Inactively Polite (Transgressive Short Horror)

Content warning: graphic violence, sexual content, abusive language, misogyny, homophobic slurs, and references to sexual assault.

By: Connor MacDonald

I am a prisoner of my own consciousness. Sometimes I feel like I am stuck within my own body, trapped in a cycle of thoughts and emotions from which I cannot escape. Perhaps we all feel this way, but I cannot be certain. It has been some time since I have actually experienced a real emotion. Every day when I wake up, I feel nothing. I am in my head, but I lack a soul. At least, that is how I feel. An empty hollow pit within my stomach, yet thousands upon millions of thoughts which drown out my senses.

Sometimes I just want to escape. I have devised several ways to test my own soul. I smashed my head into my mirror, shattering it. Yeah, it felt good. I laughed as I realised that this act of violence had actually given me two things. One, I no longer had a mirror, which I absolutely fucking hated. I always felt that mirrors were, in some way, a dimension into another realm. Where things were just a hair away from breaking out into our reality and consuming us. Additionally, a small flicker of flame within my gut flared up into my throat. For the first time in several years, I felt excitement.

Perhaps I misspoke earlier. I did not truly not feel anything. That would be absurd. Instead, I often just felt misery and a sense of self-loathing that is so common amongst young men. Well, regardless, it felt good. I rubbed my cut head and sat down on my sofa. Yeah, another great fucking day. I began to catalogue what I would do that day.

I liked to plan out my days. I often did nothing, but it was a scheduled nothingness which I would not change for anyone. Sometimes I felt that doing nothing was doing something. The prisoner of my consciousness was twofold. While I often felt trapped within my own body, the thousands of thoughts swirling around my mind caused me to at least not experience boredom. Well, not normal boredom, anyways. My thoughts were full of all sorts of perverted fantasies which I believe are commonplace. Who can say among you that you have not dreamt of caving in the skull of an annoying child?

So, today I had planned out a couple things. One, I would watch reruns of The Dick Cavett Show. I found those old-timey shows to give me some sort of nostalgia which did not belong to me. I think it’s retarded. Some young kid dreams of a bygone time where men were men and women shut the fuck up about things. Now it seems everyone has an opinion. I think more people should be like me. Alone with your thoughts. I feel like leaning out the window and screaming to my neighbours to SHUT THE FUCK UP, but the last time I did that, my neighbours called bylaw on me because I “did not take care of my lawn good enough.”

That’s what I hate about the world. Why do you care that I don’t mow my lawn? Does it hurt you in any way? The fags that live beside me claimed that rats would live on my lawn or some shit. Oh, I should specify. Yeah, my neighbours are actual faggots. I heard on some forum that fags have retaken the word faggot and use it as a symbol of pride. I know some of you retards might think I’m being offensive towards fags, but I actually have an unspoken respect for them in some way. Firstly, they love who they want to love with no fear of society. Being a fag is brave, but I still could not let them go unpunished for calling bylaw on me.

I remember the day pretty vividly. It was my third. Though unlike the other two, this was a couple. I wanted to avoid doing couples. Firstly, it was a big fucking affair. Lots of screaming, and well, you know. While my retarded neighbours complained about the lawn. Alright, you might be confused. So, all the neighbours didn’t like the fact I don’t mow my lawn. It was apparent by how they looked at me. However, as fags are typically the most brave people you can meet, I suppose it was decided that they would be the ones to confront me on the issue and then call bylaw. Anyways, nobody complains about my lawn anymore. Well, not to my face. Then again, I don’t really attend social functions in the neighbourhood.

I find it best not to have a large amount of friends or whatever. I had friends once, but then it became taxing to talk to people after a while. Nowadays I barely speak. Just how I like it. It’s funny, I realised that if I don’t talk sometimes to keep my vocal cords up, I’ll end up being some retarded mute put away in a home. So, that’s the first thing on my agenda. It is often hard to speak if you have not spoken for weeks. The last thing I remember saying is…

Come to think of it, I can’t remember. I actually don’t remember things well anymore. Things are some big blur in my mind. I got smart one day and thought that the thoughts flying in my head are often like static or something. Like a fuzz? The fuzziness makes it so I can’t remember well.

I do remember going to school. I remember not doing very well, but apart from that, socially I was pretty normal. I did not have many friends, and I was picked on a bit, but who wasn’t? Anyways, I had some friends, but I felt like I never belonged. I only have one vivid memory from high school. My first time with a girl. Not that it was particularly good, and neither of us wanted it.

