The Serial Killer - Part VII
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You see, there was a method to my madness, after all. I didn't kill because I wanted to say something, I killed because I wanted to show something. I wanted to show them they weren't perfect. That they weren't sacred. That they could be used, abused, torn apart, deconstructed to make something else, something that would be worth something more valuable. That they were mere instruments, raw materials, the same as plastic, thread, wood or metal. Flesh. Pieces of meat, portions of blood, samples of chemical elements glued together to draw and portray symbols.
For me they had no souls, no minds, no reason to exist. They were objects. I didn't want to be god, although I have to admit that the feeling was overwhelming sometimes. I didn't want to create a new world, or to recreate any kind of fantasies, or even less to send any message through the paintings I chose. I wanted to play. I was like a kid thrown inside a playground filled with his most precious and appetizing materials. I didn't choose my paintings because they had any special meaning to me, I chose them on a whimp, because they looked good, or interesting to me. It was a pure aesthetic choice. Sometimes the only thing that attracted me was the color combination.
Of course, with time, the themes became important. Not because they were in any way related to me, the way I thought or felt, but because I felt the need at least to understand what I was using. If I chose Goya's "Saturn devouring his son", I thought I had at least to know why Saturn had chosen to do that. But it had nothing to do with the possible political, social, pshychological or other interpretations of the work itself. It certainly had nothing to do with the relationship I had with my mother, for instance.
Of course, to them there had to be a reason. I suppose it's natural and instinctive to every human being to find a reason in everything that happens, even in a serial killer's apparent random madness. That is why religion exists. People have a hard time admiting that they could be just the product of chance. Even when they are looking at the clouds in the sky, their instinct drives them to find familiar faces, objects. Everything has to have a reason. I knew better than that. My reason was pure fun. My mind was not a human mind, at least not the mind most humans have.
Maybe they were right in one thing - maybe the randomness of the violence my parents used on me was intricately related to the detachment I learned from a very early age. Maybe if I had been born in another family, I would have been different. I don't know. And I certainly can't imagine being different from what I am. I can't imagine what it's like to have feelings, because I don't have them and I can't recall the short period of my life when I did have them. I have no remorse. I have no conscience. They don't torment me. I like being what I am. I feel like I am floating above the world, in another dimension, somewhere few other humans have surfaced.
There are others like me. And I was aware of that very early. I studied them. In fact, they haunted me sometimes. I wanted to be as good as they were. Ultimately they were responsible for the changes I introduced in my method. The more I studied their work, the more I felt like a kind of fraud. After all, I was just copying things other people had created. I had to start creating my own art.
