![]() Through the eyes of a psychopathA Chapter by hoganThrough the eyes of a
psychopath Neil was a
psychopath and a sociopath, as he referred to his little friends. His two little friends were initially
identified twenty years ago, when he was twelve years old. It was the chicken incident, which produced
the initial sparks, causing everyone close to him to realise he was not a
‘normal’ boy. His early childhood
memories were obscured behind a gossamer curtain, only allowing a diffused blur
of light, reflected off distant events, to illuminate the neural pathways of
recall. The incident of the chickens
though was clear, like a memory seen through a freshly cleaned window. The image reminded him of waking up late on a
cold frosty morning, rising out of bed and observing the millions of packets of
sunlight, reflected from the fine lattice of crystals coatings, adorning every
exposed surface. His father was a
teacher at the time and it was during one of the long school holidays, he
suggested they should spend a few days on his Uncle’s farm. It was there he carried out his
experiment. Early one morning he had
been sent down to one of the chicken runs, to collect freshly laid eggs for
breakfast. He entered the fenced area
and a cacophony of noise erupted around him from the hungry birds. When they found him, he was sitting on one of
the hutches, surrounded by over thirty decapitated chicken corpses, the plucked
heads still neatly piled by his feet in the silent run. He explained he was just carrying out an
experiment and the results were quite interesting, the higher up the neck you
broke off the head, the longer the headless body ran around. They took him to a
psychiatrist and he was given a long series of tests. It would have been quicker if they had simply
asked him, he could have told them he felt no guilt, in fact he felt nothing. Now he had a good
job, his own immaculate apartment and no criminal record. He was told he was highly intelligent and
worked diligently over many years to tame his two little friends. He knew that if anyone ever crossed him or
confronted him, he could, without hesitation, bring about the cessation of
their life functions, walk away and never think of it again. His strategies to move through life’s journey
were to avoid any personal relationships involving deep friendships or
emotional attachments. The recent phone
call had upset him, a client had berated him over an issue that was not to do
with him. He put the phone down and sent
a mental image of a fine steel wire, slowly forming into a coiled loop, the
loop descending over the man’s head and tightening rapidly. He pictured the fine steel wire biting deeply
into the soft tissues of the neck, the skin splitting and the essential
arteries being firstly chocked, then severed.
It helped, but he still felt angered and decided to walk home tonight. He found it helpful
to walk if he felt stressed, and tonight he picked a route that would take him
through a quiet residential area. The
walk would take over an hour, the repeated rhythm and solitude would subdue the
boiling anger. He turned into one of the
quieter side streets, ahead he made out the form of an old man facing a shadowy
figure. The silhouetted figure appeared
to be holding a knife to the old man’s chest.
As he moved closer, he observed the stooped figure of the old man hand
the knife wielder something. In the next
instant, he watched as the old man was punched in the face and kicked as he
fell to the ground. The figure with the
knife did not run, but walked away. He
ran towards the old man, who was moaning and obviously still breathing. He felt no sorrow or distress for the man
lying on the ground; he was now following his training. “Are you alright?”
he asked. “Just a bit winded,
he has taken my wallet, it’s got all my pension money in it, I need that money
to buy food,” whimpered the old man. “I will see if I
can catch him,” he heard himself say. The shadowy figure was still visible; he crossed the road and
matched the retreating man’s pace. He
observed the dark form disappear between two houses and as he approached the
vanishing point, he found himself looking down a dark pathway between the two
residences. Often he had walked past
curtained windows, illuminated by the back-light of those behind, lovers
sharing touches while watching a film, parents collecting scattered toys, the
aftermath of their children’s pre-nocturnal play. All of these imagined scenes would always be
off limits to him. He turned into the dark
and narrow passageway and strode forward. Ahead a street
light revealed the object of his pursuit. The man had stopped under the light
and was now in conversation with a second silhouette. He approached slowly and caught a few words
of the mumbled conversation. “How much?” “Is that all?” “He’s only a
pensioner, what do you expect the Queen’s jewels?” He could so easily move in, kill them both, take the wallet
and return it to the old man. Part of
his brain told him this was the right thing to do, but his training kicked
other thoughts into his mind. One has a knife,
you might not be quick enough and you may end up dead, the old man will
describe you to the police and they will become involved. That is how events would develop if he killed
them now. His medical records held all
the details of his two little friends.
