Curiosity Killed the Cat

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
My name is Casey Jones and this is how I ended up in an psychiatric ward. This is not a story for people with light hearts and a weak stomach.

Submitted: June 02, 2013

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Submitted: June 02, 2013

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 How do people go mad? I suppose it's like a chemical compound. Acids and alkalies which are usually docile, mixed together can become volatile. I was never one for chemistry though, I found balancing equations boring and unnecessary. What was the point? 

 When I was seven, I was always alone. My parents were workaholics, even when they were home they spent every spare moment with their computer screens. When they weren't typing away, they were calling business associates, shopping, and occasionally cooking. My older sister, Jane, was usually asked to look after me. She got saddled with most of the housework and she was asked to cook as well. Jane being your average teenage girl, usually never did any housework or cooking and spent all her time calling her friends and flirting with 'Tom' from maths. 

 Intellect, boredom, and neglect can make a volatile substances in high concentrations. However with fairly small levels of intellect, it simply makes curiosity. So I began to wonder how things worked and I became fascinated with the idea of taking things apart and putting them back together again. Everyone begins with pure intentions.

 It began with clockwork, I took an antique pocket watch from my mother's jewelry box and unscrewed the back. Inside the gears whizzed about, making mechanical groans and causing the clock to tick. I stabbed one of my pudgy fingers into the gears and drew it back immediately. It was a big pain, it was like getting a really small bit of skin caught in a clothes pin. However, it didn't deter me. It took me a while but I realized I needed a smaller screwdriver to take it apart. I took all the gears out and laid them out on the table. 

 I couldn't put the clockwork back together, I was too young and too stupid. So I left the gears on the table as well as the disemboweled clock. When my mother returned, she was furious. The clock was the last remaining memory of her dad. She screamed at me for ages and then she sent me up to my room and said I couldn't leave until dinner. It was brilliant. My mother finally saw someone other than her faceless business partners, finally acknowledged me like she did Jane. I felt like I existed. 

 It went from there. I would be alone, bored, and my intellect grew everyday. I became more ambitious with what I took apart. Expensive watches became clocks. Clocks became radios. Radios became televisions. Televisions became microwaves. Microwaves became dishwashers. And with every advancement, the louder the shouts and the longer the punishments. With every act of childhood defiance and villainy, I gained more attention. I became smarter too, I knew what made this, that, and everything. 

 One day I decided to take apart the computer. The thing that kept stealing my parents from me. As I took it apart, my careful precision turned to shit and I began to smack the pieces and completely wrecked the machine. When my parents came home they were so angry they actually slapped me. I should have cried but I started laughing. My mother's face was indescribably hilarious; her lips contored into an 'o' shape, her eyes were wide, and her eyebrows were raised. 

 The mark had started to bruise and it gained a teacher's attention. She brought me into a little room and ask me what happened. I replied that my mother had slapped me. Her mouth dropped and she asked if I was telling the truth, I nodded. She then called my parents and discussed it with them. My mother started crying, calling me a trouble child, saying she'd done everything a mother could. It was pathetic. However at ten, I found this hilarious and I grinned the entire time. 

 As time went by, the concentration of intellect was dangerously high. The substance was volatile. My care for attention was lost. My curiosity had taken a 'dark' turn. I was eleven and we learned about the way animals worked. So one day, I went into the kitchen and got a little knife and I went into the back yard. I grabbed a big fat worm out of the ground and I split it open. I couldn't find anything exciting so I just went back inside and washed the knife.

 It didn't curb my curiosity at all. I started thinking about lady bugs, spiders, butterflies, and moths. I split them open and pulled their bits out like gears. Bugs only captured my interest for as long as they did because there are certainly more bugs than appliances. Then my curiosity became 'darker' again but you know what they say, curiosity killed the cat. 

 Any animal that found themselves in my snares were taken apart. There was a lot more blood and a lot more bits. Sometimes I felt a little sick because some of the animals were cute but as soon as I got to all their parts I couldn't  have cared less. After the first few cute animals, that little twinge was completely gone. Hearts, lungs, livers, and spleens. I took them out and named them all. I used my school book for a visual aid. This time I could name the parts, they weren't just miscellany gears and rods. 

 I could feel warm blood on my hands, I could feel the squishy organs, and I could name the different bones and arrange them into the correct skeletal structure. Gradually, I began to excel in all of my biology classes. It only added to my ego, I suppose. I became obsessed with cutting animals up and looking at all their bits. Once again, it got boring. 

