Warning: Language, violence, slight gore. Please do point out any mistakes so I may fix them!
A good life lesson told by someone who is okay with what they are.
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Proudly Psychopathic
“No, I can’t tell them,” whines the boy at the locker beside mine. His voice is near a whisper, only meant for the ear of his friend who’s leaning in close to hear. “How did you come out?”
The boy’s friend—Roberto, as his P.E. shorts say—shrugs his shoulders and replies, “You can’t second guess yourself, Derek. If you know who you are and have accepted it, then you can’t let what others think of you stop you from being who you are, you know? Come out of your closet wearing your gay-ass rainbow flag proudly. At least, that’s what I did.” There’s a good natured laugh. I disgust laughing.
I slant my eyes towards them when I hear, “But I’m not even sure if I’m...you know”—his voice is annoyingly grousing, like a stupid little kid that doesn’t know what they want, and even makes a generally patient Roberto sigh—“gay.”
There’s an itchy feeling in the palms of my hands; I roll my shoulders, open my locker. Distractions are what I need. It’s not my conversation to get into. I need to contempt myself with eaves dropping instead of doing anything rash.
It’s a nice word my psychiatrist uses.
“I don’t want people to make fun of me,” Derek goes on, rotating his lock. “I don’t want people to call me faggot or something.” Ugh.
Many times have I wanted to punch somebody. Several times have I had the urge when the nearly illiterate kid raises his hand to read in class, or when the kid in front of me at the lunch line can’t decide which milk they want. More times than I can count have I wanted to kick my teacher when she says something to me in a tone that’s a sneer because I’m her least favorite student and the most problematic, or when I get in trouble for using the same tone right back.
But right now I don’t want to punch this kid. I don’t want to kick him. These actions are mild, a merciful craving that I can usually hold back when it comes to people doing what people do.
What I want is to grab the tanned skin covering his trachea and dig my nails in until I have enough perch to rip it out. I have a desire to see blood; more specifically, enough for him to bleed to death.
“Dude, it’s just something you have to deal with if they do call you names or whatever,” Roberto grunts as he takes off his grey P.E. shirt. “You can hang with me if you want.”
I grab the edges of my sweaty T-shirt and pull it off, replacing it with my hoodie. I get a pleasurable twinge in my stomach at the thought of shoving my thumbs into Derek’s eyes, and I have to take a deep breath.
“But I don’t want to be caught hanging with another fag.”
By the sound of Roberto blowing air through his nose, I can tell he lets the comment slide easily. He’s dealt with all the bullshit that comes with being gay enough for him to be immune to harassers and people who are inconsiderate in their word choices.
“Dude, would you shut the fuck up.”
Derek turns to me, a look of startled fear in his eyes—not from the fact that I overheard his embarrassing conversation, but because I’m the last person anyone would to be talked to. I have a reputation; something about crushing kittens’ skulls between my bike tire and the sidewalk. I did it too, once. I think I was ten.
Derek goes, in his bitchy voice, “I was just talking…”
I roll my eyes and slam my locker door. I face him. He’s shirtless, his arms coming up from his sides to cover himself. He looks up at me with his flushed ugly face and takes a step back.
He’s scared of me, and it makes me pleased. There’s no one in school who can stand up to me without looking like they’re going to crap themselves. I’m violent. I take things to an inappropriate level that has lead to my expulsion from many schools.
I don’t hit. I don’t kick. I maim in brutal ways because I’m a sadistic psychopath, easily triggered by my own trigger finger. I think of myself as a bullet, the blade on a knife that my own hand is gripping. I could stop and hold myself back, but I don’t find that nearly as satisfying compared to plunging myself into someone.
“Oh, please, you whiney bitch.” My voice is harsh, deliciously so. I mimic a little girl and make hand gestures. “’I’m gay, but I don’t really know if I’m gay. And heaven forbid someone call me a fag, even though I am one!’”
All the boys in the locker room have turned in my direction. They’re too afraid to interrupt or get help from an adult.
They’re also engrossed, intrigued. They all want to see something happen.
Derek’s face goes from red to pale in a matter of seconds when I close the space between us and grab either side of his head, smashing his face against my knee when he’s about to say something. There’s a crunching sound from his broken nose, the delectable dripping of his blood onto the crusty concrete ground, and the scream he makes when the pain registers from his tongue that he nearly bit off. I kick him in the groin; the scream stops and he drops to the floor where I follow in pursuit, straddling him and unleashing my pent-up sadism.
I shiver at the carnage, the broken teeth on the floor, and dive back in for more until someone pulls me off. It’s disappointing, since I hadn’t hurt someone after I had transferred schools nearly four months ago, and it feels so short lived. Stabbing pigeons isn’t nearly as gratifying.
I’m shoved into the row of lockers and listen to my burley P.E. teacher shriek some things into my ear. I watch out of the corner of my eye the nurse that rushes in and nearly vomits at the kid that might have once been recognizable as Derek the pansy.
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I’ve got plenty of time on my hands now that I don’t have school anymore; at least, not until my parents have found another that will accept me. They’re too cowardly to try homeschooling. It almost hurts. Not in the way that razors hurt against skin, or the pain that blows up like a firework after a hit. It’s not a physical pain, though it might as well be because it hurts all the same.
It hurts my heart to know that my parents are scared to death of me, even though I would never hurt them.
I wasn’t made a sadist. I was born this way. No parental abuse, no horrible past, no hard life has made me what I am. And the thing is that I’m okay with what I am, too. I have acknowledged the fact that I can’t change and I don’t want to, in the same way that Roberto is with being gay. I admire him for that fact. He’s comfortable in his own skin, won’t change for anybody, as am I with myself.
So it disgusts me when my psychiatrists goes, “Do you have something against homosexual people, Trevor?”
I glare at her, at her bleach blonde hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail, at her white shirt and black slacks. I look away and glare at the room, at the soothing green walls and potted plants. I glare down at my hands, which are clutching the arms of my chair. My knuckles have scabs from scrapping against Derek’s teeth. I like the way they look and relish in the pain they cause. It makes me feel better.
“No,” I spit out. “Why would I? Unlike me, that kid wouldn’t have hurt anyone if he was gay. I wouldn’t have given two shits if he was gay. I probably wouldn’t have hospitalized him if he had just accepted it instead of being embarrassed of it if he were.”
I recall all the times I have caused someone pain and enjoyed it.
“People shouldn't be ashamed of who they are.”
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