As the thoughts raced around the track of his mind, he noticed a third
person approach the two figures under the street light. He watched, like a distant spectator in a back
row seat, as the third figure approached the other two. He watched the arm flash out, grab the hair
and drive the face, full force into the concrete floor. He watched as a foot accelerated hard into
the groin of the other, the second arm grabbed hair and hurled a second face,
towards a deforming collision against the man-made stone of the path. Now he could see the figure holding the
knife, in seconds the head of each fallen form was raised, a single slice of
the knife applied and the heads laid to rest, the unknown saviour then receded,
disappearing from his back seat view. He
approached the two fallen men; both were still alive, but barely. He had assumed their throats had been cut,
but now under the street light he could see the knife had been used to cut
deeply into the back of their necks. No
major blood vessels were severed, but the blade had cut into the spinal cord,
these two would die of suffocation. He
walked away and felt nothing. It was exactly a
week later, there were still some problems relating to the clients of John
Robinson. John was also part of the middle
management team, theoretically at the same level as himself. It did not work that way in his firm
though. The portfolios and
responsibilities of some middle-mangers were more important than others, and
John’s were several levels above his.
About three months ago John had failed to come to work one day. No one had seen him since. He had assumed John’s role and was still
picking up the pieces of his tawdry work.
He opened his E-Mail and quickly scanned through his in-box. One message caught his eye, it was from John
Robinson. “Dear Neil, by the
time you read this message I will be dead.
If you wish to know, I have been murdered. I want you to think very carefully and work
out who it is, who has murdered me.
John.” He thought about the
message briefly and decided it was a poor joke on some ones part; he decided he
would ignore it and make his way home. He left the office
and as it was a mild and quiet evening, despite the lateness of the year,
decided to walk home. He had only taken
a few steps from the well-lit façade of the entrance, entering the dark regions
just a few paces to the east, when he heard the voice, the instantly
recognisable croaking, of the throat burnt and wasted, by the years of strong
alcohol and inhaled narcotics, accompanied by unknown chemical mixtures, used
as a diluter and profit margin accelerator.
“You got any change
to spare sir?” He ignored the pathetic and tortured request. “You f*****g tight
b*****d, have some of my charity,” croaked the voice. The globule of projected spit and phlegm was
well aimed, as it made its initial contact just under his left eye. He felt the sticky pus like deposit start to
slither down his cheek, causing his brain to overload with the explosion of
methods he could use to bring about a long, slow and painful execution of the
projector of the slime, which was now slipping downwards, reaching the border
line of his lower jaw and crossing to enter the collar region of his neck. He stopped and turned
to look at the figure that had forced his mind to such turmoil. He hoped looking at the pathetic resemblance
of a man, would help him to apply his training and pull back from the impeding
abyss of slaughter, which was starting to ferment in him. He watched, fascinated, as a shadowy figure
walked up to the beggar and deftly applied some type of gag across his mouth, a
split second later a bag was pulled over the man’s body, stretching down to his
waist. The unknown figure guided the
parcelled down-and-out through a side alley, leading to the disused building
behind his office. He followed, keeping
a clear distance between himself and the abductor. He watched as the two shapes reached the main
door. He listened as he heard the sound
of keys strike against the resistances of a lock’s workings and the door
opened. He waited outside and then, as
he was about to follow through the door, left tantalizingly ajar, a dull light
appeared from a set of third floor windows.
The insipid, but warm light was just sufficient to remind him of the
existence of the fire-escape; it’s almost burnt orange picked out the geometric
forms of the vertical and horizontal railings.
He picked his way lightly up the fragile structure that gyrated gently
in time with his ascending steps. He
reached the large amber glow coming from the third floor window and focused his
vision through the reflective glass, filled with the images of distant, but
brighter reflected sources of hotter, whiter light. It took a few second to identify the scene he
was observing, it was in fact a reflection, in a vast mirror, covering the
entire wall at the end of the room. His memory murmured,
he had been taken on a tour of this building a few months ago, his company had
acquired it and intended to use it for the next phase of their planned
expansion. He vaguely remembered work was due to start sometime in the middle
of next year. He focussed on the mirror
and the images within it became clearer.
