Hello, I’m Celeste. As the title suggests, I’m a psychopath, but an ever so delightful version of one. If you accept me as I am we’ll get along and you’ll learn ever so much.
In order for us to be friends you are going to have to forget everything you think you know about creatures like myself. For example, unlike the more infamous of my brethren, I don’t eat people. That would be tacky and most definitely not on brand.
I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about how to talk to you. Do I strive to make you love me? Or in an effort to exploit the reality television mentality of our times, do I attempt to entertain the lowest possible denominator? Or should I start with a few truths that others are afraid to admit? I’m in a quandary, so I shall simply begin.
I imagine you drinking a little too much wine, watching television, attempting to numb the pain of merely surviving. I’m not judging you. That’s a lie, I am, but not to make you feel badly about yourself. I judge everyone. You drown out your boredom on social media arguing with people you’ve never met. I judge. Everyone needs hobbies.
What did you type into Google that would bring you to me?
My guess is you searched sociopath, or psychopath. Perhaps you were late-night binge-watching Dexter, feeling jealous of his character’s ability to live outside the rules of society or you just wanted to take a quiz on whether you might be a psycho. Some of you typed in, ‘Why doesn’t he love me anymore?’ For those of you in the latter category, stick around. You may find me quite educational. I can teach you how to deal with liars. It’s rather a speciality of mine.
Intrigued yet? As I said, I’m a psychopath, or perhaps a sociopath, it really depends on the day and the definition you read. Let’s go with psychopath, shall we? It sounds scarier. Those of you who like online tests are already doubting the veracity of what I’m writing.
Those tests have questions like, ‘Were you ever involved in a crime as a juvenile?’ As if I would ever be caught. ‘Do you take responsibility for your actions?’ Of course I do. I wouldn’t let someone else get credit for my good deeds.
Oh, and there’s always a question like ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’
What an imbecilic pile of shit, perpetrated by doctors who aren’t as smart as their patients. The brilliant among us know exactly what we are and don’t feel guilty about it.
I always find a real-life example is the best way to express my point. It gives texture to the story, as well as gravitas. Plus, humans like things they can relate to. It’s a psychological tool that will make you feel closer to me. Perhaps I shouldn’t reveal my secrets, but I do enjoy being educational. Let’s go back to my story…
No, I didn’t kill her.
Movies and books have given you the impression we kill with abandon. The reality is death is messy, but more importantly it’s an ending. If I’m honest, and I do intend to be as transparent as possible, killing is not nearly as much fun for me as the games I play with my targets. I prefer the ‘socio’ part of the dark triad of personality traits. Without people there would be no games, and I’d become bored and I do hate that particular condition. Is there anything more thrilling than manipulating another person, making them fall madly in love with you and then leaving them in a crying puddle on the ground? That’s one of my favorites. It makes me smile just to think of it.
Now, normally, targeting one of my fellow evil compatriots is far more thrilling for my skill set than mere humans. I haven’t bothered with the vulnerable for years. I require a challenge, and nice, normal people do nothing for me.
However, on this particular evening I decided to forego my exacting standards and have a bit of fun. Women are so needy, especially women of a certain age who’ve been left by their husbands for the younger, newer, more interesting for a moment, woman. I do consider myself a helpful person, on occasion. And this woman needed my help. There was no doubt in my mind she would go from one con artist to the next without my intervention. So I listened as she talked about her ex-narcissist, (yes, I knew he was one of my people, I always know) how she knew better now and would never be deceived again. Bear in mind during the course of the conversation I said very little and she gave me all the information I needed to destroy her.
Here’s a tip. Never tell a complete stranger your issues or the ways your ex manipulated you. Giving someone a map in how to use you is a colossally stupid idea. But you do it. Because you believe a woman can always be trusted. To be fair, most women who exhibit the empathetic markers I was showing are trustworthy. Unfortunately for her, I am not most women.
Now, I wasn’t going to do it. This was a party where we shared mutual friends. I have no use for their opinions, but I like my clique. It works for me and I wasn’t about to jeopardize my social life for a twit who lacked any sense of self-preservation. So I delegated.
The top tier of my kind are constantly in motion. We’re in pursuit of minions, lovers, friends, anyone and everyone who can fulfill needs we deem necessary. I have a roster full of such people. I call them when I need a favor, a recommendation, sex. I would be lying if I didn’t say the majority of them were for sex. I have needs.