Neither of us wanted it, yeah. I guess it was some sort of prank or something. There was this girl, ugly. Even for me, a guy who rarely got action apart from distant relations, I thought, fuck, this one is beat. I guess I didn’t have to do it, but I felt pressured into it. When you’re with a bunch of so-called friends and there’s a warm body. Well, neither of us wanted it after all. What was her name? I always forget her name. Something with an O. Ophelia? No. Omelia? Is that even a fucking name?

I pour some cereal for me. Well, I do it backwards, actually. Somebody pointed that out to me before. I pour milk before my cereal. Online, a person said only psychos do that. I think the real psychos are the ones who have a bowl of milk and spoon cereal into their mouth, then spoon the milk in.

Olivia, that’s right. Olivia went off to college, I think. I never kept in touch, but I mean, I doubt she’d wanna talk to me. I think she unfairly blames me for what happened, but I was just a kid. It was a defining moment in my life, I think. Sometimes evil breeds evil. Real fucking poetic. Sometimes I wanna reach out and talk to her. I would say I love her, but honestly, I don’t know what that feels like. Maybe I just feel sorry for her.

I finish my cereal and throw the bowl in the sink. I’ll do it later. I’m not a big clean, tidy person. I often like to leave things for a while. I watch porn. I have found that I can’t get off to porn that much. I used to be really into redheads, but after a while, I guess I just grew out of it. At this point, I just watch it out of habit and half-heartedly tug at my limp cock in the hopes that I can cum. Sometimes it works, other times I just end up getting really sweaty.

The state of the modern porn industry is really something. You can basically find videos on anything. Sometimes I just surf the porn sites looking for the most crazy shit I can find. Midgets, granny, snuff, gore stuff, yeah. Shit like that. Once in a while, I end up getting into these moods where I feel that I can do anything I want to do. Real superhero stuff. If the Flash can run real fast or whatever, my superpower is doing stuff others wouldn’t do, so I end up with this large fucking spreadsheet of the weirdest porn I’ve ever found.

When I shared it with my old former friends over Facebook, they just blocked me. Guess they don’t like the idea of watching some curated porn. I find that interesting. People are often so open about so much, their problems, always whining and bitching. They’ll tell you about how they were assaulted in some back alley by a bum rapist, but you want to show them midget fisting porn, and all of a sudden you’re some fucking degenerate freak. I find it laughable how open people are, and here I am just wanting to share some videos I’ve curated with former friends. Guess I’m the one with egg on my face.

The topic of bum alley rapists got me thinking. I wonder if there are such things. I think that would be very difficult to do. Being a bum alley rapist would require a lot of waiting. Who walks down alleys anymore? That’s it! I come up with what I’m going to do today. Yeah, I’m going to see how many people actually walk down a bum rapist alley.

My doctor calls my phone, and I immediately press the hang-up button. I know it is a meme, but anyone ever think about why it’s hang up now? I think it should be changed to more modern terms. Instead of “pick up my call,” it should be “accept my call” or “I cancelled the call,” you get the idea. So, I take back what I said earlier. I press the cancel call button. I did not have a fancy phone like some people. Androids suited me fine, and I felt connected to them in some way. Everyone wanted the iPhone, but people settled on an Android. You know what it feels like to be settled on all the time?

I remember another story from my childhood. We were doing kickball, I think. Some game involving a ball, anyways. I wasn’t an athletic kid by any means. Honestly, I was pretty fucked. Two guys were picking their teams, and I was picked last, even over the girls. I remember this because I remember how humiliating it was for me in my own way. Even as I got older, I remember people would patronise me often about my athletic abilities. I would get so mad. Now I don’t get mad anymore.

I don’t like sharing my thoughts, so I hate doing this. I know you don’t really care about what I think, and you know that I don’t care if you care or not. A ring from my pocket, and when I pull out my phone, it’s my parents. Who needs them? I cancelled the call. If there is one thing I am, it is a learner. I learn fast.

So, as a child, I was often picked last, settled on. At dances, the girls who nobody wanted to go with would settle with me. Or, perhaps, they pitied me. I do not know what is worse, others settling for you or having pity for you. Sometimes a way I chose people is by whether I see pity in their eyes. The world has no need for pity, I think. I think the pitied often feel worse when they realise others pity them.

