Duality

A psychologist who's core beliefs are shaken to their center. A murderous boy convicted of a shocking crime. One room. And at the center of it all- and all of us- a dark duality that defines us all.

May 4th, 2012

              

Occasionally, as we wind our way down the twisting and uncharted stream we call life, we will come across a fellow traveler who is so inscrutable that one cannot gain even the slightest bit of insight into their mind. Today’s patient was one such individual. Curious, to say the least. Very curious, indeed. I find myself here now, writing by the mild yellow light of my study and watching the flickering glow emanating from the fireplace swirl through the glass of wine in my hand as thoughts and contemplations pertaining to the oh-so-delicate nature of human knowledge dance a ponderous waltz through my mind.

                The inception of the afternoon’s session was quite innocuous and routine, no different than my first encounter with any of the other children I’ve worked with over the years. His name was Mark Beauchamp, 16, of slight build with a long curtain of straw-blonde hair that looked as if its unkempt state had been its familiar since long before the events that had recently conspired within this boy’s life- something that could undoubtedly not be said of the heavy lines underneath his eyes or the heavy slouch he wore as he sidled into my office with his head hung low and his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his Levis. Handsome, I suppose, though not in your typical teenage football-star way. He was the sort of boy that would easily be lost amongst the crowded throng of students in a high school hallway, melting away into the sea of faces as effortlessly as a single flower in a blossoming garden.

          He crossed the thin carpet with his head down the whole time, never even glancing at me in my leather armchair, legs crossed and clipboard in hand, not even pausing to choose between the chintz chair and the crimson sofa. To my mild surprise, he went directly to that old cartoonist’s standby, stretching out with a deep, trembling breath and crossing his arms behind his head as he lay flat out upon the couch. I noted this with some interest- most patients wouldn’t even take a second look at the thing, put off by the cliché nature of it combined with the position of submission it put them in when compared to myself.

He looked up at the ceiling in stoic silence, I at him. Waiting. Waiting for him to say something. I took advantage of this time to straighten out my smile, putting my thoughts into order in preparation for what was to come. His face, lined with resignation, was not that of a killer, but that of a tired and weary soul who had been tossed about like a piece of wreckage upon the malignant sea of life and had for far too long managed to weather the adverse tides. Despite my better judgment, I allowed myself a small allotment of pity for the boy, though it was quickly washed away with the remembrance of what he had done.

I was finally about to shatter the quiet when he turned, propping himself up on one elbow and casually brushing the hair out of his eyes so he could look at me. The expression on his face was one of almost imperceptible pleading mixed with an emotion I was well acquainted with when dealing with subjects such as Beauchamp- regret. Not for the sin for which he was here, of course, but for the fact that he had been attributed with that same sin and made to be held accountable for his atrocities. But it wasn’t the look he was giving me that sent me reeling back into reticent observation of his person- it was those two circles set within it.

They were unlike any eyes I had ever seen, caught in a purgatory between life and death. They were the eyes of a corpse, a dead man who had severed all ties, emotional and otherwise, with the world in which he existed… but in some dastardly paradox of design, they also blazed with a fiery green luminescence brighter than even hell’s most ravishing flames. It was as if there were two minute emerald supernovas within, but masked behind heavy smoked glass.

Those were not eyes, but dams, holding back a roaring deluge of emotion that would, if set free, flood everything in its path with hurricane force. 

We looked into each other’s eyes for a period of time that was undoubtedly much briefer than it felt, his penetrating mine and me trying with all my might not to look away from those alien orbs.

          Finally, I broke that optical connection, looking down at the information on the clipboard. Regaining my composure, fixing my patented-don’t-worry-I’m-a-buddy-I’m-a-pal smile back on my face. I took a deep breath of which he paid no mind, trying to simultaneously ignore the temporary breach in my composure and puzzle out why such a thing would happen anyway. I have been a counselor for seven years now, working with children such as this, but I had not felt such a disturbance since that first year, when the grey in my hair had been scarce and I wore my naïveté upon my lapel.

          “Mark Beauchamp, is it?” I asked, pleased to hear that there was no shakiness in my voice. I leaned forward in my chair, extending my free hand for him to shake. “My name’s Dr. Richard Trimble. My friends call me Rich.”

          As he looked down at my hand, barely discernible contempt crept into his features, and when he spoke, his voice carried an undercurrent of bitterness completely unrelated to the look of utter despondency that he had worn up until this point.