 Animals had been fun for a while, however, something was amiss. I didn't feel the thrill of illegality I had felt when I first began taking things apart. Killing animals wasn't something my parents would be pleased but I didn't care about them anymore. They were nothing more than suburban dimwits. My sister had the intellect and personality of a dead slug, as did her friends. They were unworthy of my genius, my greatness. The law could deal with me but ultimately, they would cower in my greatness. I wanted humans. 

 I was thirteen and as any thirteen year old genius knows, people are assholes. Obviously, I was being bullied, so I waited at the bus stop and waited for the girl to show up. She took active care in making sure we were alone. It was perfect. So as I wandered into an alley, she followed. She chuckled slightly as I was backed into a wall. I chuckled too, she was so fucking stupid. I slid my hands into my pockets and put my a pair of marigolds on. Then I gripped my dad's sparing knife. 

 I turned around and waited for her to get closer. As she did, I grabbed her and stabbed in the back and I quickly got her in the throat, tearing it a part like my parent's computer. I removed the marigolds when I started to tear her bits out. Her heart was so warm and squelchy. So much bigger, so much more fun to play with. Her intestines were long and I pulled them out like a magicians scarf. Her stomach was so much bigger than an animals. It was just so much more fun!

 To avoid leaving finger prints after I left, I sucked her blood off of my fingers. However, my clothes were a different story. I had thought ahead though and brought some extra clothes. I burned the ones I had and stuck the ashes in the dumpster. I gave her body a once over, looking for any of my hairs or anything which could incriminate me. Even if there was anything, it was easily explainable. We went to the same school and it wasn't a secret that she bullied me. For safe measure, I punched myself. 

 My parents didn't pay me enough attention to notice my change in clothes, or my bruised face. The news reported the story of the brutal killing of Gina McPherson. Her mother sobbed on screen whilst her father threatened to kill the bastard who killed his daughter. Everyone thought it was a man. Some random guy went down for my crime. I was pissed. How dare someone take credit for my experiment. 

 I realized eventually, that it was alright because I didn't want to go to jail. My killings continued. See, I learned in science that you need to repeat an experiment five times with everything the same. So I did. Five people of the same upbringing, ethnicity, age, and height. I killed a lot of people and as time went by, I became older. I was bored when I found that the insides were the same. Hearts were no longer any fun. I had taken to cooking some and eating them to spice things up but it didn't work.

 Then I remembered the one thing I hadn't done. Brains. I had never seen a brain. I had never touched a brain. So the next time, I brought a hammer and once they were dead, I smashed their skull and pulled out their brain. It was a thrill to see just how miniscule it was compared to mine. I sliced it up and laughed at how crappy their parts were. Laughed at their stupidity, their inferiority. It was like a joke that only I could get.

 I'd been left out of too many jokes as a child. I deserved an inside joke, even if it was just with myself. I laughed and I laughed until my sides hurt. I laughed and clutched my sides. I laughed until I could barely breathe. Once I was done, I went home and I felt so much better. I felt like I'd just had an orgasm. Then I realized that I hadn't lost my virginity. I wasn't gorgeous but I'd been complimented by a lot of guys at work. I had big tits and pouty, pink lips. My nose was a bit of a shame but still.

 However, one night, I decided that I could combine two desires. I could fuck someone and slaughter them. So I did, I found a tasty little morsel which deserved my greatness, lead them away and then I fucked them. They tried to scream and get away but I pushed a knife against their throat. Afterwards, I slaughtered them and left. Only now, do I regret that decision. At the time, I was bathing in the after glow of sex and murder. I was covered in someone's blood and their semen.

 However, when the police arrived at the scene, my DNA was all over him. Well, all over his dick but still. So they bursted through my door and arrested me. I was bored as I waited for my lawyer to show up. He said I should plead for insanity. So I did. Believe me, I didn't think I was mad, I don't think I am mad. However, they told me I would either have a shorter sentence or no sentence at all. 

 I managed to pull off a good enough act. Somehow, I had managed to pull it off. I was given my insanity plea and I ended up in a mental hospital. Once I was in it my act fell through but the doctors didn't realize. The talked about my 'lack of empathy and understanding of consequences and severity of my own actions', pathetic. 

 Now I sit looking at Rorschach test after Rorschach test, I discuss all of my non-existent emotions, and I talk about my boring childhood. Psychopaths look up to me, sociopaths are unfazed by me, and schizophrenics are terrified that I'll kill them in their sleep. It's not completely incorrect. I would love to slice their heads open and look at their weird little brains. The doctors don't feel sympathy for me. I don't care. I'll be out soon enough and then I'll go find the bastard that put me in here and kill him.

 


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