That’s why, when I walked by the homeless bum, I told him that. I smiled and said, “Sir, I do not pity you,” and there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Like finally somebody acknowledged he was a person. I walked away from him so he didn’t have time to respond to me, but I know it touched him greatly. Bums plagued this city, and a part of me thought that they had their uses. One of those stray thoughts, the static fuzzy thoughts, made a plan for me for later. I think you’ll like it.

I bought one of those Big Gulp things and filled it with cola. No surprises at the store. “Hello,” I said politely to the young teen at the register. His disgusting acne-scarred face stared back at me. I never understood how people got that. You gotta pick at your acne or some shit on your face, and it’s fucking retarded. I’m not the brightest guy around, but even I know not to do that. He did not even greet me back.

To some, that would be rude, but you know he is just another acolyte of silence. I nodded understandingly to him. He turned to a young girl beside him. Blue hair, fit, and dumb. They spoke about something, and he rang up my gulp. They were talking about something I did not understand. I knew the look in his eyes, though. He had feelings for it.

I told him, “Hey kid, don’t waste your time with her,” but he just started yelling some stuff at me. Young guys gotta act like alpha males in front of young girls. As if being the loudest entitles you to some young pussy. In a way, I guess it does. A guy from my school, I think his name was Rick, was always like that. Big, loud, mean, and a bunch of girls liked him. I look back on it now and realise that the girls keeping him company were just as bad, if not worse, than him. There were plenty of other people around who were victims of all of them. I wished I had seen it sooner. I checked my phone, and it was 8:56. I know these stores are typically twenty-four hours, but I could tell that these two were getting off soon.

You know when you’re at some shitty minimum-wage job and your shift is almost over? You end up not giving a fuck about customers and just wanna go home. I guess my plans for checking out a bum alley were going to have to wait. Sometimes fate brings two people together. It’s the way things go, I guess. The parking lot was empty, but there was some shitty little bike half-assedly locked up on the rack. It was black and a bit macho-looking, so I figured it was the guy’s.

So anyways, I figured I could kill an hour outside. Saw a couple crackheads and bums walking around by the place. I drank my Big Gulp. Too much syrup. It always ruins the drink at these places. These shitholes don’t know how to clean their machines or something, or don’t fill them up properly for carbonation. So I took a big taste of syrup and spat it out. What a waste of a couple dollars.

People don’t get the value of a dollar anymore. How much it has been devalued. I was reading online that currency isn’t even real. It’s a total fabrication. I had lots of it, though. My parents were big shots and supported me. Plus, the government is generous with handouts. They’ll give anyone money if you whine loud enough.

Young love is an interesting concept to me. I never really experienced it. Not truly. I may have thought I was in love, but I think it was just me wanting to feel like I was in love. Life offers these illusions of normality to people. Like, you gotta get a job. You need to find love. You work the 9-to-5, come home to your wife and kids, and eventually die.

Unlike some retarded cynics out there, I feel that doing that is actually a great life. They don’t know what they got. I hear people bitch and complain about it often. They complain about their kids, their wife, their job, their life. If it was so unbearable, go buy a razor and slit your fucking throat. Or, alternatively, go build a cabin in the woods and get away from it all.

What do the cynics want to do? What I do? I sit at home and watch porn and paint. Big fucking deal. Do I live on the fringes of society like some dreg? Some sort of agorist theorist who is a counter-economics revolutionary? I have never been a fan of those who rag on life so much. I check my phone, and it’s now 9:48.

Sometimes employees like to cut out early. A car pulls up, and I see a middle-aged woman. She seems busy on her phone. The young cunt from earlier gallops outside the store and into the car. I can see that she is quite upset. Well, not like, in hysterics or something. Just sad. A totally different person than the person in the store. I know the feeling all too well. The car pulls out of the parking lot. Curiously, nobody seems to be coming. I quickly walk past the store and glance at the hours sign. It’s not 24 hours. It’s going to close soon.

Who leaves some teenager to lock up their store? That’s poor management practice. I circle back around the side and lean against the wall. A door opens to my left, but the door blocks me. The little prick throws out his garbage and goes back to cleaning. He leaves the door propped open.

Funny that those with a lot of self-confidence and bravado often feel there is no danger lurking just several feet away from them. It’s not a particularly good area. In fact, it’s a fucking dump. To put it in perspective, just last week when I was coming for my Big Gulp, I saw a used condom at the very spot I was standing. I glanced down, and it was still there. Disgusting.