 “Well, Dr. Trimble,” he said, and I could hear that quiet yet blatantly perceivable hint of mocking condescension in his voice. “I don’t particularly care what your friends call you, seeing as I am neither counted amongst their undoubtedly miniscule numbers nor wish to be. I am well aware what you think of me, and I can assure you that my opinion of yourself is only marginally better. So let us drop these pretenses, shall we? I know why you’re here. You didn’t pursue a PhD in psychology to help people like me- you’re sitting there so sad sacks like my parents can line your pockets with money they barely have in the vain hope that you can somehow be of assistance. I am your ‘patient’, you are my ‘counselor’, so let us speak freely, unhindered by unnecessary falsity and feigned politeness.”

My fingers curled back as I withdrew my hand. I fought to bite back a retort, a battle I mercifully won. During my tenure as a teen psychologist, I had endured almost identical verbal assaults, and physical attacks that had been much worse- bites, gouges from fingernails, even urination- but something about the way the boy delivered his short yet venomous speech wormed its way into my emotions, stinging them in a way I knew was both unorthodox and absurd. Flustered and taken aback, I looked down at my clipboard, not because there was anything of particular significance there, but because I could not bear to look at those eyes. I felt quite certain that whatever ounce of regret I had read upon those features had been nothing but a trick of my own mind, desperate to relate something about this heteroclite boy to the world I was familiar with and understood.

When I looked up at Beauchamp, I blinked in surprise, scarcely believing how quickly such a transformation could have occurred. He was no longer staring at me with those unfathomable eyes, but was stretched out upon the red leather of the sofa, apparently watching the ceiling  fan whirl around and around in its infinite rotation. The regret had returned to his face, stronger, and I was sure of its existence this time. And it was mingled with something else: sorrow. And not the worthless, self-pitying sorrow I had seen so often, but genuine, empathetic sorrow. The sorrow one feels at the pain of another human being.

                “Mark?” I asked, and this time, there was no denying the slight tremble in my voice, however irrational it may have been. “Mark, are you alright?” The stupidity of such a question seemed secondary at the moment. What was wrong with me? What was it about this boy, much calmer than my previous encounters yes, but a boy nonetheless, that seemed to so disturb my normal routine? I had been almost universally met with one of two responses from those I worked with- willingness to talk, to pour it all out, to let the tears flow freely as they faced the consequences of their actions, or scorn. Naturally, Mark had fallen into the latter category- but it was different, somehow. The disdain he had shown me was not the superior derision that had been bestowed upon me by so many, c**k-sure that they had done no wrong and were simply being forced to undergo a gross injustice.

          To put it in the clearest terms I can, Mark Beauchamp was not insane. He saw into me as easily as I normally saw into my patients while blocking out whatever was going on inside of his own mind. I had spent so much time amongst the March Hares and the Mock Turtles that it was the lucidity with which I was confronted that presented more of a challenge than anything I had come into contact with in a long time.

          For those words that had emanated from his lips were true. I was not his friend, and I harbored no sentimental delusions of helping those that came into my office come to terms with their emotional distress. When he spoke of motivations, he was correct in stating that he represented little more than a paycheck- though not entirely accurate. I have long harbored a love for exploring the intricacies of the human mind, and such a career is the perfect outlet for this type of endeavor.

For a short while I was utterly convinced he would not answer, and when he finally spoke, all traces of emotion had left his voice, leaving it flat and mild. The emotions were there- I was sure of it- but masked, masked within those emerald eyes. He could not allow it to shine through in his speech. He couldn’t cause himself more pain than he already felt. That I could see clearly. “My girl. She was my girl. But it all fell apart in an instant, like a dandelion puff in the wind." He paused, and I knew he was somewhere far away, far beyond this world. The Twilight Zone, perhaps. For a brief moment, I entertained the thought of Rod Serling narrating the whole affair, standing behind me and speaking to the night’s audience. I resisted the ridiculous urge to look over my shoulder at the door and see if he was, in fact, standing there in his black suit, a barely perceptible smile on his features.

 "I didn't kill her, you see," Mark said, still lying back on the sofa and staring straight up at the ceiling. The calm in his voice was manically so- I could hear the infinitely subtle waver that was his own inner turmoil vibrating deep within his speech.

