Happiness & Homicide: Childhood Memories

"Wil, I have some questions I'd like to ask you about your childhood." "Why? What is so damn interesting about my formative years to you? Did they make me the way that I am? Yes. Would I have done what I did if I had a different upbringing? It's possible. What do you really want here, Phil?" I look out through the window watching the rain splash against the plexiglass. "It was nice of them to put in a window. I told them I needed the sunlight because I'm vegan and that makes me low on vitamin D." "Does it?" "No, you can be low on vitamin D based on food choices anyone can be low on vitamin D. I just wanted a window to be able to look out at the world, collect my thoughts. They put me in a sort of hamster cage for me to get exercise. Imagine that. And they tell me what I've done is inhuman" I snort. "Interesting as ever." Phil straightens his tie and sits down. "Do you want to sit and get this over with?" I'm hesitant, but sigh and sit down across from Phil. "That tie is hideous." He looks down at it. "What's wrong with planets?" "Earth, for one, fuckin' sucks." He laughs. "I'd love to argue with you on that point, but I don't think that I can.' I smirk. "Will you answer some questions now?" "I guess." 

I really don't want to answer his questions. I've made peace with that part of my life and now he wants to rip those scars open, make me bleed and hurt in new ways. One would argue that I can't feel and to some extent that's true. I don't know what will happen when I dive into the reasons that made me into what I am more than what I already have. I need to keep him at an arm's length. I don't want him to see me as that weak child, only what I am now. Before he can ask me something I blurt out, "I did it because I was sick of people leaving me out. You grow tired of being everyone's last call if they even bother to at all. You begin to hate yourself in ways you can't even imagine. You wonder what is so horribly fucked up and twisted within you that no one wants you around, why you're never invited anywhere. And then you come to the conclusion it's not you, who and what you are isn't the problem, it's those around you. This anger starts to build up within you, like a cancer, spreading throughout your body and then you can't just keep it inside anymore. You've already been destroyed enough and you act in your best interest, even if no one else agrees with it. But then again, who cares what they really think because they are the reason you feel this way. I guess you could argue that favourite liberal ideology; 'you chose to act this way, you had other choices.' Sometimes there are no other choices, Phil. And you can't tell me otherwise unless you have been in the position that I've been in, gone through the years of abuse as I have and sustained the wounds that I have." 

Phil looks away from me. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Or did you want to hear something else? Something else? That I was born evil? That I enjoy what I do because I'm morally bankrupt? Well, I do enjoy what I do. You know why? I finally start to feel alive. I feel validated. Finally, my voice is being heard, my pain is being expressed and someone is paying for it. I don't just randomly do what I do; sometimes I act on emotion, mainly rage and frustration, but when you think about it, it all makes sense.  I wasn't born evil, Phil. I was born with predispositions, nothing more, nothing less. And maybe after everything I am morally bankrupt, but at least now, I know who I am."

I walk over, open a soda and take a long drink. "I know it seems like I'm making excuses for the things that I've done, but I'm not. I'm giving you the reasons behind it. You get to a point in your life when you have to do what's best for you, what gives you any sort of pleasure regardless what others will say and think about you because, in the end, they will always think and say things." "This is murder, William. Among other things." I shrug. "You play tetherball, I cut heads off. Either way, in the end, we both have the same sort of gratification. Boredom is lifted, we've engaged in some way with another and we've achieved a small victory of sorts." Phil struggles with what I've said to him; he's trying to find some way to tell me that I'm wrong, but deep inside he knows that I'm not. I watch him with gleaming eyes, anxious to hear what he has to say next. 

"Do you ever feel bad about what you've done?" His voice is barely a whisper. "No. I really don't. I think that the means justify the ends. Maybe they don't in the bigger picture but for me, right now, they do. Will I still feel this way later? I don't know. I wish I could answer that. I don't like not having answers. I don't like to feel powerless." "And your heinous acts of murder, torture and rape give you the power you crave?" "Yes and no." "Could you explain?" "Sometimes I do these things because I want to exert my dominance over them, enact some form of punishment. Sometimes I need to do these things to validate my feelings of hatred for them because I've been disrespected by them; even if they don't know it. In those kinds of moments, I realise it's because I really just don't have the patience anymore. Excuses are made for everyone all the time, why not for me? Does the situation or the person or a combination of the two define the excuse or the lengths others go to excuse?" I stop and take a long drink. "Ah, where are my manners, they're usually better than this. Do you want one?" "Are you sure, you don't get very many." "I'm happy to share. Despite being a monster in a human suit, I'm not really big on lying. I do lie, pathologically, yes, but always to serve some sort of point, never for some pathetic social nicety." "If that's the case, yes I'll have one." 

I wait for him to open his soda before continuing. "Then there are the times where I feel like I have to do it or I won't be able to breathe. I mentioned earlier, this sensation like a cancer rushing and consuming you, that's more about the increasing urge to outdo yourself, think of something more horrifying and grotesque. The urge to actually act and hurt someone, for me, it's this throbbing in my veins and a tightness in my chest. It's a crushing pressure in both these places. I feel my heart rate increase, the tension consuming me and turning me on. It feels like my heart will explode or I'll just stop breathing and drop if I don't release it." Phil leans back. "I see. Do you ever feel that way with me?" I shrug. "Sometimes I feel like bouncing your head against the wall when you annoying with your pathetic questions, especially ones that your bosses are asking you, but other than that, you're an alright guy I suppose...oh and aside from that tie." He lets out a nervous laugh. "I guess that's good then! And, um, I'll wear a different tie the next time we meet." "Why wear a tie at all? If you must, I'd like a catalogue of your ties so I can tell you which ones I deem appropriate." He giggles then looks at my expression. "Oh, you're serious."