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.
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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.
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