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I hate everyone. As I aforementioned, hate is our purest emotion. It is a human at its most raw and primal. That is why this particular emotion interested me during my studies and that is why it continues to interest me today. I wish to make this known though, my hate does not discriminate. MONDAY 10: 15am – 11: 15am Daniel Thompson was the week’s first patient. He was an 18-year-old child prodigy. A handsome, lady-killer with a charming persona. Everything going for him on the exterior. But inside he was struggling with something. His father wanted him to be an athlete, as all fathers want from their jock sons. He wanted something else. This particular Monday he told me something different. He was gay. My feelings on homosexuality were black and white at the time. It irritated me. I was curious how someone could defy biology in favor of the same sex. It baffled me is all. Daniel said I was the first he’s told. I’d sit there, prying at him with questions. His father was a cunt. I met him once when he decided my un-orthodox methods were not what is best for his son. More and more, I began to hate Mr. Thompson. He was an investment banker working in the upper-east end. He’d drop Daniel off at my office in the morning before school and he’d pick him up an hour later. “How do I tell him?” enquired Daniel during this particular Monday session. I looked away from him for a moment. The taste of young Lilly’s blood still echoed in my mouth. The sheer thought of her dying eyes brought a smile to my face. I had fucked my weekend away with various women, trying to replicate the feeling from the past Friday. As I lamented over the past I turned back to Daniel, who patiently awaited my response.
“You don’t, not yet,” I responded. Daniel seemed to search for something beyond my answer. I think he wanted me to say something else. In truth I didn’t care when he told him. I’d be getting paid either way. What followed, was a one sided conversation in which Daniel spilt more of his insecurities to me. Its only now I see how fucked up we all are. In our own little ways. Daniel is afraid. He’s afraid of everything. His life, his sexuality and his father. I’d tell him to grow the fuck up but that would push him over the edge. The day passes and another three patients walk through my door. Each of them has their own problems and each of them I hate equally. As they came and went my thoughts remained with Daniel. The victory I felt after desecrating Lilly has now faded from my subconscious and Daniel then entertained all my thoughts. 6:15pm I sat in my office looking at his file of my desk. The brown paper was worn in way you usually find on the paper work of older patients. His picture was paper clipped to the front. It was an old school photo in which his hair was slicked back and his blue eyes shone out at me. Feelings bubbled beneath the surface. I felt a strange yearning for Daniel in a similar way that I felt towards Lilly. I had desired to tear off her clothes and fuck her violently. However, I wanted something different with him. The thought made my stomach churn. I remember when in school there was a gay boy in my class. He’d hang around with girls. Paint his nails. Talk about boys. He’d disgust me. The sight of him would hurt physically. I’d sit in class looking at him. I’d think of maybe drugging him and dragging him around the back of the school where nobody would see us. I’d tape his mouth shut and wait for him to wake before slowly cutting his wrists and watching the glorious blood flow like a un-stemmed river. Of course at that age I hadn’t either the means or the balls to act upon such thoughts. I hated myself for these thoughts and feelings. I reached into the top draw of my large oak desk and took out a bottle
of Bells. Whiskey was always my drink. Beer seemed too working class. Whiskey and a cigar warmed me up. I poured a glass, never with ice as it waters down the alcohol. As I placed the bottle back in the draw and slid it shut I heard a knock at my door. I waited, staring at the brown arch the leads out into my secretary June’s, office. “Come in!” I shouted calmly. The door opened slowly until I could see him. Daniel stood. He was sweating having only just finished football practice. He wore his shorts and a hoody that read “Ferryborn Comprehensive”. It was the school I went to. A private school with the best faculty in the UK. He looked at me. Waiting for a response. Instead I remained seated and took a sip of my drink. The thought of the young gay boy from my teen years and Daniel stuck in my head. I tried to kill my desires with glass after glass of whiskey, but nothing could stop me. Daniel rushed towards me and I stood to embrace him. We kissed. I a moment I both hated and adored him. I both hated and adored myself. I forgot I was kissing a man and remembered I was kissing Daniel. Still the thought of the gay boy from school ran through my mind like a river