Haphazard Explorations & Experiments In Fiction
I can’t connect with people or talk with them about a lot of the shit that runs through my mind. I have no other way to express myself, so I’ve decided to start keeping a journal. I can’t help but hesitate with each word though. If anyone ever reads it that’ll probably mean it got entered into evidence in a trial. My trial. The things I want to talk about, that I need to talk about, will incriminate me. I killed someone yesterday, and it was far from the first time. I’m what you call a serial killer. It’s not something I feel bad about or anything, it’s not guilt or shame that needs an outlet… I still feel those you know. They say psychopaths don’t feel either of those. Maybe I’m the odd one out, but I do experience emotion from time to time. Or at least something like the whisper of an emotion.
But that’s not what I want to talk about. I spend enough time dwelling on that kind of bullshit in my own head and I’d just as soon not waste the paper or the time it takes to write my thoughts out.
The woman I killed the other day was a brunette. When I snag a woman I like blondes better, but she just caught my eye for some reason. Reminded me of something I can’t quite put my finger on. I didn’t keep her long, but that’s mostly because I didn’t fuck her. We talked for a while, me asking what her life was like, how the ice pick felt when it was stuck through the middle of her hand, and other things like that. In between her answers, which she didn’t want to give at first, she begged for me to let her go. I don’t know why they do that. Most of them do, and it doesn’t make sense. I caught you, I have you in my basement, I’ve hurt you… why would I let you go? What reason could I possibly have for taking that kind of risk? I don’t know, maybe they imagine I’ll feel sympathy for them.
Not fucking likely, but I guess you can dream… especially if they’re some of your last moments on this earth. Sometimes I even indulge them a bit, let them think I’m going to, or that I might. I don’t usually enjoy it more than just letting them assume the worst, but it makes for a nice change sometimes.
Keeps a sense of monotony at bay, which is good because I don’t know what I would do if this, the only part of my life that’s exciting and meaningful, became boring or repetitive. I’d probably kill myself. Anyways, we talked for a few hours, and she was getting a bit… hopeless by the end of the night. Quieter. Maybe she was slowly accepting that this was it for her. I didn’t really feel like poking more holes in her after the hand so when I was done with our conversation I stood her up, put a noose around her neck, and looped her rope through the eye-hook I put in the ceiling a few months ago. I set it up so she could breathe as long as she stood on her tip-toes and left her there for the night. She was dead when I went in to check on her the next day, just like I expected her to be.
I liked that. There wasn’t anything sexual about it, not that time anyways, but there’s just this amazing level of intimacy with a person when you kill them. It’s the closest I ever feel to anyone, and I think it would make me feel vulnerable, exposed, if I wasn’t in total control. Maybe if I’m caught some day, the doctors will say that’s why I do what I do. I don’t really know, but maybe. It’s a fine thing to wonder about, the reasons I have. I understand some of them, but ultimately it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is being able to do what I need to and not getting locked up for it. I want to be able to do it again, after all. Self awareness is important to me, but it comes in at a distant second to the more practical concerns in life. Action, need, fulfillment… those come first.
Must come first. As long as I have those I’ll be alright. Understanding can come after.
(James Barret ∅ First Journal Entry)
Second Journal Entry: These Are My Passions