I slithered my way into the back of the shop. The lights flickered. It was those shit lights that all the stores have. The ones that make it seem like you’re in some sort of death camp. Anyways, the kid came into the back room.

“What are you doing here? Get the fuck out of here, you fucking crackhead,” he said to me.

Funny enough, I suppose I probably did seem like one. I was a bit dishevelled-looking, with a large cut across my forehead from the mirror smashing. My hoodie was black and stained, and my jeans had not been washed in about a month.

“What?” I said.

“You fucking heard me. Get out before I ca-”

The look of pure fucking amazement in the eyes of people as you smash them across the head with a hammer is something not many people get to experience. I’ve gotten quite good at it recently. Everything requires practice, and practice makes perfect. The hammer was a nice, simple ball-peen hammer. I liked the ball-peen hammer because it broke facial bones quite easily.

This fucking prick had the audacity to actually kick me as he went to the ground. The rudeness of people has gotten out of control as of late. Firstly, he doesn’t greet me. I thought he was a fellow acolyte of silence, but it turned out he was just trying to play some sort of sick, twisted power game with me to impress that dumb bimbo.

My hammer struck his face a second time. This time his eye socket was broken, and his eye was badly damaged. He tried to scream, but getting on top of him now was quite easy. Blood gets in the eyes easily, and this dumb bastard had his one eye dangling out of his head.

I read somewhere that you can actually still see while an eye is dangling out of your head. Your vision must be totally fucked. It’d explain why he was barely able to fight me off. He was screaming some gibberish about money or something.

A blunt object is great at first, but afterwards you really want to stab. It takes a lot to stab, though. Blunt is one thing, stabbing is another. The first time I ever did this, I just stabbed, but it was awful. Firstly, you can fight off a stabbing way easier than a blunt object. A hammer dazes somebody really bad, and hitting them in the head makes them drop to the ground like a potato sack. A sack full of potatoes, not an empty sack.

There was something so satisfying about sliding a knife into flesh. It was like butter. This guy was a big guy, though. I’m big myself. I tower over people. I think I’m 6’7 or 6’8, and two hundred and sixty pounds or so. I hit a big growth spurt, and things haven’t been the same since. If I was a defenceman, this guy would be like a running back or something. He was in shape and faster than me, but you can’t outrun a knife an inch away from your gut.

It takes roughly sixteen thrusts to get somebody to shut the fuck up. Blood was actually quite slippery. It’s surprising to some people. I call this part facial reconstruction. Hammering in somebody’s skull takes a lot of work. Honestly, the whole affair is a lot of work. I left a great present for whoever opened the store in the morning. I carved a triangle into him so the cops would know it’s my work.

Listening to music is a great way to calm yourself down. I love Oasis. Champagne Supernova is a great song, but it was my go-to song, and I think it is time for a change. Don’t Look Back in Anger. How fitting. So I went back to my house. Yes, that’s right. Nobody cares. You walk down the street covered in blood, and people don’t wanna bother you. I think it’s great. Sometimes people aren’t rude like others.

Shower time. I masturbate and cum pretty fast. Faster than usual. Days like this make me feel alive, but then I crash afterwards. I’m like an addict. I know eventually I’ll no longer get a high from anything. Oh, I read this thing, right? It said that the way I do my stuff is disorganised or whatever. Says I’m retarded and that my IQ is quite low. I did an IQ test and scored 145. I know you can’t investigate random stuff.

Cops are so ineffectual. I remember I had a discussion with my cousin about this. We were talking about that all-cops-are-bastards shit. He was going on about how cops are heroes or whatever. I told him that cops just kind of solve crime. They don’t really prevent it.

The only thing preventing you from going out and stealing, raping, murdering, or whatever is like two things. One, your conscience. Two, the fact that if you get caught, you’ll go to prison. Neither of which was important to me. I feel like the buzz drowned my conscience, and going to prison wasn’t that big of a deal for me. It isn’t like I’d be some goof.

I like to treat myself when I feel things. I want to train myself to seek out feelings. I see I have missed a lot of calls from my parents. They are such drama queens. You don’t call them for half a year, and suddenly they think you’re a piece of shit. I call up this chick I fuck. Well, it isn’t like a booty-call situation. I do pay her for her time, of course.

I’m worried that she won’t pick up. The last time I was a bit rough with her. A lot of young girls think that they don’t need pimps anymore. Some type of next sexual revolution where women now are pimps. Or their own bosses. I guess own boss is a better way of putting it.