I felt it would be helpful if this woman learned something about hubris. I know, you’re thinking to yourselves, ‘Wow, who knew a psychopath could be so selfless?’ Yes, that’s me, always willing to serve up a lesson on a silver platter.
On occasion people need to be taught what they don’t know. This poor woman was certain she could spot any narcissist who walked into her life. I decided to test her theory. I asked her to try out a new cafe with me. I also texted one of my sociopathic minions and asked him to meet me there. At the last minute I cancelled on both of them. A few hours later she called to disappoint me just as I’d expected.
‘You won’t believe it. I met the most amazing man. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.’ Seriously! This is why humans make me insane. I wanted her to see through him and then I’d get to show her how to play him, but no.
She’s the selfish one, depriving me of my chance to impart wisdom. Three months later he’d moved in with her and our mutual friends decided she was an idiot who clearly enjoyed abusive relationships.
Perhaps I’m more self-serving than self-help. There was a benefit for me in the end. I no longer had to endure her at dinner parties. And my narcissistic friend, who I screwed with surprising regularity (he was great in bed) was quite happy living in her penthouse apartment and spending her money. Being a starving artist didn’t really suit him. All in all it was a win-win for everyone who mattered. And no, idiots don’t matter.
I suppose you find me harsh. I prefer to call myself unfiltered, and really, aren’t you bored of politically correct sycophants who utter the most mundane things known to man? I’m not suggesting a Donald Trump brand of unfiltered that borders on the criminally stupid. Trust me when I say that psychopaths around the world are offended when compared to him. Hell, even high-level narcissists are offended and they rarely pay attention to anyone. We all despise Trump. He’s just so unmitigatedly moronic.
My brand of psychopath isn’t stupid, nor are we braggarts about our intelligence. We know what we are. Contrary to what modern psychology says, we aren’t without people we care about, people who have our loyalty. In fact, I would venture to say, my loyalty, when I choose to give it, is far more valuable than that of humans who claim to love their friends or partners. Would you kill for them? Would you bring the shovel to help bury their nemesis? I thought not. Of course, if we give our loyalty and you take advantage then you will be paid back in kind. Psychopaths can make wonderful, true friends (in our way), but crossing us is not the way to a long life.
Had my circumstances not changed I might have become a normal sociopath, content to destroy random people on a whim, but the universe had a greater plan for me.
My path is its own version of the Bible. There’s a ‘Before’ and ‘After’. Before, I was a normal girl who thought about killing tiny neighborhood pets. As you scream, ‘Oh my God, you fiend,’ think about what you’re judging. I swear 90 per cent of you are more upset about my possibly killing the ratty dog next door than my killing actual people.
I grew up beautiful. And yes, I’m vain. Trust me when I say this should not be a revelation for you. Beautiful women know they are beautiful. The majority have simply perfected a ‘fake-humble’ act. I find it nauseating, but in society, out amongst the people, I follow your rules. I can even blush on cue, when needed. Predators have all kinds of tricks. I refuse to lie to you, though, to be insincere in my humility. I am a computer screen for you, words, nothing more, and with you I can be honest.
Beauty, it’s what has shielded me from suspicion for so many years. A mask and a beacon, all in one. A predatory dichotomy as it were. Everything about me is perfect, the legs, the breasts, the hair, the light blue eyes. I can seduce men or women, which makes everything so much more convenient. You see, neither sex has a moratorium on evil, and I am a great believer in equality. It’s not only the destruction I enjoy, it’s the hunt, the seduction, the stalking, the choice. But all of this was ‘Before’. And now you are wondering, ‘before what?’
Let me ask you a question. What do you think causes evolution? Of a species, of a planet, of a person? Because that’s the true question in life. What can possibly happen that forces us to adapt, to change, to reach a stage of metamorphosis? What causes creation to implode and evolve?
Do I dare tell you? Will I manifest my own resurrection or bring about my final destruction? But I promised to be honest, so I am compelled to confess, without artifice, about my ‘big bang’ moment…
Are you disappointed it was a man? I understand if you are. I know it’s utterly cliché, but the truth must be acknowledged and accepted.
After Mr Smith, my ego was reformed, my mask was always at the ready. I must say I’ve never looked back and thought, ‘if only’. Evolution from prey to predator is a wonderful transition few women are privileged enough to make. I consider myself highly fortunate.
Your new age gurus will tell you that in every life there are people who change us, and they have you believing it’s always for the better. Please tell me you’re bright enough to see through that lie. You’ve wandered into my life so let me be your guru and I’ll tell you the truth.
