the philosophy of life of a psychopath.
|I’ve planned this special moment already for a long time. What I had to do, had been etched in my head as a series of monochrome film images. Everything was engraved in black and white in my memory, in such a manner that I almost could do it with my eyes closed.
This man had earned it a thousand times and even more. To take a human life, however, is a crucial decision. In this case, it must not, under any circumstances, be rushed. Without exaggerating, I can state that I’ve weighed up all the pros and cons very carefully during this last year.
To kill someone is technically not so difficult. You can opt for the easiest solution. To buy a gun nowadays is not an impossible task, even more so if obtaining a gun or a rifle illegally is quite more difficult. To follow the rules and ask for a firearms license makes the risk of being discovered after the crime a lot bigger. Once you have the means to retaliate, even a kid, figuratively speaking, of course, can pull the trigger.
A firearm is a rather 'clean' method to get the thing done. You can, from a safe distance, without risking to hurt yourself, end your victim's life. It goes without saying you would better practice a bit on the shooting range. There are even clubs that will make of you, possessing a bit of talent, a real marksman.
If you don't shy away the risk, you can choose for the more personal approach. If you hate someone so badly and you come to the conclusion you grudge this person the light in the eyes then think about using a knife. Not a potato peeler, not even an inferior thing from a bazaar but a real hunting knife with a long blade. It has the advantage that you can carve the life out of somebody. It is one of the drawbacks that it sometimes makes a bloody mess and so that possible tracks are difficult to remove.
Female colleagues rather choose for the sneaky solution. Poison is the method used through the centuries and often has played an important part in political and religious power games. Strewing unnoticed a bit of a lethal powder or some drops from a good working poisonous cocktail in someone's daily fruit juice makes it possible for the sensitive natures among us not to participate personally in the agony of the victim.
I’ve never would have thought I would have to make such a choice. But after being the subject year after year of bullying, insults, and inhuman treatment you either break or you decide to stand up and fight back.
I hear you saying it. Walk away from this man, choose another road, one on which you will not meet him again. It's oh so easy when you are on the side of that road. It's all so objective if you are only a bystander. Every day after day, week after week, for years, you have been forced by certain circumstances inside a grid. You can’t choose a new road anymore because you have to take other persons into account. It's so important you persevere in the impossible, at the expense of yourself, because, after all, you're responsible for other people. Your family counts on you. You can't give up until it's eventually too late. At that moment, you only can break or fight back.
Lately, I consider this man as the personification of evil. A devil, an arisen demon from the deepest caves of hell. A man without a trace of emphatically feelings. A man who is just thinking in terms as there are money and power. Power he carries out on everybody who comes in his proximity. Slowly, he breaks down the limits of your privacy and molds you to his wishes and own laws. He simply ignores every socially defined rule because there's only one truth and that is his. Day and night, you have to be ready for him, to be his slave for a meager reward, because even that he won’t grant you. He gets under your skin and is always present in your thoughts, like a worm that is becoming fat eating up your resistance, busy hollowing out your deepest human being.
There was a time I was happy. A person like everybody who had received different talents. Skills this monster strangled, one after the other, because they just didn't fit in his picture. Eventually, all that is left is an empty shell without content that he can mold and transform in his way. Clones after his model that he can command and pull their strings, just like a puppeteer who makes his marionettes dance.
I've always had admired people who could work with bow and arrow. There something ritual about it and it's also one of the oldest weapons once used by our ancestors. Without any doubt, you can purchase some of the best and modern devices in a specialized store, but that would be too easy. There has to be an emotional bonding with such a ritual weapon. The satisfaction you get by choosing the right wood to cut a stick that is fitting. The material cannot be too elastic and still he has to possess the right amount of elasticity. There has to be enough tension on the cord because you want to drive your arrow as deep as possible in the target.
Of course, there's the question of the arrow. After all, the arrow is the chosen device, in which you compress all your hatred and aversion. The moment this projectile, loaded with all these embittered feelings is ready to be put on the bow's string, the minute you're sending your glance full of fire away along the feather and the shaft, the second you spot your target then it's finally time for the execution of your revenge.
I’m aligning and aiming. I feel a warmth growing from my chest towards my belly, flowing through my bowels. An almost sexual feeling nestles in me when all comes together and everything adds up. My eye, my arrow and the target. The man who killed me, bit by bit. I'll never be the same anymore. I'll never live as I once have. Still a few seconds left our lives are connected in hatred, the moment he slowly turns around looking at me, realizing what is happening I release my arrow.
At this moment, I’m very aware that if thoughts could kill, I already would be a murderer. I put myself down on my bed and satisfied I close my eyes. For a second, I still think about something, but then an accomplished smile sneaks on my face as a welcome friend.
© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere