Sociopathic Society

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 06, 2018

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Submitted: August 06, 2018

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I am currently sitting  in the dimly lit park, Prospect Park,  a few blocks down from where it all happened, writing this with my trembling, bloody hands. Not going to apologize for getting any blood on this either, none of the park faucets are working. Not my fault, it is this hellhole of a town’s fault. This town isn’t worthy enough to have running sprinklers at night, wasting copious amounts of water just for the neighbors’ yards to be freshly green and groomed. This town isn’t good enough for a fountain dedicated to someone famous who once lived around here. Nobodies live around here. Nobodies like me, but I sure did make something of myself tonight. Anyways, I’m getting off on a tangent.
 
The point is, I really couldn’t tell you what had happened exactly, even if I wanted to. It might get out, I might get turned in. I don’t know whose hands this may fall into. No, I’m not writing it all down because I’m stupid enough to write something that could be used later on as a confession. I need to write down the details of this night so I never forget. So that I can read it leisurely and feel the pleasure that normal people get out of petting a dog on the street. 
 
Not that I really put much thought into the events that occurred only a half hour ago. You get these ideas from mindlessly watching well thought out crime shows and you think nothing of it. Sure, it scares you and you get an adrenaline rush and it goes away moments after the episode ends. Unless you’re a sociopath, unless you’re like me. If I go down for this, you can thank Criminal Minds for giving me such ideas. Such twisted, brilliant ideas. 
 
Growing up here made it so easy to be desensitized to what happens within the houses, streets, and buildings that seem to be safe and sound. Then you hear on the news, “A fourteen-year-old girl was just stabbed to death by her own father who claims she was possessed by the devil.” Apparently, you’re supposed to show some type of gesture or facial expression that shows surprise and sorrow when hearing such news. As a child, watching the news on the floor with my parents on the couch behind me, was quite an experience. It wasn’t so noticeable back then to me at least. I’d say things like, “Why should he be put away in jail if she really was a devil child?” My parents thought I was a sadistic little child, I thought of myself more of a Curious George. They’d send me up to my room with worry growing in their eyes wondering what kind of person I’d turn out to be. Little did they know, sending me up to my room only meant more time for my imagination to run wild. 
 
It wasn’t anything serious at the time. I’d go to my room, take out my notebook covered in skull stickers, and draw cartoons. Journal, if you will. Every kid my age drew doodles in their free time or when bored in class. It came to my parent’s attention that simply sending me up to my room wouldn’t do the trick. Keeping me out of sight and away from human interaction only gave me less of an opportunity to empathize with those around me. 
There was a day when I was in fifth grade and it was the beginning of indoor recess. I took out my notebook and began sketching out the cartoon that had been engulfing my mind, the idea of it racing through my veins the moment Mrs. Leahy began droning on about American History. The cartoon was basically just torturing this kid who sat right in front of me during class. By torture, I don’t mean anything with knives or fire. I was only a kid, I wouldn’t have even known where to start in terms of finding such tools. 
 
The kid’s name was Kevin Gaffner. That name alone made me want to kick his ass anytime he was in the vicinity. I thought my cartoons were worthy of being in the school’s library, the drawings were spot-on. One square would be him saying something annoying, sucking up to the teacher as usual. The next square would be me putting a snake down his shirt, then cockroaches. A later scene of the cartoon would be me sneaking live worms into his peanut butter and jelly sandwich during lunch. Looking back, making these cartoons were the best part of my day. It was the only time someone would see me grinning during school. Even reminiscing about it has me grinning as I write this. 
I was a kid with a higher level imagination than my peers, sue me. And even once recess was over, more and more ideas would come to me. I had to put them down on paper, all the ways I could make Kevin suffer, all the ways I could feel a few moments of joy. I figured I was just the school bully. Not the type to shove kids into lockers or anything like that. More of an outcast who no one associated with because they thought I was strange. I didn’t mind, I didn’t like any of them either. 
 
As Mrs. Leahy started up the history lesson again, I was still tracing out ideas for later that night. Immersed in my masterpiece, I wasn’t aware that Mrs. Leahy had been circling the room and was right then standing behind me looking at what I was doing. 
 
“James! I need to speak with you in the hall right this moment. Bring your belongings.”
 
“Okay.”
 
I slowly grabbed my backpack and notebook and was relieved I no longer had to suffer through her boring lecture. She led me out into the hall and shut the door. The sound that grade schoolers make when someone gets in trouble radiated through the door. You know that sound, “ooooooooo”? I snickered to myself. Afterall, I was getting more school cred. 
 
“Do you know how wrong this cartoon is? This can be considered a threat to Kevin, this is extremely disturbing, James.”
 
“Wrong? I drew it out so well you could even tell  it was Kevin without me even writing his name down!”
 
Mrs. Leahy stood in utter shock with a hint of terror. Looking back, I’m pretty sure she was the first one to realize that I’d grow up to be a sociopath. At the time, I thought she was trying to hurt my feelings. Cartoons about bunnies and rainbows didn’t interest a boy my age. I wanted her to understand but I also couldn’t stop gleaming at my notebook. Her reaction to it was almost as good as the reaction I had wanted to see on Kevin’s face if I ever got the opportunity to carry out any of these plans. Mrs. Leahy snatched the notebook out of my hands and held it behind her back in disgust. “Come with me to the principal’s office. I’m calling your parents,” Mrs. Leahy said roughly pulling on my shoulder to follow along side her. 
 
My parents had never cared enough to check in on me in my room. Not once did they open the door. My room was my space, it was like a jail cell to them where I was a prisoner they never cared to visit. Otherwise, they would’ve seen at least a hundred drawings just like these taped on my bedroom walls. Now they’d finally see what I spent all my time doing up there. Mrs. Leahy had left me there to think about my actions and went back to the classroom after escorting me. I had waited for maybe ten minutes in the principal’s office before my mother came racing inside the building in a frenzy. She was a stay at home mom, I expected her to come and not my dad. I had hoped she’d ask to keep my notebook to show my dad later. He’d get a kick out of it. 
 
“James! What happened? Are you not feeling well?” my mom cried out. I remained silent. Principal Koflin stood up from her chair and crossed her arms. 
 
“Mrs. Hadden, your son James is here for the cartoons he was creating during school. His teacher, Mrs. Leahy had to confiscate them from him.”
 
“I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, nothing could be that bad. He’s eleven years old, for Christ’s sake!”
 
“Take a look for yourself.”
 
Principal Koflin picked up my notebook, flipped to the pages of Kevin, and handed it to my mother. My mother scanned the pages frantically. Her eyes grew wider and wider till I thought they’d eventually just pop out of their sockets. My mother seemed to be at a loss for words. Principal Koflin told both my mom and I that it’d be best for me to go home, have an important talk about what is appropriate to create. She even suggested that my mom consider getting me a therapist. The words, “kids at this age shouldn’t have such dark, violent ideas,” kept running through my head on the way home. My mom refused to even look at me or lay a hand on me the rest of the day. This was the day where I realized I was different and according to the world so far, different was not a good thing. 
 
My family and peers’ opinions of me didn’t make me want to change and conform to the rest of them. Their opinions made me more angry. My desire to inflict actual pain on people who made me feel like I was from a different planet for having a different view on things continued to grow. 
 
Which led me to where I am now. I’m eighteen, I graduated from high school only a few hours ago. I came up with much more devious and clever tricks to play on Kevin Gaffner in particular throughout middle school and high school. I evolved through the years, I stopped with the comics and started to finally take action. Ever since grade school, he became the easiest, most amusing target to pursue. Of course, in high school he had become the jock who thought he was a big shot. He was the one who everyone cheered the loudest for when receiving his diploma earlier that night. Such an ass, he was. I let him have his final moments of glory. He peaked in high school, those were going to be the best years of his life, I can assure you. I did him a favor. He should be thanking me from wherever the dead go, for at least having the courtesy of leaving him dangling from the football post, where he had so many moments of fame. His blood drenched football jersey tied around his neck will forever be burned into my brain. He made something of himself, and now so did I. 
 


© Copyright 2018 Charlie Megan. All rights reserved.

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