He could see the foul creature, which had spat so accurately, standing
against a wall. His eyes adjusted and he
could see the man was not standing, he was suspended, his arms outstretched,
held by some sort of restraints. Below
him was a large box, possibly made of plastic, his disconnected memory flashed
images of plastic boxes scattered throughout the disused building. Now he could see the other figure, he watched
in fascination as a long sharp blade began to draw dark strokes across the
suspended figure. The blade was used
deftly, not only did it separate skin, but after a few strokes the stained and
soiled apparel of the loathsome victim was separated from his equally stained
and soiled body. The process lasted
several hours, each cut was carefully measured to expose sensitive nerve
endings, but to avoid any significant channels, which carried the essential
fluids of life through the tortured carcass.
He watched, as the figure quivered and squirmed against the manacles
securing it, in its crucifixion pose. It was much later during the night, that
eventually the shredding of the epidermis produced the result, the internal
failure of the wretched creature’s organs.
The limp form was released from the wall and fell like wasted offal,
into the receptive plastic tank, offering eternal release from its last hours
of agony. He left, feeling nothing for
the victim, but admiration for the unknown figure. Over the following
week Neil could not remove the image of the shadowy stranger from his mind, he
felt perturbed by this, normally he spent very little of his mental energy
dwelling on other people. It was a week
tonight since he last saw the spectral assassin and he wondered if their paths
would cross again. He thought back to
the visit of the abandoned building behind his place of work, the stranger had
opened the door with a key; the keys should be secure in this building, down in
the basement. He made his way to the
janitor’s office which was housed in the bowels of the building, the white
painted breeze block walls, heavily contrasting with the swish interior
upstairs. He entered the janitor’s
office, but it was deserted. He knew
there was a book somewhere; it was used to keep a record of those who had used
the keys. On two previous occasions, on
a Monday morning, he had found his office door left locked by the cleaners who
came in on a Saturday morning. He pulled
open the top draw, of what had once been a high quality office desk, but now
had become a home for odd bits and pieces and a resting place for over-filled
tea mugs. There it was, he looked back
through the pages and felt numb. The key
had been removed late one morning and returned in the early afternoon, it had
been signed in his name. He looked at
the signature and judged it to be a good, but not perfect forgery of his own. He returned to his
office and answered the impatiently ringing phone. It was reception; Mrs Robinson was downstairs
and wanted to pick up her husband’s personal effects, would it be alright to
send her up. He recalled that John
Robinson frequently complained about his b***h of a wife, he had never met Mrs
Robinson, but she sounded like the proverbial dragon. When he moved into John’s office the abandoned
personal effects had been placed in a small box, which now laid collecting dust
in the bottom of his stationary cupboard.
He opened the door and picked up the dusty box, blowing the loose debris
free, before wiping it with his sleeve, which he then brushed the grey smudge
from. There was a knock on the door and
he called out, “Come in.” Mrs Robinson walked
through the door and proceeded towards his desk with the same over-stepped,
under-paced stride, used by models on a cat walk. Her over-sized and over-made-up eyes were
fixed directly at his pupils, reminding him of the stare portrayed in the
picture of the Mona Liza, this effect continued throughout her traverse of his
semi-executive carpet. She was coated in
a body hugging red dress, fairly high cut to the top, tightly containing her
long, exposed thighs at its bottom. He
quickly surveyed the dragon that had entered to devour him. Her dark brown hair glossed, as the highest
quality conditioners captured and threw back the packets of light, which were
being emitted by the florescent lighting illuminating his world. He could not tell her age, but the evidence
of emotional barrenness, indicated a Botox induced reversal of her true years. Her features were proportionally over-sized
and worked in harmony to produce the effect of allurement. He let his gaze fall slightly and analysed
the perfect symmetrical globes, which thrust the tightly moulded fabric of red
towards his face. He contemplated the
quantity of silicon and currency that had been invested in some cosmetic
surgeon’s sculpture. Finally his eyes
were diverted lower still, she now sat on the edge of his desk, so close, if he
leant forward ever so slightly several parts of his body, would make direct
contact with her raised and partly crossed-over leg. She had positioned herself in such a way that
his non-peripheral vision was filled, with almost the full extent of her inner
thigh. This was something he knew she
had practised and was an expert at achieving.
