The Christmas Communiqué
I've hurt a lot of people in my life by virtue of pre-determination, perseverance, and dedication. It hasn't always come easy. When my conscious arrives late to some horrific scene I repress it when it has the audacity to question me. Who and what I am has chosen me and the physiological flaw of having compassion has, over time, actually confirmed my position, as I have had to battle it every step of the way. I even think I was born with more compassion and empathy than most people- as I've always deeply felt the horrible things that I do. I've lost sleep because some part of me was so busy thinking about some person now suffering solely because of me. This must necessarily mean that when I do something, I really mean it, because I am willing to accept the self-sacrifice of destroying others. I don't know, what do you think?
For whatever reason I've romanticized killing very much throughout my life. Mentally, I'm more than capable, and physically I was practically designed for it as you would hardly believe how strong and powerful I am. Of course the self centered realization that I could be caged up for the act has previously prevented any sort of real physical manifestation…
The ways I've thought about it are probably not too uncommon. The first thought was to grab some jogger and stab them to death, but as is common with most first impulses it was cliché and not really what I wanted. I didn't want to stretch with too much emphasis on creativity as I wasn't trying to turn it into some bizarre avant art message, mostly because I don't often give a fuck about the message I send. You're doomed, the idea of spending years telling you that you're doomed seems like a self-important masturbation that doesn't interest me. The visceral is what interests me.
I guess that statement makes me realize that I'm somewhat of an intellectual animal, but that the intellect hardly affects my actions. On the contrary, my intellect and instinct must work in tandem to suppress this horrible compassion that acts as little more than a nuisance.
Maybe it is for the sake of compassion that I'm taking the time to write you. I can't explain the notion very well, but for whatever reason the urge came to me. I decided not to explain the purpose outright because you would have little reason to listen to me, and at this point you may be intrigued enough to read on. If not, I'm sorry for wasting your time and feel free to discard the letter at any time…but trust me, it is you specifically that must read and understand what I'm saying. We haven't ever met in person, and it is likely that we never will unless you go out of your way to do so. I can't imagine why you would, especially with a letter starting as this one does with still no logical explanation. I think, if I may make a guess, that this is some sort of last ditch effort to have any sort of viable connection with anyone. I don't know why I picked you, but the urge was there, and as I stated before I am a man of instinct.
You too must have personally thought about killing someone at one time. Everyone does. They go through various stages, some exhibiting more vivid imaginations than others. I'm sure many others think about the actual people they would kill but more as a semi-satisfying outlet for their personal anger. Others still go so far as to start the planning phase. I, of course, have entered the planning phase many times in my life just to realize that it is mostly self-medicating. Planning? Planning negates the visceral, and eliminates that special something that I have so many times aimed to gain.
Which brings me to gain… Of course it is for personal gain. I don't believe that I can help anyone. They are doomed with, out without, assistance. The gain for me is purely psychological and I know it. It all comes back to compassion. Truthfully, my compassion is much more than a nuisance. It is more like a virus affecting my body- it makes me sick and I can't operate as I normally should. I've been sick for as long as I can remember with this high fever. The only way to break that fever is by plunging into ice water, essentially acting out against the compassion. Recently, it was no longer just enough to repress it. I needed to eliminate it.
I stalked people, looking for proper candidates. It really wasn't very much like planning as it felt more like hunting and appealed to me much more. It was really very exciting and for the first time since I can remember I actually got nervous and felt a rising in my stomach- like free falling. That's when I knew it was a good idea to follow through.
I looked at so many houses and so many people. I wanted an attractive woman because for whatever reason it seemed like close to a sexual act and this appealed to me more. I wanted to feel closeness to the person so that I could better attack my own compassion. In that sense I needed to find the person that I liked the very best, someone exceptional in fact, a girl I could fall in love with given a different circumstance.
Eventually, I did find her. Someone that made me short of breath with the mere sight of her. Surprisingly, she was very much like a girl from my childhood. I knew she would be young, but I didn't expect that what I was looking for was a physical incarnation of someone from my past. I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with that, but fuck them, they're probably wrong anyway…or right, but the notion that they are right on an intellectual level changes nothing.
I really do hate people with the notion of wanting an autobiography, like anyone gives a fuck about their boring lives that they seem to find some way to find interesting themselves, but I must bring up this girl from my past. I'm imagining that this will create a better understanding between us.
