I blame my mother for making me homicidally impotent.
I have not been able to kill
since her visit last week. Do you know what that means? That is a week and a
half in which I have not taken the life of another human being. A week and a
half in which I have not violently released on some poor innocent victim. I am
beyond frustrated, I am enraged. You must understand, dear readers, I am not
known for my calm nature or my ability to abstain from my natural urges but
this week has been a serious test of my patience.
No, not patience. This feels
more like torture.
Patience is one thing. I have
great patience. The anticipation can keep me going for days. Holding
the knife in my hand, watching the victim from a far, waiting until they’re
alone. Knowing that eventually I will be able to make my move and watch as
their life leaves their body and I can finally find release.
That’s what it is, for me: a
release. A primal urge. A physical, emotional and mental abandonment of social
norms in favor of pure and unadulterated pleasure. And there is a pleasure to
be had, dear readers. A sinful kind of pleasure that only comes from being in
complete control of another person. There is no feeling like it. Knowing that
their life is in your hands; knowing that with a flick of your wrist you can
steal their last breath, bottle it up and take it with you wherever you go.
Knowing that when you come back to that special place where you took them away,
the memories will come flooding back and you can relive that pleasure over and
And my mother has taken that
away from me.
I don’t even know what
happened. After the incident on Saturday night – the one involving a hammer and
a certain laundry machine that we will never speak about again – I slept in and
woke up refreshed the next morning. I didn’t really feel the urge to kill which
is not uncommon. I can hold out for days before the need overtakes me. Which is
also why I wasn’t surprised when last Tuesday rolled around and I found a
She works at the grocery store
– she told me that she just started working there last month. I’ll call her
Sally. Sally was a perfect little victim: isolated, beautiful, naïve. It took
me all of twenty minutes to talk her into walking me to my car. In the alley.
Where there are no security cameras. And no place to park a car.
As I said: naïve.
I was this close
to bashing her head in with a lead pipe, to watching the blood fly across
the bricks like a painting as her skull fractured and she hit the wall, landing
in a beautiful, isolated, naïve heap. Sadly, there was a man walking down the
alley towards us as we turned the corner. There was no time to take them both
out so I thanked her for her time and went on my way.
I thought I could hold out for
a few more days.
Last Friday, after I posted the
update, I realized that it had been a week since I’d killed and I
was feeling the urge stronger than ever. It was like drums pounding through my
skin every time I locked eyes with someone knowing I could be the last face
they saw. It gave me such a rush and, if I’m being honest, I might have been
more than a little eager.
I had my victim all picked out.
It was going to be Sally. I would not let her live when she should have died
days ago. It was my right to decide.
I was so careful this time. I
made sure that there was no one around, no security cameras, no alternative
exits other than the one in my hand. A lead pipe. The same lead pipe. I wanted
the opportunity to destroy her pretty face if need be. But mostly, I needed to
recreate that moment – make sure I could recreate that moment.
Maybe that was my problem.
I don’t remember the last time
I was so desperate to get a fix, I wasn’t thinking properly.
I lured Sally into the alley
behind the grocery store, I raised the lead pipe above my head when she turned
And then this image of my
mother and her disapproving face came into my mind and I
froze. I can’t believe I froze. Mother just kept staring at me and staring at
me and usually I can channel my frustration into bludgeoning
my victims but this time… this time I was left standing there with the murder
weapon above my head while my victim was bent over tying her shoelaces. Any
moment now she would turn around and I would lose my chance to mash her pretty
I threw the pipe away. I tossed
it to the side into a patch of tall grass so she wouldn’t see and I let her go.
I thought maybe it was just a
fluke – maybe there was something about Sally that wouldn’t let me do the deed.
It’s never happened before but there’s always the possibility.
But I kept trying. Over the
weekend I tried to run over a pedestrian, poison my waiter, stab my cab driver
(I totaled my car when I swerved to avoid the pedestrian; James is not happy),
even strangle my mail woman from behind. Every single time I got close I would
see my mother and I wouldn’t be able to finish.
What the hell has she done to
James has been so supportive in
all of this. On Monday when I confessed why the car was totaled he offered to
pick out a victim for me. Make it quick and simple. He was convinced that I
just needed to do it once and I would be back on track but it’s not working.
We went down to gang territory.
All I had to do was pull the trigger for fuck’s sake. My fucking mother
cock-blocked me again.
I don’t know what that woman
did to make me like this but it needs to stop NOW!
It’s like I’m functioning
normally but as soon as I get to that moment of release, the feeling dies – and
not in a good way.
The desire is there. It’s so
strong. It’s all I can think about but I can’t go through with it.
I need release. There’s too
much pent up energy. I need my fucking release.
It has now been 12 days, 7
hours and 16 minutes since I last killed someone. I am getting dangerously
desperate, dear victims. Pray you don’t pass me on the street when I finally
snap. And I will snap. I have to.