People don’t change us, they educate us. Mr Smith took away my hubris. Never again will I doubt that there are others out there like me, attempting to hunt me like I hunt them, but I’ve learned. Mr Smith was nothing if not an excellent teacher. Your average serial killer; they just like to kill people. Eventually they get caught and rot in jail. They aren’t true predators, certainly they are nowhere near the top of the food chain. Don’t get me wrong I’ve used more than one to my advantage. They are excellent scapegoats for when my proclivities get the best of me, but they are not like me. Mr Smith made sure of that.
I’m skipping ahead too quickly. We’ll get back to him I promise, but for now I have to ease you into my story, seduce you, as it were, and then back away, seduce you again. It’s a dance to teach you how someone like me destroys my victims, but rest assured I have no intention of destroying you.
I may leave you doubting your morality, leading you into the darkness, just to see if you will follow, to see how far I can take you before you begin to question your own sanity, but I promise I won’t do more than that.
Are you intrigued? Do you feel a frisson of excitement? Do you think I’m full of grandiose bullshit? Perhaps you are bored already, but I doubt it. What could be a more compelling read than finding out how a psychopath really sees the world? Oh, and the fact that I’m going to commit murder. Oh please don’t run and call the police. Don’t be that cliché. Rest assured anyone who dies during the course of my narrative deserves their fate. And for those of you who found me because some man broke your heart, you will most definitely want to stick around to see how my story ends.
But enough about that. Don’t you want to know what a psychopath does for a living? I’m not a coroner, if that’s what you were thinking. It’s actually a clever assumption as many of my brethren do end up in jobs that have to do with death. Police officers, doctors, and yes, funeral directors. A lot of us have branched out to wreak financial havoc in the world. Bernie Madoff ring a bell?
But I am none of those things. Would it amuse you to know that I am a psychologist? Isn’t that just delightful? You’d be surprised how many of us become therapists. It’s a free amount of ‘bat-shit crazy’ and we get paid to screw you up further. There couldn’t be a more ideal job.
That being said I have no idea why the majority of my clients end up in my office. The only thing wrong with them is their commitment to morality. My job would be completely unnecessary if people would relieve themselves of the word, ‘should.’ There isn’t a more limiting word in the English language. Self-help books will tell you never to say ‘can’t’, but the fact is people eventually figure out they ‘can’. It’s the ‘should’ that is insidious.
‘Yes, I can do it, but ‘should’ I?’ Should is an invention of control. Without all of the rules, without all of the ‘should’ or ‘shall not’ commands I’d never have any fun. Getting people to break with their fervent beliefs is one of my favorite things to do.
Do you want to know a secret? I’m a very special kind of psychopath. That’s not simply coming from my narcissistic personality disorder, which supposedly gives me grandiose ideas about my majesty. Do you want to know what’s special about me? What makes sociopaths and their ilk drawn to me like moths to a flame?
They can sense there is a small slice of humanity hidden in me, if you consider revenge human and I do. If I weren’t a psychopath, I might be considered kind, or at the very least, not homicidal. You see what my psychopathic peers sense in me is my righteousness, my need to right the wrongs of those who are evil. Killing just to kill has never made any sense to me. It’s so boring, but killing for vengeance…there’s such a delightful symmetry to it. And it suits my sense of the melodramatic. Sometimes right before I kill someone I swear I can hear swelling music accompanying the slice of my blade. Unfortunately, my need for the dramatic made me vulnerable and it was this vulnerability that led Mr Smith to me in the first place.
Mr. Smith…even with the mundane name I’ve assigned to him I still feel his strength. Back then he was stronger than me, so much stronger. I always knew Mr Smith would return. Men like him can’t resist coming back to the scene of the crime, but he should have stayed away. He knew me when I was young, but he recognized my potential. Even to this day, with all of my experience, I can’t imagine the thrill he felt when he met me, someone so naive, so unaware of what was about to happen to her. I was his Pygmalion’s statue, his Eliza Doolittle. He took a vessel, created something beautiful…and I hate him for it.
Well, technically I hate him because he seduced me, debased me, destroyed any vestige of a soul I might have once had, and then threw me away like garbage. But why argue trivialities.