She picked up, very nice. “Hey, you wanna make some money?” And she just says yeah. She knows. I hang up the phone and go back to watching my porn. I guess I got lots of sexual frustration. My first time was wasted, basically. I guess I was reverse raped in hindsight. Well, yeah. I mean, I guess the cops or something wouldn’t see it that way, but the fuck do they know?

I answer the door, and there she is. Delicious, a woman who is simple to deal with. Cash, pussy. Simple. I like simple things like that. I try not to be too rough this time around. A part of me, when I feel like this, has a curious care for this whore. Her name is Ruby, but I doubt that is her real name.

Afterwards, she has a smoke at the end of my bed, and I tell her to put it out. “The fuck is wrong with you? Don’t smoke in my house,” I said, and she just gives me this look. Her lips were a bit plump, and her eye was starting to swell. “You blaming me for that?” She continued to smoke. Fuck her.

When she left, I began my nightly chores. Cleaned up a bit. Recently, I’ve been seeing things. I don’t know if it is from stress or what, but yeah. Acnescar was the recent one. His face pushed out of the wall and spoke to me, but I tried to ignore it. You know what I mean? I don’t want to listen to his shit right now. Ruby was gone, and I was alone, apart from whatever the fuck that was.

I don’t even sleep in my bed anymore. I hear too much shit when I’m in bed. Voices and stuff, and I’ve gotten sick of it. It’s true that when you’re in your bed, old guilts swim to the surface and make you look back on your past.

Like this time I was in high school. I think I was doing some sort of group project, I forget. Some guy was making fun of me cause I was a bit shy at the time to impress some girl. She didn’t seem impressed. If I could transport me-now to me-then, I would. I don’t think they’d be so willing to offer up insults.

Actually, I guess they would. It isn’t like I walk around and scare people. There was an article I was reading about evilness. That’s why earlier I mentioned the whole evil thing. Evil makes evil and whatever? Well, apparently evil people give off this vibe of evil. I wonder if that is why people caused issues for me. Maybe they could sense it, but in their childlike mind just thought it was weirdness or creepiness and not something more sinister.

I don’t think it is fair to say I am sinister or evil. Honestly, I don’t even know if that stuff exists. I’ve thought about it, and I honestly can’t give an honest answer. Dishonestly, I can say that probably it doesn’t. Or at least, we are all scum and evil. Is it evil to do the things I do? I don’t think so.

The TV thinks so. Some suit with a bimbo in it begins talking. Some murder at a convenience store, they say. Hell, I know that. Two crying parents on the box, boo-hooing about their piece-of-shit kid. Well, not all of us can be winners, I guess. Apparently, they want to ask people to call in and tell them if they got any information. I watch a bit more, and the fucking TV leaves out the best part about his face being rearranged into a thousand pieces. It was now early morning. I must have slept at some point. I barely remember. The sun shines through my blinds.

I open my drawer, and I got a bunch of phones in it. I’m not a retard like the fucking cops think. I got burner phones like a drug dealer. Bought these months ago, never use them. I take some tape and tape the back of the one phone. It’s funny, you gotta name these things, so in honour of the kid, I call it Acneface.

I dial up the station. Some robot answers, and I scream for a rep. No response, and then a phone rings. Thank fucking Christ. You know it’s super difficult to get a hold of these reporters. Some girl with a dainty voice picks up.

“Hello, this is…” I don’t give a fuck. “Hello, this is about the kid who was killed,” I said.

Silence. “You have information for us?” Obviously, you dumb fucking cunt. “Yeah, I got information. You left out the best part. I rearranged his face into a million fucking pieces, and you don’t report on that? Or the triangle?” I hang up the phone, then I put it in a bag and smash it.

Dumb fucking reporters and cops. They’re so retarded. I turn on the TV, and the news thing does a broadcast. BREAKING NEWS, it says. I laugh, and it reads BREAKING FACES. Yeah, that’s right, TV. BREAKING AGAIN. Soon, TV, soon.

Suit gets on and starts talking about my phone call, and they talk to a cop about it. The cop seems a bit angry, probably because the reporters just accidentally fucked up their case by broadcasting to people what the cops didn’t want the public to know in case they bring people in. Cops are tricky fuckers, but I’m trickier.