Beauchamp shook his head. "No, I didn't kill her. He killed her." For one short moment, his tranquility dissolved, and those bright green eyes began to crackle with the lunatic energy I had seen sealed within them. And then, then his melancholy air returned as quickly as it had left, and the boy was once more as placid as a pond on a warm summer's day. "You don't believe me," he said, turning his head ever-so-slightly to look at me. "I know that. I can see it in your eyes, in the lines on your face.”
           Mark turned fully to look at me now, and I did my best to meet his gaze with equal equanimity. The ghost of a smile seemed to flicker upon the boy's thin lips. Those eyes once again began to heat up, a web of thin cracks running through the irises and letting through some of what was masked beneath. Feeling crept into his voice once again, and he began to speak in the same condescending tone he had used previously. "I may not have a PhD in human psychology, Dr. Trimble, but if you would be so kind as to oblige me, I would like to wax philosophical for a short while.

"You see, Doctor,” he said, enunciating the last word with the utmost disparagement. “None of us are as in control as we would like to think we are. There is another side, Doctor. Another side to us all. In most cases, he remains caged by the soul, trapped deep within our subconscious. But he is always fighting to escape, scrabbling at the bars of his prison. And sometimes, no matter how hard we fight to deny it, Doctor, he shines through. He’s the one that laughs wildly when some teenage sexpot gets carved up by the guy with the chainsaw in a low-budget slasher flick. He’s the one that watches in morbid fascination as an earthquake that killed thousands flashes across the evening news, drawing some sick satisfaction from each mangled corpse buried beneath the rubble. He’s the one that fuels our obsession with pain and death, something that we’ve possessed since the dawning of our species.”

The smile became more pronounced as he spoke. He sat up, that gleaming fervor I had seen hidden within those inscrutable eyes showing through more and more. "Of course, you don't take any of this seriously, do you? I'm crazy, remember?"
But despite the insanity, the complete absurdity of it all, I could not truthfully look at the boy before me and call him insane. By all rational accounts, he was as nutty as a drunk squirrel, as my mother had once said. But I didn’t believe that. I don’t believe that, even now as I sit here, sipping Chardonnay of a less than satisfactory vintage and growing increasingly weary and susceptible to the effects of said brew. But I must finish. I must record these things now, while they are still fresh, before I simply discard them as the fevered remnants of a stress-filled consciousness and leave these considerations behind.

He swept the hair out of his eyes and began to speak again. “Your whole life, your whole career, all your studies… they all mean nothing, Doctor. The human mind is a worthless thing. The brain, for all of its astoundingly intricate workings, is nothing but a vessel. A vessel, doctor, for our souls. The soul, not the mind, it the true source of our being. And our soul is a battleground. A bloody warzone where two separate beings, two beings who we think of as one, fight for dominance. In most cases, I believe, the side we would think of as ‘good’ wins out. For the most part, I believe, we are able to keep our darker side incarcerated. Imprisoned.”

He paused again. “How do you know these things, Mark?” I asked. My voice was trembling. I was trembling. Somehow, these things he was saying, these preposterous, impossible things, felt true. “Tell me how you know these things.”

           He ignored me, continuing on with his explanations as if I had never spoken.

"But sometimes," Mark said, and now those eyes were flaming gems, the depths of apparent lunacy held back by only the thinnest of veils. "Sometimes, doctor, he escapes. He escapes to the forefront, and he becomes the dominant one, and we end up with the Mansons, the Hitlers, the Jack the Rippers. Sometimes, Dr. Trimble, he wins."
           He lapsed into an awkward silence, and I tried to gather my thoughts. I met with limited success, as evidenced by my ability even now to make sense of them.  Mark sat there, not talking, and the madness slunk away from his eyes, leaving them the dull and lusterless color of pine needles. When he spoke again, he had reverted to his former, apathetic state. For this, at least, I was grateful.
              "When I was younger, Dr. Trimble… I don’t know, eleven or twelve, I think… anyways, it doesn’t matter. So when I was younger, I would have these… well, I guess you could call them episodes. I would get violent. I can’t explain it, really. It was like I was somebody else. Now… now I know that I really was. There was one incident in particular that sticks out in my mind. Our neighbors, the Joneses, had this cat. Stupid, scrawny thing, with scraggly fur and a gimp leg. They called him Mr. Cuddles, God knows why. Probably their kid’s name for it. One day, I was riding my bike home from my friend Jimmy's house, when I saw the cat sitting there on the side of the road, licking its dirty haunches. There had been incidents before, but this was by far the worst. Before, it was just bugs, or birds, or one time a chipmunk that managed to get trapped in our garage. But this…

