Diary of A Homicidal Teenager

Dear Diary,

     She had stood before me. Despite my desperate pleas for her to let me rest in peace, she always returned. I knew that I was to blame for her eternal suffering. Everyone had warned me not to disturb her rest, or mine would be forsaken. Yet, my curiosity had teemed with an unfamiliar desire to admit to the temptation. For I was taken the moment I had seen her.  

     I am normally outgoing and friendly to anyone. But lately, as I progress into manhood, the world has taken a sudden despicable twist on my perspective. No longer do the people I have come to know and love have the charm they used to. Everything is evil and dark now. The sun is still there, but it doesn't shine. My neighbor's children shrill laugh still echo throughout the block, but now it is hollow. Everyday has been incessant, with the empty cold that I seem to be wrapped in.

 

Dear Diary,

     My recurrent nightmares have aroused me in a cold sweat each dawn. Most I do not remember, but there is one which stays in my recollection constantly. It is of her. I tried to discuss my fear of these visions with my brother, but he couldn't see what I had intended. "Umm, little brother. I think you need to stop going to that house. It isn't good for your head. It is really unhealthy to have an obsession like that." , "What do mean by 'obsession'?", I could feel the anger swelling in my throat. My brother shifted in discomfort and said, "I'm not trying to attack you. I just am a little worried about you. There is no girl in that house, the last family who lived there... They died years ago. That girl you are talking to isn't real."

     That was the end of our conversation, I had thundered out of the house. I'm not entirely sure how long I was out, but the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. I traveled home in a daze, consumed by the fury I felt. It was almost as if someone had placed a bomb in me, and it grew larger and came closer to going off as I arrived home. My family was sleeping peacefully to the chirp of crickets as their lullaby. Entering my room, I stared at my brother. I admired how cool the butcher knife felt in my hand.

     I drove the blade into his throat. His eyes opened in shock. He looked at me. And I saw his eyes fade, I watched his body go limp. I watched as his body released his final breath. I was surprised how heavy he was. But I didn't mind. It gave me pleasure to toss his body into the hole I had tirelessly and emotionlessly dug. I felt no remorse. It was invigorating, the animalistic ecstasy I had felt while taking my sibling's life.

 

Dear Diary,

     It has been a week since my parents had found that their beloved child's bed was empty and drenched in his blood. After I had returned from disposing of the body, exhaustion had made me collapse upon my bed. The grieving shriek from my wretched mother had awoken me. That morning, the police investigated the case, questioned anyone who could know, and found nothing. I laughed in spite of my victory. A few hours later, I felt it necessary to visit her. She embraced me tightly and smiled up at me. I told her. Everything. She blinked, and I knew she did not understand. She did not understand that I had resolved the problem that was keeping us from story time.

     I sighed and opened up the picture book. It was Hansel and Gretel, the last fairytale book I had. So I hoped she would enjoy it. For some odd reason I could not understand her. She got excited at the thought of a candy house, her hands moved excitedly. It was how she communicated. Her face animated whatever she was saying. A look of annoyance flashed across her eyes and I laughed. She often did that when she knew I wasn't 'listening'. I've always thought this amazing considering she is blind. Immediately she snuggled up and nudged me. I assumed she wanted me to continue.

    "Then the evil witch...", we read for hours. However, an interruption came from my mother. My phone started to vibrate and vibrate and vibrate. I could almost see the worried tone in her texts. "Where are you?!?!?!". This infuriated me. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to go back to the evil world. I didn't want to be cold or angry or sad anymore. I just  wanted to stay here. I just wanted to stay here with her. We didn't need anything. Why can't I just stay?

     I could feel the tears streaming down my face. Christie looked worried. I  told her that I have to leave in her hands. She started crying too. I was angry at myself. But she kissed my cheek and hugged me one last time. On the walk home, I felt that frustration and hatred again. It was mother who had made me come home. It was her fault that Christie had started to cry. It was all her fault.

 

Dear Diary,

     My mother always drinks a ridiculous amount of coffee. She also sweetens it with mounds of sugar. And being the unusual lady she is, it was easy for me. Our cupboard is filled with Tupperware. Each containing cooking ingredients. Each clearly labeled. Maybe I didn't mention my mother is incredibly stupid, but she keeps a Pest Poison Control in a Tupperware container in the cupboard. She just made it so easy for me. I simply switched the labels on the sugar and poison.

     I got a lucky break, the sugar looks identical to that poison. She grabbed her sweetener and generously deposited spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her mug. I couldn't help a sly grin. I went into the cupboard to grab some cereal for breakfast, and switched back the labels. Pouring myself a bowl, my mother collapsed onto the floor. She was dead before the police arrived. While the head investigator was taking pictures, my father poured himself a cup of coffee. I looked up in amusement.

     They questioned me again, I could sense the unease in their voices. "Son, do you know what happened to your mother?" I responded coolly, "She died." They seemed stunned by my response. I overheard my father conversing with the officers about my mental health. I rolled my eyes. They dismissed the case as an accident. But the killer of my brother was yet to be found.

 

Dear Diary,

     In class, we were learning about a sociopath who lived a hundred years ago. And I found that we have a trait in common. No remorse. No guilt. Pleasure from the act. I wondered if this makes me a sociopath...

 

Dear Diary,

     I have spent more and more time with Christie. She relaxes me. I don't feel angry anymore, it is almost like I am back to my old self. But there is something different about her, and it is troubling me. She seems more tired than usual. And she doesn't laugh as much. But she says I am worrying too much.

 

Dear Diary,

     I have realized that writing down my thoughts in you is not as appealing as it used to be. I used to think of it as a way to release the pain inside. But now I am with Christie every waking hour. It seems useless now. Do you think I should keep it up for old times sake? 

 

Dear Diary,

     I haven't been keeping my promise of writing to you. But I feel that I need to now. It has been at least a month, and Christie's health was getting increasingly worse. Well, she died last night. Apparently, her parents had been giving her 'over the counter' prescriptions that weren't for her. I didn't even know it, but her body was attacking itself. They gave her too much pain killers, and her body couldn't take it anymore. She just stopped. That is the only way I can describe it.

     The funeral is today in the church. And now it seems like a big insult. No god ever saved her. She was such a beautiful person, and she had a terrible life. She didn't deserve to live that way. I miss her. I miss my Christie. I know what I am going to do. I am going to read her one last story, with all the doors locked, and a beautiful fire blazing in the hearth. But I know it won't be the same. I finish Hansel and Gretel once again while the sermon is said. I stand in front of the church.

     I blocked all the windows and doors, and set the church on fire. The sound of their screams sounded like music. And it reminded me with a smile of how Christie and I would play for hours. The heat doesn't bother me. And I barely even notice as the flames lick my body. My eyes close and I feel her tiny hand in mine. "See bro, I told you she was real..."