Dahmer

A monologue from the perspective of notorious serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer days before he was caught.

Dahmer

by Rachel Creed

 

stirring sludge in blue barrel

 

I know, I know. Trust me, I know. P-please, don’t look at me that way. I get it, this looks bad. But I’m really not a bad guy.

 

deeply inhales the scent of the sludge

 

smiles

 

I’m just hungry.

 

looks to the ceiling - makes sign of the cross

 

If I had to say where I went wrong, I suppose I could say it was in my mothers womb. It doesn’t feel right blaming my parents. Blaming them wouldn’t be nothing but a cop out. I take full responsibility for everything I’ve done. I know Jesus has forgiven me. But, if I had to just say where it all began, I guess there’s nothing wrong with just saying it started when my momma was pregnant with me. I was her first born. My pop told me that she was having these kinds of seizures or somethin’. Bad ones. Ones where her eyes bulged and she frothed at the mouth like a wild animal. The doctor would have to come and inject morphine into her, to calm her down and such. My momma said that ain’t true, though. She said they don’t give morphine to pregnant women. Lord knows how lucid she could have been during those seizures. Pop said the doctor didn’t know no better anyhow.

 

Now, that may or may not be the case. But I have never been quite. . . right, I guess. I remember growing up being real shy. In-tro-verted.I didn’t get along well with the other kids. My folks used to force me to, anyway. When I was around ten, I started noticing more than I did as a kid. I felt more. The tension that hung over everyone in the house. Especially between my folks. Things were quiet most of the time. Weeks would pass without anyone saying more than two words. I spent most days in my room. My folks were worried about me, in that way. They felt like I wasn’t apart of the “family”. So when my baby brother was born, they let me name him David. So I would at least feel like I was apart of the family.

 

In middle school, I began to realize just how different I really was. I didn’t look at girls the way I was supposed to. I looked at the boys. Thought about them. Dreamed about them. What they looked like under their clothes. . . and under their skin. In high school, we had to dissect these fetal pigs. I snuck mine home with me. I went straight behind my house, pulled it out of my jacket, and just stared. My mouth was watering. I wanted to see what its insides looked like. I was so. . . eager, I almost ripped it open with my bare hands. But I restrained myself. I took this old, dull pocket knife my father had given me for christmas. I cut it from its stomach right up to its chinny-chin-chin.

 

put hand in stew; almost caress it

 

I just felt its chilly innards slips through my fingers.

 

lick fingers

 

That’s about when my fascination got out of my control. After that day, I would spend a good amount of my time just walkin’ up and down the highway, pickin’ up every critter the road killed. So I could, ya know. . . play with ‘em.

 

chuckle

 

Ah, but that highway. I was always hoping that one day, I could pick up a live one. A real man. A nice, meaty thing. I wanted one. I wanted one all to myself; to take home and do whatever I pleased. For as long as I could possibly have him. Living with my folks, though. . . I just had to push these fantasies aside. So I went to school everyday, and came home to my screamin’ folks every night. I never could stand that fighting. It never stopped. I would have to leave the house sometimes. My pop caught me slapping trees with sticks once. He didn’t say nothin’. He just stood there, watchin’ me. When I finally graduated, my folks had been divorced for some time. My mother took my brother and ran far awat]y. I don’t know where my pop went. I was left all alone.

 

It wasn’t but three weeks later when I was just drivin’ along that same old highway, lookin’ for some fresh critters, when I saw a thin young man thumbin’ just up the road. I contemplated pickin’ the young man up; but only for a second. I couldn’t help myself. He got in, and we drove back to my house. He sat in my kitchen and drank beer with me. We just talked for a little while. Then he tried to leave. I didn’t want him to.

Things were unclear after that. A blurry storm of panicked shrieks and crimson red. I looked down at his mangled, drained body with a queer feeling of satisfaction. Then reality set in. Fear. Guilt. I knew it was coming. After that, I did what I had to do. Luckily I’d had plenty of practice dismembering roadkill. I let his fluids train in my tub, since there was much more than in your average critter. I burnt the rest of him. Don’t think I quit there, now. As crazy as you may see me now, I ain’t a fool. I took my pop’s sledgehammer out of the shed, and smashed his skeleton into little bits, gathered them in an old pail, then spun around in circles scattering the fragments all over my backyard. No one was ever going to find that poor soul.