I actually thought reporters and cops were in cahoots, but I guess I was wrong. They start calling me the “Triangle Killer.” What a lame fucking name. Whatever. The cops come on and say they got a sketch of the person. They say I’m a bigger man, standing over six feet, weighing close to 220, with a mustache? I don’t have a mustache.

Today I decide I’m going to have a relaxing day. When I wanna relax, I head to the park near my house. I like to watch the kids play there. Oh no, I’m not some fucking creep. I don’t wanna diddle the kids or nothing. I just like to watch innocence before its destruction in life.

“Which one is yours?”

What?

“Huh?” I said. Who the fuck is this person? I look at her, and she’s a nice-looking lady.

“That’s my little one over there,” she said, pointing to some kid in a pink jacket.

That’s nice.

“That’s nice,” I said.

Wait, I fucked that up. I sound like a total weirdo.

“I don’t have kids of my own,” I say.

She looks at me like I’m a sex perv. Yeah, I gotta explain myself.

“I can’t have kids. I have a condition. I know it’s pathetic, but I like to see what I could never have.”

Her eyes light up a bit, but she seems suspicious.

“I hope one day I can adopt,” I said.

She got up. “What’s your name?” she asked.

Ah yeah, my name. Everyone wants to know your name. It’s funny that you can basically lie and call yourself whatever.

“Greg.”

Nice, she smiles.

“What is your name?”

I bet it’s Lisa or something.

“My name is Daniella.”

She can’t be any older than twenty-six. A couple years younger than me, maybe. I’m the only guy in the park.

“How old is your kid?”

Yeah, I’m nailing this. This is one of the longest conversations I’ve had in some time.

“My kid is twelve.”

“Twelve?” I must have misheard her.

“No, two.”

I could have sworn twelve.

“I must be losing my mind,” I said.

Hah, if only she knew.

“Maybe you have hearing issues,” she said.

Is this how normal people talk? I honestly don’t recall.

“Maybe I have hearing issues.”

I was repeating her now. I lost it. I always do this. I can’t talk to anyone. A long silence falls. Maybe I do have hearing issues.

“I don’t have a husband or boyfriend or whatever, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says.

Great, she’s fucked like me. I can tell. Nobody talks this way, for sure. Nobody talks like this.

“Who cares.”

I was dismissive, but I knew what she implied. I handed her my phone. One of those burner phones.

A girl hadn’t shown true interest in me for years. Shocked and horrified, with a mix of curiosity, I suppose. I guess I might not need to call Ruby next time I’m out. The interactions with Ruby are so simple, though. The beauty of prostitution is that you know exactly what the chick wants. Money. When you pick one up at a bar, or a park, you can’t be sure of their intentions.

“I hope you call me,” she says.

Yeah, I’ll call you. Maybe.

“For sure,” I said.

I had lost my voice. This always happens when I’m out and people talk to me. I can’t ever talk for long periods of time, or else I sound like a fucking retard.

I know the intentions of this single mother. Firstly, she’s young. No young guy wants to get with a young mom. A hot older mom? Maybe to fulfil sexual fantasies. A young mom? That’s just sad. You’re used and abused. She is probably hopeful that we can work out some type of exchange where I become a father figure for her child, and she gives up her body.

Out of all the people I have met in my life, parents are often the most desperate. Desperate for love, attention, whatever. They bring up their kids a lot, since that is the measure of the success of the average man or woman. Me? I don’t care much about children. I know I said earlier I like to watch innocence, but that is not related to children.

Not all kids are innocent, of course. Some are downright cruel. Like that little bitch just over there in the blue overalls. She thinks she is sneaky by pushing down red-shirt when nobody is watching. I am watching. Smashing her skull in would be easy. Easier than Acneface.

I don’t think I am an agent of justice. That is a bit much. Like I’m some sort of superhero, but I know I’m not. I’m just a man. The woman starts talking to me again. Her mouth moves, but I hear nothing.

“What?”

She looks at me like I spoke an alien language.

“Sorry, what was that you said?” I asked again, this time more politely.

I find that a lot of people find that abrasive. You know, just saying what. Growing up, I would say things like that a lot, I think. My parents believed in strict manners and politeness, and I am glad they imparted that to me. Even if it caused a busted lip every now and then. Since I have been away from them for so long, I think I’ve forgotten how to be actively polite. I look at myself as inactively polite. The type of politeness that isn’t in your face. Quietness, serenity. That sort of thing.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She had a nice voice. You know those voices that make it seem like everything will be alright, even though you know it won’t be alright? That’s the way I felt. It is hard to explain, but I know you know what I mean. I told her I had to go. You know, I didn’t actually have to go. But there was this feeling inside of me that told me to go.