I was in awe of him. When he walked into the cafe where I was studying, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Dark hair, piercing grey eyes, the swagger of the truly blessed. Our eyes met across the room and I felt enveloped in every sense. There was nothing but him. He smiled and held his hand out. When he touched me I felt my body evaporate. I sound like a doe-eyed school girl and in many ways I was, but how could I know he would almost destroy me. I’m a predator, not clairvoyant.
Awe is a strange sensation. I’d never felt it before and I’ve certainly never felt it since. It makes you forget who you are. It creates the illusion that you are somehow ‘less than.’ Awe is how he seduced me. It’s how he kept me a prisoner in my own mind. He broke me slowly, as all psychopaths do.
First he made me feel like the most amazing creature on the face of the planet. It wasn’t such a difficult thing to do. His praise felt real to me because I already felt special. By the time he encountered me I’d already experienced a lifetime of praise, for my beauty, for my intelligence, for my wit. (Note kindness and humility didn’t make the list)
Compliments weren’t enough. To win me he needed something and he found it in my absolute love of sex. When he discovered that, when he discovered just how much I needed it, he began to deny me what I desired most. Of course, this was after we’d had the most passionate, lust-driven sex I’d ever experienced. Imagine two beautiful people, with overblown egos and an absolute love of their bodies having sex, all the time, for hours. We were insatiable and then one day he just stopped. He denied me all access. That was the beginning.
Looking back, at all the things that shock me about that time it’s that I allowed such pedestrian methods to manipulate me. I was young, yes, but still, that I could be so needy.
Perhaps you think I should give Mr. Smith a pass, but that is not at all realistic. Deny me access? No one denies me access to anything, especially not a man. He has to pay for the ‘lessons’ he taught me. And I am a very, very good student, a fact he will soon come to realize.
There is something about being destroyed that is very therapeutic. Had Mr Smith not entered my life I may never have learned my true strength. I may have lived my entire life only manipulating others and what a pity it would be if he hadn’t forced me to evolve.
But I must not tell you everything just yet. My tale takes time. There is simply more for you to learn before I divulge all of my secrets. There are layers, as it were, and you need to understand me first. And heaven forbid you think my story is all about a man. That would be beyond pathetic. Men already assume it’s all about them. I certainly have no intention of adding to that particular myth.
I must confess I hadn’t expected writing to be so difficult. How do I pace the story of my life? Much like a perfect orgasm it needs time to build. There will be time enough to tell you about my sexual proclivities. First, I must tell you of my early years.
With me you must accept this will not be a linear tale. I dislike lines and one-directional thinking. This should not be confused with a lack of focus. I just find always heading in the same direction without any deviation from the route to be rather tedious. Now that these things have been clarified I can continue with my tale. So, back to the ‘almost’ beginning.
I always find it funny when people talk about the innocence of childhood. Haven’t you learned yet that the adults of this world always ruin it? A child could seemingly stay innocent forever if it wasn’t for daddy needing to bang every cocktail waitress within a 30-mile radius, or mommy’s obsession to stay young, thereby ignoring her child’s pleas of ‘play with me’, and instead running to her latest spa appointment. And that is in a ‘normal’ family. There are other adults who deliberately play at destroying innocence, the child molesters, the alcoholics, the abusers, all of whom ruin their children because it makes them feel less pathetic.
Of course, my favorite is the good parent. They have a particular brand of cruelty, which stems from their need for adulation. Parents take on the child’s skill as an extension of themselves, guaranteeing that said child has no self-worth because his or her skill has been appropriated by the parent.
‘See, this is my son. He’s an excellent quarterback. Of course, I played when I was young. I could have gone pro, but I decided to go into business for myself. See, his arm, how he throws, that’s from me.’ And on and on, until the child is guaranteed to think he is nothing but an appendage to his father’s greatness.
I’ve got you thinking, haven’t I? Do you wonder what kind of parents raise a psychopath? Do you have some image of deranged individuals, an alcoholic father perhaps? Ugh, I wish my parents had been that interesting. They were very ‘nice’ people. Raging narcissists normally are. Normally their lack of any type of personality would have made them prime targets for my skills. I could have lied to the police and said I was being abused. My acting abilities were certainly up to the task, but foster care held no appeal and I think one shouldn’t give into every impulse, especially when it might prove to be detrimental to one’s own comfort. I am nothing if not pragmatic.
My father worked constantly. He did something with insurance. If he were any more white collar he would have been bleach. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, a misnomer really, as she was never home. Lunches and charities, that was what she did. Both of them were exceedingly proud of my beauty and would drag me to various events to show me off. That’s what narcissists do. They show you off, like a trophy. As long as I stayed in my role they were both happy. I played the dutiful daughter and amused myself observing the lascivious looks given to me by the husbands of my mother’s friends.