 I- or I should say he- got off my bike, and then picked up a couple of sharp rocks from the side of the road. I was scared. I didn't know what I was doing. It was like being possessed. I was looking through my eyes, seeing what he was seeing, feeling the hard, jagged surface of the stones in my hands, feeling what he was feeling, but I couldn’t stop it. I heard myself begin to laugh, and then felt my arm whip forward as he chucked one of the rocks at the cat. And then another. And another, until finally Mr. Cuddles was only a bloody lump of fur and flesh lying dead on the curb. I was in the back seat and he was at the wheel, and his foot was flat on the gas. I watched in horror at what he did, powerless to stop him. I was just along for the ride. When it was all over, I stood there, panting, and it felt like someone had buried a meat cleaver in my head. I threw the damn thing into a nearby sewer grate and rode home as fast as I could. So one ever suspected me.

And he was gone. For a little while, at least.”
           Mark stopped, closing his eyes. His voice was as flat and hollow, but now I could see small diamonds begin to shimmer in his eyes as he unconsciously began to cry. He took a deep breath, and then resumed his story.

"He- the other one- came back the night after Prom. Me and Shannon… well, we got in a fight. I don't remember what it was about. I know it was something stupid. Sex, maybe. I dunno. I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. The whole night's a blur, now. Anyway, I could feel it. I could feel him as he slipped slowly into the front seat, feel him relishing his chance to let loose all that bloody hatred that had lain dormant for all those years. He hit her. I hit her. She cried, she begged, she screamed for help, but he… we… wouldn't stop hitting her. I wanted to scream. Every blow that my fists  laid upon her was like a blow to me. She was my girl. My girl.
             "She ran away, all the way back to her house, her dress in tatters. He ran after her, called her a b***h and a… worse things. I called her worse things. I was horrified at what he had done. What I had done.”

He was a miserable sight, and a shard of pity slipped into my heart for the boy… for that is what he was. A boy. A boy who was lost and confused and bearing unimaginable pain. A boy with a monster within him. The same monster, perhaps, that lies within us all. I started to speak, but he interrupted me.
             "The next day, at school, I tried to talk to her. She wouldn't even look at me. No one would. No one would look at me. They all knew. Even my friends… when I tried to talk to them, they found some excuse to drift away. I felt dirty. Diseased. Contaminated. Some of us, Doctor, can’t keep him caged. I’m weak. I’m pathetic. I passed her in the hallway and saw that her eye was black. I felt terrible, as if I had been the one to beat her. Because, I know, deep down, I was. I am him, and he is me. We are one and the same. Two halves of one coin. It is this duality that defines us all, and no amount of pitiful denial will change that. I knew then that it was over. And so did he.”
             "That night, I was lying in bed, flipping through the channels, when it happened. He sat up, turned off the TV, and went downstairs. I tried to stop him. I knew what he was going to do. But of course, I was powerless. Like I said… I’m worthless. I’m weak. He took a knife from the kitchen and walked outside, blade gleaming silver in the moonlight. I felt the cool plastic of the hilt clutched within my hand. His mind- our mind- was filled with anger and bloodlust. And hunger. Insatiable hunger. Her father wasn't home. He took the key from beneath the place she had shown me, shown me when she loved me, beneath the welcome mat, and we went inside."

“She was lying in her bed,” he said, tears streaming now. “We… we… I… us… we sunk the knife deep into her wrist, twisting it in the wound, and then yanking her from the bed.” He swallowed hard. “I raped her.” He stated it bluntly, nakedly, and I looked into his face to see a sorrow and pain I could scarcely begin to comprehend. “I raped her, Rich,” he said. “And I enjoyed it. I laughed when she screamed. I laughed.”
           Slowly, discretely, change began to seep into his voice, and the light that danced within his eyes was different, this time. This was not the sorrow I had seen before, but a sick and poison delight. He sat up straight, looking at me. I felt my heart speed up, felt cool fear wrap me in its lover’s embrace.
           "I fucked her good, Doc, I fucked her wild,” the dark side said. “And when I was done, I killed her," he smiled, his face splitting into a wide grin replete with shockingly white teeth  "I stabbed her. I watched the blood pour out of her breast in a crimson ribbon, and, oh, how I laughed." He stopped, letting out a childish giggle. "And I didn’t just stab her… I mutilated her! I ripped that b***h to shreds. How she screamed! How she shrieked!" he exclaimed, his voice rife with glee. "It was like f*****g Beethoven, Doc, that’s how great it sounded. She was his girl, but now she ain't no one’s girl. She's dead, doctor. Dead as old Jacob Marley, dead as a doornail, dead as King Tutan-f****n'-khamen. She's gone, Doc, and he's gone, too." He giggled again, enjoying his own private joke. I was frozen in place by the horrific demon before me. Here was the monster at last, brought to the forefront for the whole world to see. This, I thought, frantically. This is what lives inside us all. This. This was no unique phenomenon, a fluke in one boy’s psychology. Here was the essence of what it really meant to be a human being, brought to the forefront by a crack in one boy’s psychological barricade.