I had my regrets, sure I did. I knew it was wrong. I told myself that it wouldn’t happen again. Easier said than done, I’m afraid. About four years after that, my satisfaction from that affair had withered away, and my hunger for flesh was stronger than ever. I started going to gay bars and male strips clubs. I just looked at first. Eventually, my hunger got the better of me. I started putting sleeping pills in boys’ drinks, and then dragging them off to a motel somewhere. I was banned from almost all of the gay bars in my town to the next county. One night, I met this real good lookin’ boy. I performed the standard roofie-routine. I woke up beside him in a motel room the next morning. He looked stiff, and he felt cold. Blood was crusted in the corners of his mouth. I had no memory of beating the poor boy to death, but I must have. That was when everything spiraled. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop after that. It wasn’t a feeling of satisfaction like before. It didn’t last. Looking at his body just made me want more. Every time I brought a boy home, they never left. They were mine forever. I never had to worry about their wishes. I could please myself. Now I didn’t want to hurt them, or nothing. Pain isn’t what gets me going. That’s why I strangled most of my lovers. It was really just their. . . stillness. The full control I had over them. For as long as I wanted. That’s what got me going. Until they started to go bad, of course. I would cut off the important parts; the head and genitals, then mummify or refrigerate them. For safe keeping.

 

grin

 

The rest of them would go into this here barrel. This is filled with a special acid, that melt the body parts into a sort of flush-able sludge. It was such a pitiful waste. Sometimes I would take a bite out of their arms or lips first, so they would be apart of me forever. I believe that when you consume another humans flesh, the Lords grants you mystical gifts. He gave me the gift to turn my lovers into zombies. Only for a day, though; they die shortly after that. Zombies are a dream. The boys hearts are beating, but still have no will of their own. I made zombies by drilling a hole right between their eyes, and pouring boiling water inside, completely frying their frontal lobe. After that, each breath belonged to me for the next 24 hours. Parts of them were with me long after that. I used to keep one of my lovers’ head and genitals in a tin box for a while. I fondled with them from time to time, it was a great pick-me-up. Alas, when my pop came to visit, he went rummaging through my closet. I think you can guess what he stumbled upon. Thank the Lord it was padlocked. He demanded that I open it, despite my refusals. He threatened to take it down to the basement and break it open himself. I stopped him just in time. I told him that I was just having a rough day, and that I would show it to him tomorrow. That night I replaced it with load of gay pornography. I buried the head and genitals behind my house to dig up later. I kept it only in my apartment afterwards.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the first close call. A few weeks back, I saw this real meaty fella wandering outside my apartment building. I convinced the poor boy to come upstairs with the promise of some juicy pornography. About halfway through the tape, I tried to slap some handcuffs on him while his hands were “occupied”. The devil screamed and ran out the door with his drawers around his ankles. I tried to catch him, but he was too quick. Cops showed up about an our later the boy by their side. Somehow, I convinced the pigs that we were merely bickering lovers. I proved it by showing him the polaroids I had taken of us earlier that evening. They left the kid with me. At Jeffery’s mercy. Poor kid; tasted just like candy. Ya see, people like me can never be too careful. I know I can’t go on like this forever. I will get caught eventually. If there is no God, there ain't a point in stopping. And if there is; Lord forgive me, for I have sinned.

 

sip and gargle sludge

 

BLACK OUT

Author's Note

Ignore typos and bad grammar.

Reviews

[Scott Metro]

A bit dark...but that's OK...the dark is really the light for those who understand the independence that has been stripped from us.
An odd matter to tackle...perhaps it is why it is a unique read and refreshing change.

Enjoyed it.

Scott

[Rachel Creed]

Thank you, Scott.

[VALENTINE]

Hi, I'm Valentine. love your writing. Just wondering if you might be interested in writing a screenplay to a story I wrote called. Skin, be warned -it's a bit dark and edgy.

[Rachel Creed]

I'd be honored! What did you have in mind?

[KLMazon]

Well written and I like how you have him use the prop, interjecting it at times to break up his narrative. It also adds to his "creepiness" for lack of a better term.