Remember earlier how I told you about the conscious mind being a prison? Sometimes I think that, as primal creatures, we need to neglect our intellectual capacity and resort to basic animalistic urges. If I feel like I need to do something, I do it. Does an animal ponder the implications of an action if they feel that it is time to flee or fight? The fight-or-flight response. I think this isn’t that, though. I think me leaving is more of me just doing what I want to do.

The woman did not say goodbye to me. What was her name again? It was a fucked-up name. Like, a name nobody has. A bit old-school. A notification on my phone answered my question. Hi this is Daniella. Bit forward. She reeks of desperation.

I like to walk places. It calms my mind. Even though sometimes I see things I don’t wanna see. Flashes of light here and there. Another notification. This time it’s my parents texting me. I swipe the notification so I don’t have to read it. They have called me a lot recently. More than usual. So has my doctor. They must be concerned.

My door is black. The other neighbours all have curious coloured doors on the street. I find it strange that people would have blue doors, red doors, shit like that. I think a door is sacred. Doors are ritualistic, you see. They are passages to another life, to a different being of existence. My door was black, and I painted it black because I simply liked the colour. Plus, it hides scuffs and dirt easily.

As I enter my house, I am ambushed by a chorus of music. That old-timey style music. I don’t know the name of the song, but I know I did not have it saved. As I turn the corner into my living room, holy fuck, what a sight to see!

It isn’t often you see three headless women dancing. They cradled their heads in their arms as they swayed with the music. I greeted them. It’s the polite thing to do, after all. Their faces simply smiled towards me. I said, I said to them, “Hey! Can you turn this music down?” And they disappeared with the music. I didn’t want them to leave. I enjoyed their company.

People leave your life a lot. All I wanted them to do was turn down the music, not leave totally. You make a small request to people, and they just get up and leave. I suppose I am guilty of that too. I did not stand by when my friends asked me simple things. My thoughts drift to Olivia. I often think of her, and I fucking hate it. I do not want to think about it, or her. A tinge of guilt creeps up my spine.

I hate those creeps up the spine. They make you feel like you have lost control, and then you have a spasm or something. When you’re out in public, people look at you with judging eyes when you spasm. I have a system to stop those chills. I bite my tongue really hard and clench my fists, and usually that does it. I wish I did it now, but I forgot about it.

It is easy to find most people. The fucking retards usually put their lives up online. Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, shit like that. Olivia is but a click away to look up, but I know it is wrong to do, you know? I think it is best if we both move on. I know I have not moved on, and it makes me feel sad. Emotions have come back to me ever since I smashed that guy’s head in.

Doctors prescribe medicine to people, yet they don’t realise how cathartic it is to cause harm to others. Especially when the other person is a piece of human fucking shit, like that teenager. I self-medicate with pain. My own pain, I guess. The bottles of pills I was given don’t work, so I don’t even bother to fill them anymore.

Yeah, no need to fill them. Doctors think I got issues in my head from brain injuries, I think. When I was a kid, I was a bit too impolite one day. As a dumb, impolite little bastard, I used to smack my lips occasionally. Smack lips cause busted lips. In this case, a concussion. We said I fell, but I think it is more accurate to say a boot fell on my head once or twice.

I find a lot of things to be a blur, though. I mean, do you remember your day-to-day stuff? I know I don’t. I don’t even remember what I did three days ago, two days ago, or whatever. I do remember the Big Gulp, but that’s about it.

The TV buzzes, and it is the news. GOOD EVENING, it blares.

“Hello.”

Then it goes into this story about some serial killer. I wonder if it is me. TRIANGLE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. Don’t recall. Some retarded fucking cop comes on with some thick mustache. Mustaches are unclean and ungodly, I think. Either be clean-shaven or have a beard. Why have a little slug dancing above your lip?

He looks deep into the camera. He is speaking to me. He goes on about how I’m sick and need help or something. I realise something. Cops are getting close to me, I think. That animalistic feeling again. I need to throw them for a loop. I don’t even do anything wrong. The state-sanctioned violence is fine, but when I do it, I’m sick or deranged. You all benefit from violence, you just don’t acknowledge it like me. You are sick, not me.