So, yes, my childhood was normal, with the exception of the time my friend’s stepfather drank himself to death. I wouldn’t say his death was my fault, but it’s surprisingly easy to attain 130 proof alcohol; even more surprising is how quickly it can kill a man. I just kept refreshing his glass. He’d been raping my friend for years. Could there be anything more cliché than a man who diddles his stepdaughter?
Even before Mr Smith’s intervention, even when I still retained a modicum of normal human empathy, I never tolerated bullies. At fifteen I felt my friend’s pain. Standing always on the edge of my psychopathy allowed me to help end her torment. I’m never sure if anyone suspected. I think my friend might have known what I’d done, but she never said a word. I’d spent the night and called the police the next morning.
Always a supreme actress I cried on cue. The police officer in charge took one look at my face covered in tears and immediately called the corpse a ‘bastard’ for doing this to such an innocent child. Honestly, it’s amazing I didn’t break into laughter right then, but I’ve always had a healthy sense of self-preservation, and unequivocally every action I take is well thought out.
My parents sent me to a therapist to deal with the ‘trauma’. And yes, two things happened. First, I discovered I should be a therapist. What a great job, getting to manipulate people all day. And two, I really enjoyed lying to my therapist. I finally felt I had a mental challenge, lying to someone who might actually know what I was up to. But alas, she proved herself incapable of outwitting a teenage girl. I was disappointed and exhilarated at the same time. I often think it was in this moment my sense of whimsy really took hold. My life has been lived in a strange dichotomy ever since. It’s another myth that psychopaths don’t feel joy. It might be a different kind than humans feel, but joy at duping another person is still joy.
At school they tested me. Would it surprise you to know that I’m brilliant? It shouldn’t. I’m the perfect predator. Of course, I’m not stupid. Besides, only the dumb psychopaths get caught. The rest of us walk around among you. Think about that the next time you yell at Kevin for stealing your yogurt at work. I’ve certainly destroyed a man’s entire sense of self for lesser infractions.
When I went to college on a full scholarship I majored in psychology. I couldn’t get away with saying I wanted to help people. I could trick people into believing a lot of things about me, but overwhelming empathy wasn’t going to be one of them. So I told everyone I was determined to figure out the ‘why’ of people.
I’ve always known some people sensed something was ‘off’ about me. Figuring out the ‘why’ convinced people I knew I was odd and was trying to improve myself. That’s the thing about predators. We know how to camouflage ourselves. I learned early on to never try to ‘prove’ a negative. Lean into the things people find odd about you. It will convince them of your normality. That’s all the human mind wants to do. It likes to find the pattern among similarities.
I’ll give you an example to make you understand. Dogs hate me. Yes, it’s probably because they know what I am and more power to the dogs. I loathe them as well. It’s a mutual hate-hate relationship, but the one thing you can absolutely never say is that you hate dogs. You can’t even say you’re not a dog person. Even that makes people see you differently and trust me, as a psychopath you need to do everything you can to seem normal. The mask must be kept in place at all times. So, what do I do? Oh come on, you can guess it. What does every skinny girl in this day and age say about gluten?
Yes, oh yes, it is the get out of jail free card when it comes to not eating carbs and getting away from the slobbering creature that is the modern house dog. Really, what you find appealing about these needy, overly enthusiastic, dumb creatures is beyond me. The point is that my allergy, fake as it might be, everyone understands. I used to say I was afraid of dogs, but then you always get the asshole who says, ‘But you just don’t know my Grover. You’ll love him.’ The allergy always works because I get to say, ‘I’m so jealous you get to have a dog. I can’t because of my severe allergy.’ This accomplishes two things. One, people like when others are jealous of them, and two, I get sympathy, which causes bonding and guarantees they won’t ever let their dog get near me.
Why all the subterfuge, you ask? Because when a dog doesn’t like a person, when the dog growls and the hair stands up on his neck, the dog owner instinctively knows you are bad. People trust their dog’s instincts more than they trust their own. Ironically, I actually have to agree with the dogs on this one. They are right. I am an evil predator. So, I create the allergy story, to create the pattern, that the human mind can accept as true. The truly great of us can be your girlfriend, get caught having sex with your brother and still convince your mind that you’re not seeing the truth.
There was something about me that didn’t quite match up with the other kids.
