There’s a lot going on in this week’s update. Try to keep up.
Point form notes so I don’t forget what I’m talking about:
- Homicidal Triad
- Barry White
- The Phone Call
Let’s begin. The holidays are a rather crazy time of year and I feel my last few updates haven’t been covering nearly enough information to truly keep my dear readers up to speed. I shall do my best to remedy the situation now. Early on a Wednesday Morning. Very early. I can’t seem to be able to sleep.
When I was fourteen, I looked up the characteristics of a psychopath. It was a time in my life when I still wasn’t confident or sure of myself and it led to a lot of confusing trips to the library – and later, hours spent combing through the rubble left by internet users. Amongst my investigations I found the “Homicidal Triad”: a list of three traits that, when presented, are believed to predict or indicate a serial killer.
For your reference they are: Bed Wetting, Arson, and Cruelty to Animals.
I admit I may have indulged in a bit of harmless torture of our family cat, Frank, in my youth but once I get the taste for human flesh (figuratively speaking, of course), I was hooked for life.
Or so I thought.
I knew getting back into murder wouldn’t be easy. It’s not like riding a bike or setting fires. It takes practice. You have to relearn old habits which were hard to break in the first place. So, alas, I felt I should start back at the beginning. Back to the triad.
Now, I didn’t go back to my early childhood and wet the bed or set fire to the babysitter’s VHS tapes, but I did do away with the neighbour’s cat. She was mewling all night, and I was getting so agitated that I nabbed the cat and brought it inside where I proceeded to slice it open with a kitchen knife. Unfortunately it got a few good scratches in before I could kill the wretched beast but I did kill it.
I killed it.
It’s a little thing, a simple kill, but I did it all the same. So yes, I’m proud of myself. I loved hearing its little cries of despair as it waved its little paws around. Thankfully the scratches it left are only noticeable on my upper arms and it’s too damn cold to be so scandalous as to show my upper arms.
You know who else was proud? James. He came into the kitchen, found me covered in blood, then he picked me up and twirled me around. Then he went for a mop. He’s so loving that way.
I am so grateful to have him through this difficult time. Whenever I worry about the kids, he keeps me centered (and reminds me what their names are – it was one time). There has been more than one occasion which called for him to keep me from killing someone I oughtn’t. And just as many where he encouraged me forward.
I sometimes forget how difficult things must have been for him when I was going through that rough patch. That man is my rock.
It was his idea to stalk the stalker and now I think I’m ready.
I think I’m ready to begin killing again.
I’ve been following Daniel around for several weeks now and while I don’t know his entire routine, I’ve definitely got a place to start: Barry White.
Not the man himself but a barista who looks eerily like him in his youth. Every morning, Barry works the morning shift at the local café where Daniel gets his coffee and every morning, the stalker leaves with a smile because he’s a caffeine junkie and Barry is his supplier.
I wonder what would happen if I cut his supply off?
I wonder what he would do if he knew that the balance was shifting in my favor?
Anyways, where was I?
The Phone Call.
My parents didn’t know about my psychotic break, and I liked it that way. My children were told that I succumbed to pressure at work and just needed some time away (“locked in the looney bin” according to my lovely daughter) and I liked it that way. The family that I’ve created is the one I cherish most.
Unfortunately there can be some crossover.
Mother called while I was out one night and Jason answered the phone. He “somehow let it slip” that the reason they hadn’t heard from me since July was because I had spent some time locked up for my own protection but was now permitted to use my holiday time to relax over the holiday break.
So my usual excuse that I can’t see my parents because I had to go into the office just went up in smoke.
And that’s when I got the call. The call from my mother, reaming me out for not calling and insisting that they come down and spend Christmas with us. They’re driving down on the 23rd, and staying until the 27th. That is more time than I care to spend cooped up with my parents. Things could get ugly and not in the bloody way.
Why, god, why, is Christmas the one time you wish to torture me? It’s my one excuse to take time off of work and really focus on the important things but no, you just had to invite my parents.
I’m going to have to start cleaning the house now if it’ll be even close to dad’s standards and I haven’t really spoken to my mother since she told me that she’s the one who got my sister arrested.
It’s times like these, I am so grateful that my kids hate their grandparents, as well. I can drag them along and use them as a shield.
It’s going to suck.
But I killed a cat, that’s something, right?
Someone please arrest me for murder so I don’t have to spend Christmas with my mother.
Maybe next year, things will go according to plan.
As always, dear readers,