Sparks of Insanity

Haphazard Explorations & Experiments In Fiction

The Urge

From The Journal of James Barret


The urge to kill isn’t always a coherent one. It’s not like I’ve got this voice inside me whispering, then pleading for me to kill, finally screaming when I’ve ignored it for to long. No, it’s not like that at all. It’s a restlessness, a need, a desire that makes me anxious. I don’t always know where it’ll take me, especially if I wait to long, long enough that I’m enraptured by the sensation of it when I finally let go and give in. In that way it’s a lot like lust. If you’re being teased constantly, at some point you’re going to want to explode into action. No thought to how, or why, or… anything. No thought at all.

That’s when it gets dangerous for me. Sucked up in my addiction, to far past my limit, in need of a messy release. Not thinking things through is how you get caught. It’s how a lot of criminals get caught.

I wonder if people know about the uncertainty outside of that need. It’s all I have. For a competent guy like me, Bundy or even Dahmer, it might seem like we’re perfectly confident. I don’t know about those other guys for sure, but I know that for me the only thing I’m sure of is that beautiful need. The sense of fulfillment when I give in to it. The rest is artistry, the likes of any other artist. A writer, a painter, a musician. You create a piece of work and share it, never knowing what the world will think. never really sure if you’re going to care what they think. I’m always flattered by the attention.

I mention that because lately I’ve been putting my disposable friends on display after it’s time for them to go. A spectacle for the public to read about in newspapers, on the internet, on their televisions. A meticulously laid out scene for the cops to puzzle over and analyze. I wonder if any of them will be the one person who truly understands me, sees me for what I am. You see it in movies all the time. The behaviorists that read into a person like it’s nothing, like they can see into your mind. The obsessive detective pouring over case files, clawing at them as if they were gateways into the killer’s mind.

Maybe they are gateways. Maybe they’ll have a stack of files on me before long, and each one will be a possible glimpse into my own mind. I can only hope. If I ever get caught, I’d like for that to be the reason. Otherwise… well, I’d rather not get caught. I’m fine with most people seeing a monster when they look at me. More than ready for that. But it would be infinitely more tolerable if at least one piercing gaze saw the reality of me and understood. Empathized.


(James Barret ∅ Third Journal Entry)

Second Entry: These Are My Passions

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“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
~William Shakespeare

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