“You are so different
from what I imagined, John told me you were quiet, hard-working and kept
yourself to yourself. I imagined you to
be some little, spectacled and balding nerd of a man, but how wrong was I. Are you married?” As she spoke, her slightly deep and coarse
voice was accompanied by tiny droplets of warm spittle, which announced their
existence, by landing on his cheek. “No,” he replied. “Are you one of
those who have a string of girl-friends, waiting to be called and invited to
share your charms?” Once again the fine
trace of warm globules randomly stimulated the most sensitive nerve endings on
his cheek. “No, I have no
girl-friend,” he replied with honesty. “Please don’t tell
me your gay, so many gorgeous men are, it’s such a waste,” she edged slightly
closer and her smooth thigh delicately pressed on the back of his hand, his
shoulder was briefly nudged by one of her silicone engorged breasts, he felt
nothing. “No I am not gay, I
don’t have the time to meet people socially at the moment, but I am happy,” he
said dishonestly. “The weekend starts
now, I am sure you could find some time this evening, I have nothing planned
all weekend. Just a big empty void to
fill, perhaps you could help me fill it?” He looked at his
watch. “Your right, the
weekend has started a couple of minutes ago. I will get John’s things for you.” He hoped she would take the box and leave. “I have a little
note I need to write, it’s for someone special, have you a pen and a piece of
paper I could use?” He handed her a pen
and a piece of A4 paper, she paused and placed the top of his pen between her
full red lips, he watched as she rolled the silver button with her pink
tongue. She completed her writing and
folded the paper several times. He tried
to pass the box to her, but she did not take it, once again she directed her
heavily mascara adorned eyes directly into his. “It looks very
heavy to me, please will you carry it for me, I have a cab ordered and it will
be here soon.” He picked up the box
containing its meagre contents and followed her out of his office. “I am sure you have
been told many times before, you are a very attractive man. I have a little confession to make. I have a few friends; they will do anything
for me. I had one of them do a little
research on you. I found out a few
secrets and those secrets really excited me, now I have met you face to face, I
am even more excited.” He smiled, but
deep in his brain, he feverously wondered, what secrets? They stepped out
into the cold air, she took the light box from his hands and he felt the folded
square of paper pushed deep into his palm. “Read the note now,
you will know what to do, my taxi is due in about five minutes,” she gave a
half wink; the eyelash extensions cast a long shadow down her cheek. She turned her back towards him and took a
few paces forward. He moved back towards
the light emanating from the entrance and began the task of unfolding the piece
of paper. Written on the paper was a
message, it was beautifully penned, but the flowing words did not provide any
feelings of rapture. Dear Neil, When my taxi arrives in a
few minutes, you will be at my side and be the perfect gentleman. You will open the door and let me in
first. You will then join me and come to
my house, I expect you to stay with me throughout the whole weekend. I don’t want to pressure you, but it seems
you were the last person to see John alive.
I believe you had an argument with him earlier in the day. One of my friends has discovered some things
about you, things that excite me. I have
always wanted to be taken by a psychopath, I want you to release all your
tensions and anger out on me. My body
will be yours this weekend, I want you to ravage me and I want you to release
everything with me. It is a long time
since I have had a long hard weekend.
Don’t decline baby. The police
would be very interested in knowing that my missing and loving husband was last
seen alive in the company of a psycho. Yours very expectantly,
Tiff
XXXXX He re-read the
note, he had no choice. His biggest fear
was she would eventually anger him, jangle some nerve in his serotonin deprived
brain, causing him to indulge in undiluted massacre and walk away, feeling nothing. He turned towards
her vamp like outline and watched transfixed, as a shadowy figure pulled a slip
of a noose tightly across her over-sized mouth.
In an instant a bag had enveloped the silicone bloated upper half of her
body and she was escorted into the dark recesses of the alleyway. He once again followed the abductor, maybe
tonight he would confront the assassin, face to face. The familiar ritual
was the same, the key forced the levers in the lock to spring back the
projecting bolt, withdrawn from deep opening it had previously penetrated. Once again the door was left ajar, he feared
to enter the seductive slit, left as if to tempt him inwards. He quietly made his way to the observation
platform of the fire-escape. As his eyes
adjusted to the pumpkin glow struggling to escape through the over-reflective
windows, he realised something was different.
He scorched his eyes into the reflections from the mirror, but all he
could see was a chain attached to a metal post.