"He's gone, she's gone, hey-hey, that rhymes, so what the hell, it's just as well…" His grin widened even more as he saw the look on my face. "Could that be fear I see, Doc?" he inquired sardonically. "I assure, you, there's no need to be afraid. I’m only as sane as the rest of us. Granted, that’s not saying much- this is one sick, fucked up world we live in, isn’t it?”

That was when the laughter started. It was high, mad, raucous sound. It was the way one might expect Satan himself to laugh, surrounded by his demonic underlings within the depths of his hellish domain. That cackle stretched out into eternity, dragging me into madness, pulling me under, until finally I thought I would simply crack from the pressure. Somehow, in an instant of boundless mercy, the gales of morbid and macabre glee subsided into sobs, and the grin left the fiend’s face until he was once again only a boy. Lost, confused, and ready for his hell to end. He sobbed and whimpered for a few minutes before speaking the last words I heard him speak before he left my office.

"She was my girl, Dr. Trimble," he said, and his voice was brimming with unbound mourning. "My girl. My girl."

So here I sit, and I conclude the day’s events. What I witnessed today…  I have not done justice to what I saw and felt- it would, I believe, take a writer far beyond my mediocre skill to truly convey what I have felt. I am after all, a psychologist, not an author… but even that means nothing now. As I sit, watching the embers of the fire subside like the light in the boy’s eyes, the world outside swathed in a cloak of darkness, I feel him. I feel him in the back of my mind… deep within my soul, if such a thing does indeed exist…

And as I stare into the face of an unfathomable world, trying in vain to somehow make sense of my own existence, of my own ability to think and feel and what that ability could possibly mean… I feel an inexplicable urge to laugh.

Author's Note

So, this is a heavily re-cut, re-edited version of the story I wrote last summer. I personally like it much better. Agreed? Disagreed? Thoughts are highy appreciated.

Reviews

[A. Bennett]

I couldn't stop reading once I began and I love that about your writing. It draws the reader in quickly and never loosens its hold on one's attention. The writing devices you use are used sparingly enough to impress each and every time, and are written masterfully. The way you describe Mark is great; descriptive but not overwhelmingly so and that goes for the emotions as well.
There really isn't anything I could suggest in way of improvement. It's a fantastic piece of writing and I rather like it.

[Shep]

This was absolutely brilliant. Wow! What a ride. It held me griped to the page losing myself through words, the madness. I beloved every word to be true from the beginning to the end; it remind me of a dramatic interruptions called Found a Button. Absolutely Brilliant. The only error I found is listed under House Keeping: I can’t wait to see your other works. Welcome to the Group.


House Keeping:

He’s the one that fuels our obsession with pain and death, something that we’ve possessed since the dawning of our species.(“)

[TheSweet]

Hmm, I feel awkward about writing this review after reading the previous comments - but I'm going to be honest and give suggestions for improvement with no intention of being harsh - because there are lots of problems in this piece, via both content and writing.

I would enjoy this piece if I knew what it was. The name duality seems quite fitting, as the writing doesn't seem to know what it is either. The tence seems to change from narrative voice, to formal report or just an explanation of events, saying and not showing - I think it needs nailing down to a style. It is explained in the end that he is writing in a journal? Is this a personal journal, or a professional journal? In which case, you either need to make it completely informal - giving the doctor more personality, or completely formal, explaining the situation professionally. The fact that you've implied that he's written the 'story' seems odd that he can remember what the boy said word for word after three bottles of wine.