We were just ten when we met, and the way I remember it is that I fell in love with her immediately. To make a very long story a shorter one, I had an ever-developing infatuation with her that never seemed to properly voice itself. That infectious compassion was also partnered by an infectious sensitivity. I couldn't breathe right when she looked at me. I was just this inoperable, useless mound of gawking flesh that denoted its own grotesque nature by virtue of its obsession. The first year was okay, because I was a child myself and it seemed like a natural occurrence that people should have affection for others. But she infected me and it didn't go away, I was stuck with it year after year, dream, after wandering imagination, after dream. Like a bound drug addict inches away from a fix, I was a junkie who's addiction never subsided even through extreme isolation.
Her image still affects me to this day, which is also the real reason for writing you, but I'll have to explain that later because an explanation now would ruin that purpose. It would be like telling someone you're going to surprise them with a new television for their birthday, the effect is completely ruined. I hope you understand this.
Back to my search for the girl. I wouldn't call her a victim, but she has been victimized by me. I have to make it clear that it was never my intention to torture someone for the sake of torture. While I do desire the visceral, I genuinely didn't want to hurt this girl- which is precisely why I had to. If you can repress your human morality long enough to see it, it is the obvious choice to attain enlightenment. I'm sure this must seem deranged in some way, but if you can ignore your emotional reaction long enough to understand, this may be one of the only ways to achieve peace.
I was ready to give up on my search, and I didn't really know what I was going to do if the search was successful. I had an idea, but I was lost as I have often been in my life. But then I saw her. Like a twin, or even more a split personality beaming with the same kind of light as the girl from my childhood. Maybe not even that, maybe it was the same actual light... as if it really was in the girl of my childhood. It was like the previous girl had only held that light until a certain point and then had to be handed down, transfused like a kind of reincarnation. It was like staring into the sun. I was weak at the knees.
The first few times I saw her she was surrounded by people. We would never have an understanding, unless we could be alone. I waited for days. I watched for the perfect moment.
There was a playground. I sat suspended until all the other children left. I waited until she was the only one. I wouldn't have had the courage so many years ago… but it didn't even feel like it was me who was approaching. It was like I was a ghost walking around, watching people live their lives, reflecting on things that could have been. I picked her up and hugged her tiny body. I expected her to start pushing me away but she didn't. She just clenched her muscles… frozen up. Breathless. I remember because it was cold outside and I could see her breath on the air, but it just paused. It was like picking up some shaking, baby animal while fear shocks it so deeply that it just falls dead or passes out in your hands. I felt that same kind of delicateness in her. I found myself loving her immediately. It was a very painful experience to have.
She put up some resistance, but it was like out of some kind of confusion she just went with it. Or maybe she knew. Maybe that spiritual transfusion in her has encountered the one in me for generations and she knew there had to be some kind of retribution...or at very least something had to give. Or maybe, she didn't know me at all and she was just startled into submission. Maybe everything has been internalized.
She made her first escape attempt about an hour later. It was very clever, she played like she was agreeing to everything and then tried to spring away when I least expected it. I of course expected something like that to happen, it's just that I was caught up the in psychological ramifications of what was happening. I really felt connected with her. I know it sounds delusional. I know you're probably thinking about the nature of the abduction and the result, but you can't think like that. Don't think about the girl. Think about the self. Myself, yourself, and the nature of that affection for anything else.
In my childhood, it transformed into something unbearable. I never consciously developed a defense mechanism for self-preservation, but nevertheless, one naturally formed. I began to think of her in the most perverse light possible. I wanted her exposed and raped again and again. I wanted her destroyed. These thoughts were in direct opposition to my affection, and always the affection won out and eliminated all else like dropping disinfectants into a glass of sea water- everything else died again and again.
This time I had to act willfully to destroy any remnants of affection and compassion that dared to linger in such a horrible vessel. I touched her all over and the affection became infection, in the form of a monstrous, predatory desire. When I went inside her, I know it was tremendously painful not just because she didn't want it, or from the shaking and crying, but because of the amount of forced I used. I now this was her first time as she was being ripped apart. I don't remember being harder in my life. I probably felt larger than normal. I've never felt like god more in my life than when climaxing with her. I made her taste me and remember me. I made her embarrass herself and crawl around on the floor. I made her beg for it. I made her beg for her life.
All the time I could feel something leaving me. She was freeing me because I was in love. I couldn't contain the moment. The visceral was clawing into me. The violence was even more like sex than the sex was, the line between the two disappeared but before I could be completely freed she died in my arms.
I cried for I don't know how long. The fact that tears were inside me was a source of hate and longing. But then I devised a plan for escape... you. You who are so like me and still bear undying affection would be able to drain me of mine. I was shaking when I began to write this, but now it is gone, and it's because of you. I'm free because of you. I've never been more connected with anyone than I am with you for destroying my ability to be connected. That is the reason I wrote to you. To say that your little girl will not be coming home today.