of doubt and distaste. He looked at me as I held his head in between my hands. We were breathing deeply and staring into each other’s eyes. A release of endorphins caused me to feel elation. I wanted to kill him and be sick. Just to forget what I had done. But it felt so good. I wanted to do it again. To tear off his clothes and to have him in my office. Like the fruit on the tree in the Garden on Eden, he was forbidden and wrong. I was told I couldn’t have him and I wanted him more. The night passed and I felt control slip away from me. That moment, his lips were all that stuck in my mind. Nothing else. My life seemed to stop. He had stolen a part of me that I wanted back. 11:00pm The city is loud at night. Taxis and drunks splutter around the streets, filling them with their stench, both equally unbearable. I caught the
train home. As I reached my stop I noticed it. The sign. Something that had passed me by every other day of my life suddenly jumped out at me. ‘Ferryborn’ The train pulled into the Ferryborn stop. Without hesitation I got off and began to walk towards the house. My judgment was clouded but wanted control back. I couldn’t be a slave to emotions I didn’t believe in. ’10 Elizabeth Street, Ferryborn’ It was a few miles off the M5 and a 25-minuet trains ride from the center of London. His house was a huge, detached, three story church conversion. The windows flooded the house with moonlight and small solar powered lamps that doted the perimeter lighted the front garden. I walked up to the front door of the now dark house and knocked on the door. I placed my leather shooting gloves over my trembling hands and tried to forget the kiss. Out of my brief case I took a knife. A Tim Herman Wall Street blade. One I bought at the club. The upstairs light came one and I heard tired footsteps on the wooden floor. My heart was beating and my palms sweating. The door opened slowly revealing Mrs. Thompson. She stood wearing he nightgown. I lunged at her without hesitation cutting into her chest. She fell to the floor letting out a scream. I walked in shutting the door behind me. She scrambled backwards as I approached her. I flipped the blade in my hand and cut her neck before she could let out a second scream. Some of her blood sprayed onto my shoe. I leaned over to wipe it off, using the end of her nightgown to do so. She bleed out and breathed her final breath. “Mary!” Shouted a voice from upstairs. It was Mr. Thompson, as delightful as ever. I flipped open my brief case and took out a black bag. I proceeded to pull it over my head wearing it to cover my Armani suit. Blood stains.
Mr. Thompson came down the stairs holding a silver Yankees baseball bat that looked like an original he purchased on a family holiday. “You FUCKER!” He screamed as he held his wife’s body in his arms. His baldhead, scruffy grey beard and dark green eyes reminded me of the trap on the train last Friday. How I loathed his very scent. As he ran at me, a big lumbering oaf, I merely stepped to the right stabbing him in the side with my knife sending him to his knees. He lay there crying in pain. I kneeled next to him and watched him. He was pathetic. He leaned forward, one hand on the floor and the other holding the wound in his side. I placed the blade over his index finger on the floor and pressed down. He looked from his hand and up to me and I applied more pressure. He began to blubber and sob like a girl. “You know you wife didn’t cry Mr. Thompson,” I said, quietly demeaning him. Eventually I stood back up and watched him. I took the bat he had brought to defend himself and smacked him over the head with it. He fell onto his back and looked up at me. Sheer desperation in his eyes. Once more I hit him and kept doing so until every ounce of life had been beaten from his body. It’s strange how people look to me when they’re dead. I find their bodies amusing. Their pale corpses are so undignified in death despite the rituals we have created. We rot in the ground. That’s the end of it all. Even in the bloody, flurry of anger I hadn’t been able to forget Daniel. His face. Our kiss. The urge to fuck him that paralleled that I felt for Lilly only days ago. Although this wasn’t a simple blood lust, this was something more. There he stood. At the top of the stairs. He had seen the whole thing. His mother. His father. They were both dead at the foot of the large wooden staircase as Daniel looked on at me. Strangely I didn’t feel judgment or hatred. In fact I felt nothing.
As if a subconscious bond had informed him of my intentions, he turned and ran in fear. I chased him, hurtling up the stairs and into his room. There, he tried to climb out of the window. I pulled him back in and threw him on the bed. The blood that sprayed on the black bag I was wearing smeared onto his white bed sheets as I held him down. This was what I wanted. This was my final impulse. My final desire. I have control back.
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