Also, the doctor seems to lack much professionalism from the very start. As much as the speech may be quite shocking, the doctor would not drop his guard. The doctor will have notes on why the patient is there, and the idea of a split personality would have been suggested. It cannot be more worrying or difficult than the patients that tried to attack him; a much less formal verbal attack would be quite common in his line of work. I recommend reading any version of Equus by Peter Shaffer (if you have not already), to show the subtle nature of how a psychologist may likely act to a very difficult patient. That way you can show it rather than say it.

Of course, my next confusion after thinking of this last point was that this might be a fiction and therefore just a story - by which is confusing as occasionally the peice (like at the end) is worded as if to strike thought and question the human psyché. This means it needs to be more obvious which it is. To back-up this point, a single speech from someone with dissociative identity disorder is never going to make a PhD psychologist change his mind (I'm sure you must realise this), yet he still seems to instantly see fear and assume the existence of a soul.

This is not to say I dislike this piece, I like the idea - if it was nailed down to a point. I love the character you've built with the boy, the speech is great from the character, but only if he is mental or higher fiction. If you emphasised the fiction aspect of it and took it away from professionalism it sould have potential. If you got rid of the doctor 'changing his mind' and emphasised the boy's dissociative identity disorder it has a lot of potential. If it was written as either a report style, or just suggested that it was being spoken into a voice recorder, making it for personal use and not professional, then it'd be simpler to make the point.

The whole agrument of the mind, body and soul is something I've covered and there is far too much depth in the arguement to pick a side without the research. So with this last point, I might be biased because of my specialist subjects - but a little research and a clearer view of what you're aim is here could transform this piece into something great for a wider audience.

The main lesson being to give more clarity on the point, idea and perspective of the piece and keeping it consistent. Thanks for sharing. My apologies for the epic review and if you think I'm being harsh.

[Dytalus]

This was a great piece. Very horrifying and disturbing to read, you did a great job of capturing the mood of the conversation. The doctor's fear was particularly well described. Excellent job!

[Guthamy]

Great I stayed interested the whole way through.I think you did a good job at conveying emotion. Good Job!

[Que]

This was absolutely fantastic. Incredibly well written, you really brought us into the psychologists shoes, living that moment with him.
Really great story, I absolutely loved it. It has great insight and displays the ideas perfectly, so much so that the reader can truly believe what is being said.
You might want to just reread it once more for there are some mistakes - careless ones (for example a verb etc).
Thanks for asking me to read this.
Cheers and have a good day.

[Sarah J. Mendonca]

Instantly the tone of the character draws you right in. The guy must be very creepy for him to get to the shrink. Shows immediately what kind of person we are dealing with. Glad I don't have his job.

[Larry Dyson]

The human mind is a worthless thing. The brain, for all of its astoundingly intricate workings, is nothing but a vessel. A vessel, doctor, for our souls. The soul, not the mind, it the true source of our being. And our soul is a battleground. A bloody warzone where two separate beings, two beings who we think of as one, fight for dominance. In most cases, I believe, the side we would think of as ‘good’ wins out. For the most part, I believe, we are able to keep our darker side caged. Trapped.”

He paused again. “How do you know these things, Mark?” I asked. My voice was trembling. I was trembling. Somehow, these things he was saying, these insane, impossible things, felt true. “Tell me how you know these things.”

He ignored me, continuing on with his explanations as if I had never spoken.

"But sometimes," Mark said, and the spark of madness was becoming more and more prevalent in his eyes, turning them into blazing gems, dancing with thinly-contained lunacy. "Sometimes, doctor, he escapes. He escapes to the forefront, and he becomes the dominant one, and we end up with the Mansons, the Hitlers, the Jack the Rippers. Sometimes, Dr. Trimble, he wins."

what a definition of dual personalities or possesion ..well done in the horror dept.

[Pauline Ramsey]

This was a really great piece! I love how you make the "boy" show that he is both minds and that there is a very fine lineseparating them. It really makes one think about what truly harbors inside of us. As you mentioned, we all encompass that sadistic evil side. We all, sometimes, wish something bad would happen to our enemies, or admire the terrible car accident, or even go as far as to watch television shows based on how people die! Your delivery of the story was spot on and it draws the reader in quickly, easily and keeps the reading tagging along until the end. Excellent execution of your talent and I, most certainly, look forward to seeing what else you can do. On a side note, I noticed a couple of mistakes here and there, minor details, but overall a fantastic piece!

[Allidog]

yeah its awesome bro