I could walk into a room and know exactly what every person was feeling and yet have no connection with feelings of my own. My emotions came with their own switch. My ability to turn them on and off was something I considered to be an asset, not a disorder. I was bubbly and well-liked. The ability to be the shiniest penny in the room was a skill I’d learned from my mother. Back then, if I’d seen me, I would have understood exactly why Mr Smith targeted me. I was like the people I target now. The brighter the star the more I’d be determined to have it. Of course, back then, even before my true nature was coerced from me I subconsciously did some targeting of my own. My narcissistic background ensured that I would need a constant supply of admiration from people I felt worthy. My darker, as yet undiscovered side, went after bullies as well. I really do hate them.
College was an education on many levels. I discovered sex, which to say it completed me would be an understatement. Sex was a surprise. I hadn’t expected it to mirror so closely the lust I felt for control (and on rare occasions, killing). But the anticipation, the seduction and the release were in perfect symmetry. Most psychopaths take years to develop a signature, but for me sex was everything. That I could seduce anyone if I just used the right tactics was an amazing high.
I enjoyed sex quite frequently. I had some prerequisites for my lovers. Physical beauty was foremost, not only because I enjoy it, but it was expected. As any narcissist will tell you, we may not follow the rules, but we do like to control our image.
My second necessity was ability. I chose who I manipulated carefully and I couldn’t possibly kill all of my lovers, (who has that kind of time) so when I knew all I wanted was a night of fabulous sex, I listened when others talked about their experiences. When I heard a rumor about a lover, I quickly made myself known. It’s amazing I had any time left for my studies.
But even with my sexual cravings satiated on an almost daily rate, the lust to ‘control’ was never far from my mind. I did say earlier that I don’t kill everyone. Aiding and abetting can be equally exhilarating, if not more so. And I am not one to ignore my instincts. One of the reasons I chose my school was because it was near three others. I knew I’d need a large hunting ground if I wanted to avoid getting caught. I needed universities in different counties so the police departments wouldn’t be quick to put together a rash of suicides. Still, a few too many slit wrists might get people talking in a way I didn’t need.
And now we’re coming to the part of the story you may not like so much. You see, while I may not always kill people, I’m not above enticing them to do it themselves. I’ve heard it described as narcissistic rage, except in my case my ‘rage’ was always under control. I’m not sure I was always aware of what I was doing back then. Certainly now when I exact any sort of revenge it is with a clear purpose, but back then I merely felt justice needed to be served.
I certainly recognized my ‘people’ in some of my victims. Narcissists and bullies abound on college campuses. When I chose my victims I always investigated them first. It wasn’t hard. I’m someone to whom people always share their darkest secrets and I enjoy poetic justice.
My targets were the all-American frat boys who forced their pledges to drink themselves to death, or used alcohol to date rape women. Daddy’s money could protect them from prosecution, but not from me. I especially liked to target the boys who were ‘legacies.’ If you don’t know, a ‘legacy’ is a boy who automatically gets into a fraternity because his father or grandfather was a member. If there is a less noble way to join a group I have yet to find it. I simply have no use for those without merit.
The girls I chose from the inexhaustible pool of ‘mean girls’ which permeate every college campus. I especially enjoyed manipulating one girl who had caused her roommate to commit suicide. It was my own version of romance. I avenged a suicide by staging one of my own. In this particular instance I enjoyed the image of myself as an avenging angel.
You find me cruel, I’m sure, but ask yourself this. What was more cruel… a girl killing herself after I made her feel worthless or the fact that she’d caused her roommate to hang herself after photos of her having sex were posted online, by none other than my ‘victim.’ Really, all of you should pay more attention to the old testament. An eye for an eye, boys and girls. That’s my personal belief system. My college years were practically founded on religious doctrine, well except for the sex part. Like everything in life, religion is only useful when it serves my purpose.
Soon, I’ll tell you how I inveigled my way into their minds, but not yet. There’s more for you to learn first. After graduation I created a highly successful life for myself. I moved to Chicago, opened a practice., was studying for my Ph.D. All was going fine and dandy. It was the perfect life, and then HE happened.
I will tell you about HIM next time. Mr. Smith is, after all, the reason I am me. I hate to give that much power to a man, but it is true, whether I want to give him the credit or not.
I will say good-night now. Tomorrow, the catalyst for my particular story will be introduced…
Until then… Sleep well.
Goodnight from your friendly neighborhood psychopath…