That single mom will do nicely. Haven’t done a kid yet either. Broke in and killed two fags, but that is a current outlier. If I make it seem like… yes. That’s right. A plan forms in the folds of my mind. I may have lots of fuzz, but there is a great competency I have in terms of my chosen profession. She responds fast. I did not even respond to her earlier message.

It’s a game, you see. I want her to think I am so busy. She texts me that she will get a babysitter. Fuck that, I say. No need. She says it is fine, she can get a sitter. Great. I guess no kid tonight. Instead, I gotta make do with what I’m given. You always gotta come up with new plans on the fly. I hate that, though. I like when things are concrete and things are all done according to plan. I’m a fine improviser, I just think that organisation is incredibly important.

I drive and pick her up. She looks good. I don’t. I don’t care either, though. There is a certain appeal to that attitude, I find. Some women like it, others hate it. I don’t fault the ones who hate it. How you present yourself to the world is often a reflection of your inner being. I am a piece of shit, so I present myself as such. I am a human Venus flytrap, but instead of the sweet sugar water the trap produces, I produce… well, fuck, I actually don’t know.

We go to this chain restaurant. She seems happy and talks about her life and shit. I say that’s nice. She asks me about mine, don’t got one. She seems taken aback. I tell her that my early life is typical, which it was. Many of us suffered the same thing I went through. She asks me what I do for a living. I tell her I make people disappear, and she laughs. She says it must be nice to be a travel agent.

Assumptions. People make assumptions when uneasy. Well, I guess people make assumptions all the time. Our conversation is meaningless. She did most of the talking. I think she thinks I’m the strong, silent type. I tower over her as we leave, and it is like a giant and a fairy leaving. People stare. They always stare.

Scooping eyeballs out is hard, especially since you always fuck up and mangle the eyeballs. Like I did with Acneface. I got no formal medical training. I did use to be a hospital worker, though. I was a porter. Porting people around. I saw bodies and corpses. Sometimes I’d get alone time with the corpses. Warm bodies are much better than cold bodies, but warm bodies cause a lot of noise.

I drop her off at her house, and she invites me in. I guess she hasn’t gotten some in some time. I’m not in the mood, but I say alright. She leads me in, and I guess the kid is elsewhere. She makes a drink for us and turns her back to me.

I thought women were smarter than this. Especially one with a kid. Firstly, as a woman, you are a fucking retard if you just invite guys into your house after he has only said like fifty words to you or so. Secondly, I am shocked she doesn’t sense me. Dogs bark at me when they see me. They say animals can sense that stuff.

I don’t have my tools on me, but I did not need them. When people aren’t expecting an attack, it’s easy to dash their heads against something hard. She doesn’t even make a noise when her head cracks on her countertop. Now it’s time to get to work.

Cops are dumb. They will say my MO has changed now. As she bleeds out on the floor, I smash the back door off its hinges. I begin to make the house look like there was a nasty struggle. Smash shit everywhere. I stab the whore a couple times, and she coughs blood up. I drag her by her hair, and I’ll finish her off in the living room.

The house is a mess now. A total fucking disaster. It is crude and sloppy. Perfect. I leave the house out the back door. The night is cool. I have yet to find peace. This is the great problem I have. I want to be peaceful, but an animal within me compels me to be violent. As I imagine her corpse in the house, I feel no sense of pride for this act. Perhaps I have cured myself at last.

A voice calls from behind me. The voice of a young girl. I’ve never killed a child before. There is something disgraceful about that. I stare deep into her face. She cannot comprehend what has happened here. Perhaps that is a gift of youth, but her eyes no longer had a youthful glimmer to them. Something had changed within her.

When one loses their innocence, they morph. Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, but instead it would be like a caterpillar turning into a fly. It is not a good morphosis. I was innocent for a time, but then I lost that innocence in my own special way. I would have rather died than lose my childlike naive hopefulness, but here I am.

Would it be a service to snuff her life out now? I can see her growing up hateful of life, of men, of me. Cursing society and the fact that it would be so cruel to take the life of her mother. I don’t know anymore. Silence fills the night. Comforting. Even the child is silent. I can’t help but feel something awful within my body. I know I have done a great evil tonight.

The butchered corpse of the mother stands behind the daughter. Her face has been split in two. Yet her voice remains the same calmness I had heard before.

“Please.” she says.

I pound my head. I can feel my mind broken and battered. I know she is not there, yet she is. The daughter looks up at her mother. What have I done? I have done this.