DDT - Deambulações DeMentes Teóricas 11

The Serial Killer - Part I

lkçlk

I am a serial killer. The authorities reached that conclusion after they discovered I had killed 3 prostitutes that resembled very much one another, in a space of a few months, all in the same area. Three is the magic number. Less than that, you're just another random little common criminal and your victims just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. More than that and you become a certified monster. The reason being that someone, anyone, might randomly kill 2 people that got in his way when he was about to get something else, but no one, no average human being kills more than 3 times, unless he is being payed a lot of money or has a very good reason to do it. I'm not being payed a lot of money. I don't care about money.

Why? You might ask yourselves that question sometimes, when you tune in the news report and some anchorman is talking about me or some other monster like me. Why does he kill? What kind of being would commit such a horrifying act several times in the course of his life?

You can either listen to all the babble wabble that some hired shrink or criminal expert is saying about me, or you can listen to me. Make your choice, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Why do I kill? Because I like it. It's fun. The psychiatrists would have you believe that I kill to live, that I need to kill, like any one of you needs to breath or piss. Bullshit. I never once heard any one of those so called experts say anything that could even resemble a meager understanding of what I do or why I do it. The only thing they usually get right is the how, but hey! the how is really easy when you practically have a blueprint of the whole thing spread out right in front of your noses. The crime scene. That's the only thing they manage to get an idea about. The rest remains "terra incognita".

Sure, I had my problems when I was a kid. My father was an asswhole and my mother a bitch. He would beat me up with his belt and she would punish me for being a naughty boy by sending me to the basement in the dark for several hours, hanging from the ceiling upside down by a rope tied to my feet. I would cry. I cried a lot. I would have myself cry until I could no longer feel the tears running through my dried salty cheeks. Then I would faint, because the blood dropping for hours and swelling on my head would knock me out of consciousness. I would wake up when they came to fetch me back upstairs.

They, the experts, say that the mother is the key. That one expects brutality from the male element of the couple, but never from the female side. That it's ok if your father drinks a couple more than he should and gets a little too much physical, but it's not ok when the mother, supposedly the natural caretaker, is actually a sphinx of ice. Where do you run to? Nowhere. Where did I run? Inside my swallowed head. And they are wrong. It's the same to me, who did it. They both did what they weren't supposed to.

It didn't happen right away. At first I actually thought I was the one to blame. I must have been a demon for them to punish me that way. The other kids didn't mention anything of the sort, and I would wonder if they were all lying. So why do they do it?, I would ask myself. I must be really bad. Once, I was stupid enough to ask my mother why. Needless to say the answer I got ended up in another episode of fainting down in the basement.

Eventually I got wised up. The tears stopped. They were replaced by a growing, utterly unbearable feeling of hate. Not just for them. For everyone. Why did it have to be me? Why would the other kids not suffer like I did? What was it that I had done to deserve such a fate? An idea started growing inside my head. I had to make others hurt too. Or I would go insane. So I started with the cats. I would burn their tails like living torches and watch them skid around the garden screaming in terrifying shrieks of despair. But they weren't enough. I found out I couldn't feel anything. When the tears dried for good on my face so did something inside me that prevented me from feeling any more pain. The problem was it also ended any other emotion. Joy, sadness, nostalgia, excitement. Nothing. The only way I could make myself feel anything was to pump up the volume, so to speak. One cat wouldn't do, so it had to be two cats. Two cats weren't enough, so the victim must be larger, a dog. Soon, animals were no good anymore. They only screamed. I had to hear begging. And there's only one animal on the face of the earth that is capable of groveling for mercy. You guessed.
The first one was a girl I knew from school, one of those annoying cheerleaders who wouldn't give me so much as a side look. I ambushed her on the way home from school and killed her with a couple of stones. She didn't even scream, such was the surprise when she saw me waving those rocks. I tied her and dumped her in the river. Her body was discovered a week later all swallon up near some rocks. They never even came close to me. I was just a kid.