Through the eyes of a psychopath

Through 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.

 

Author's Note

If you like try The 4 Dreams of Leonardo. Published on Kindle