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.
Showing posts with label evil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label evil. Show all posts
Character study: Psychotic Killer Driven by Heartbreak
That was about three or four years ago. An adolescent eruption of self-pity, as it were. Today things are different. I can imagine hearing the same cry of despair in many people of all ages at this very moment, submitting to their darkest whims of self-inflicted, guilt-ridden torture. But I, having experienced that grotesque facet of human existence (or any existence, shurely?), I know better than that. I know, for instance, that one must seize the reins, the proverbial reins, as it were, of circumstance, and steer into more pleasant pastures. Or better yet, dangerous, but fulfilling pastures. I have led circumstances beyond the chicken wire fences erected by society, and all the misguided morality that fuels it, beyond the imaginary line that people paint between good and evil, right and wrong, acceptable or unacceptable. I see no more barriers, since I have taken to a different course entirely; I tread not on one side or the other of such distinctions, nor on the hazy line between them: I hover above, and swim beneath. I am the extra-dimensional man, since I decided that such two-dimensional thinking is simply absurd.
Who can honestly tell me that my actions have been any less morally upright than theirs? Frankly, only I can, because I can understand their moral stances, for all of the nasty contortions that make them so unique. Worst of all is that they secretly wallow in their own guilt and regret, as I did only a short time ago, and righteously damn me for things that they can only suspect me of. I lack a trustworthy face. I had always thought of myself as trustworthy, until I fully understood the power trust brings. It can be exploited like oil, or coal, or Amazon Rain Forests, or baby seals. They certainly do not appreciate it when they are betrayed, but that is the name of the game. Luckily, I never allow them to know that they have been betrayed, not until they chose to betray me. One must keep an eye out for such parasites. I have so few friends.
Those bastards . . . they perpetually want to suck you dry, without even telling you. They offer their goods, and deliver worthless trash instead. Why? Because all they want is to be liked, and to have a friend, one must betray another. Friends are made and kept by making enemies.
I only wanted to know what I was missing, although I thought I knew. A perfect match for the soul, two pieces of a puzzle linking together to form a perfect, beautiful, whole, eternally joined in a cosmic fate determined by some unexplained extra-dimensional phenomenon. And not only for the virtuous, but for everyone, good, bad, short, tall, ugly, beautiful, smart, or stupid. I knew exactly what I needed to complete my life: some hot chick with nice, firm round tits, an hourglass figure bottoming out in an ass I could hold in both hands, and a gorgeous face whose expression I would quiver in ecstasy to see in a moment of sexual abandon, glistening with sweat and moaning for more, softly into my ear . . . Of course, she would also have to have a brilliant mind. As far as I was concerned, my fate would grant me all of this, just out of the simple justice of nature.
Alas, such women are so difficult to find. One must imagine them, or glaze over with one's tongue hanging out at the lovely pictures in dirty magazines, who would naturally be as brilliant as the observer, at least insofar as the fantasies go. Nature itself, through so many centuries of literature, has never gone wrong before, so why would it not happen for me? Especially when I needed it most, at such a crucial point in life, which would be certain to determine the course of my existence. Hey, suicide is preferable to the injustice of being denied of one's constitutionally guaranteed right to the Perfect SoulMate(R)(C). Luckily, I was offered the next best thing: a wholly inadequate, mentally depraved youngster who desperately needed the kind of pity I turned onto myself to survive, because she reasoned in a moment of brilliant self-torture that her own pity simply was not good enough. Happily, I dumped my pathos onto her troubles, which seemed to shrink into microscopic size next to hers.
It has been nearly a year since we stopped our lengthy affair, and I dropped back into depression worse than before. So I killed her. End of Story. I wish I knew how I turned out.
Who can honestly tell me that my actions have been any less morally upright than theirs? Frankly, only I can, because I can understand their moral stances, for all of the nasty contortions that make them so unique. Worst of all is that they secretly wallow in their own guilt and regret, as I did only a short time ago, and righteously damn me for things that they can only suspect me of. I lack a trustworthy face. I had always thought of myself as trustworthy, until I fully understood the power trust brings. It can be exploited like oil, or coal, or Amazon Rain Forests, or baby seals. They certainly do not appreciate it when they are betrayed, but that is the name of the game. Luckily, I never allow them to know that they have been betrayed, not until they chose to betray me. One must keep an eye out for such parasites. I have so few friends.
Those bastards . . . they perpetually want to suck you dry, without even telling you. They offer their goods, and deliver worthless trash instead. Why? Because all they want is to be liked, and to have a friend, one must betray another. Friends are made and kept by making enemies.
I only wanted to know what I was missing, although I thought I knew. A perfect match for the soul, two pieces of a puzzle linking together to form a perfect, beautiful, whole, eternally joined in a cosmic fate determined by some unexplained extra-dimensional phenomenon. And not only for the virtuous, but for everyone, good, bad, short, tall, ugly, beautiful, smart, or stupid. I knew exactly what I needed to complete my life: some hot chick with nice, firm round tits, an hourglass figure bottoming out in an ass I could hold in both hands, and a gorgeous face whose expression I would quiver in ecstasy to see in a moment of sexual abandon, glistening with sweat and moaning for more, softly into my ear . . . Of course, she would also have to have a brilliant mind. As far as I was concerned, my fate would grant me all of this, just out of the simple justice of nature.
Alas, such women are so difficult to find. One must imagine them, or glaze over with one's tongue hanging out at the lovely pictures in dirty magazines, who would naturally be as brilliant as the observer, at least insofar as the fantasies go. Nature itself, through so many centuries of literature, has never gone wrong before, so why would it not happen for me? Especially when I needed it most, at such a crucial point in life, which would be certain to determine the course of my existence. Hey, suicide is preferable to the injustice of being denied of one's constitutionally guaranteed right to the Perfect SoulMate(R)(C). Luckily, I was offered the next best thing: a wholly inadequate, mentally depraved youngster who desperately needed the kind of pity I turned onto myself to survive, because she reasoned in a moment of brilliant self-torture that her own pity simply was not good enough. Happily, I dumped my pathos onto her troubles, which seemed to shrink into microscopic size next to hers.
It has been nearly a year since we stopped our lengthy affair, and I dropped back into depression worse than before. So I killed her. End of Story. I wish I knew how I turned out.
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