I wanted to get off my chest, but I couldn't bear to say it.