The chain began to move, gently at first, but the rhythmic motions
increased in intensity, the vision of what lay at the chains end, was obscured
because of its position. He hesitated, slowly
descended and slipped his way into the opening, the one that was ready to
receive him. Once he entered, gained
access to the chamber of his over-whelming curiosity, he stopped and
listened. He could hear the deep coarse
moans crawling down from three floors above.
He located the stairs and began to push himself upwards, deeper and
deeper into the unknown atmosphere of the deep groaning, permeating from higher
levels. Eventually he reached the point
of the wailing, interspersed with short bursts of high pitched screams. He stole his way deeper inside, until his
view was complete. The only light was
being weakly provided by three hollowed pumpkins, each set aglow by a deeply
set candle. The vision in front of him
cleared, as his pupils dilated to a stretching point beyond previous pinnacles
reached. A bed, of sorts, had been
constructed from old seating, in the dull tangerine glow, he assumed they were
covered in creamed leather. At the
corners, steel scaffolds had been lashed to the improvised structure. At this moment Mrs Robinson, or Tiff, had
been chained by wrist and ankles to the four posts. She was face down and a squat foot stool had
been forced under her belly. The dark
stranger was behind her, kneeling and moving with a rhythmic drum motion. Mrs Robinson released another scream and
turned her head, now he could see her face.
It took only a moment to realise she was enjoying this, the screams were
of ecstasy, delight, release and deep satisfaction, he felt nothing. He watched, for
hours, the onslaught was relentless, he yawned, tiredness crept in, but he
wanted to see where this would end, what would form the final climax. “My God you’re so
clever, never expected you to arrange something like this for me, how long can
you keep this up for?” “As long as you
want, but I have something special I could do for you, would you like me to
give you something special?” “Is it better, can
it be better than what you have given me so far?” “Yes it will be a
lot better.” The voice sounded
strangely familiar, not Mrs Robinson’s, but the voice of the stranger. He watched as the kneeling figure returned to
a drum beat and as he increased the tempo, he secreted from some hidden area a
loop, dangling from a leash. He
carefully placed the loop over the coiffured hair of Mrs Robinson and pulled it
tight. The drum beat increased, if the
vision was converted to sound, the room would have been filled by the rapid
ripple of Congo drums, communicating a distress signal to all in ear shot. He watched as the body of Mrs Robinson
quivered and shook in uncontrollable spasms.
The beating abated and the noose was released. Now the room was filled by a gasping and
panting, slowly the hindered respiratory sounds subdued, a weak croaking, of a
deep and coarse voice gradually became audible. “How did you do
that, what did you do, can you do it again?” “I deprived your
brain of oxygen for a short while, it enhances everything and yes I can do it
again.” “Do it, do it
now. I want it again and again.” The drum beat
started again, the noose was once again dangled and precisely captured the
connection between Mrs Robinson’s head and body. Neil watched as the dark stranger once again
pulled the noose tight and raised the frequency of the beating drum. As her body began to quiver again, the other
arm gripped her firmly under her chin.
Without any announcement, the torso of the dark rider jerked
backwards. The sound of vertebrae
separating as cartilage tissue split was unmistakable. He watched the final climax. The shadowy figure pulled the head back as
far as it would extend and began to twist, first clockwise, then
anti-clockwise. Finally with a supreme
effort, the orange-grey form of the kneeling stranger tore the head clean from,
the still quivering body. He had to
intercept, he had to know who this dark saviour was. He called out and moved forward, closer to
the crouched shape on the bed. The
figure stood up, it’s back towards him. “Who are you, why
do you appear at just the right time?”
The figure walked away from him towards the mirrored wall, it stopped
and turned around. There in front of him
was a naked form, still clutching the severed head of Mrs Robinson. The figure moved its arms out, offering him
the head. He looked down at his own
outstretched arms, clutching the freshly wrenched head of Mrs Robinson. He looked at his refection in the mirror and
felt nothing.
© 2013 hoganAuthor's Note
|
Stats
218 Views
Added on March 24, 2013 Last Updated on March 24, 2013 Author![]() hoganblackpool, United KingdomAboutCurrently working on a series of short and contemporary horror stories. Decided to join this site because I have been working on a project for the last fifteen years. Fourteen thinking and one writi.. more..Writing
|