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cheesyroseThe same story on Ao3: blep
Rating: Mature
Warnings: A lot of vividly described deaths, animal cruelty, and yada-yada.
"The deeper I sank... The less I died."
A young, sophisticated man has a nagging itch in his brain. The urges overpower him again and again, causing people to die in gruesome, sadistic ways. How kind of him to document his entire descent into insanity.
Story is written from the perspective of the killer, as he writes in his diary about his life, and the unruly tendencies causing him to do the deeds.
I feel this strange... urge. Homicidal urge. It's called homicidal ideation as a medical term, or simply bloodthirst for more simple minds like my own. They don't joke around when they say therapists tend to need a therapist themselves. I was never officially diagnosed with anything, but if I was... I fear they'd stuff me in a psych ward. I've sent off enough patients to my colleagues who then threw them in such facilities. I almost feel like I betray my people, you know. Even though these madmen are not my people at all. You have no idea how scary it is for a patient to be describing their terrifyingly specific homicidal thoughts, and be thinking about how much you bloody relate to that.
I tried to surpass it, I really did. But any time I tried, it only made it worse. If initially I can ignore the nagging thoughts about killing a random old woman alone at a bus stop in the dead of night, then the latter events are simply impossible to overcome. It's like noise screaming in my brain (sometimes outside, like I hear a whole lot of people telling me the same thing in tandem), bellowing about how they made their choice and I just have to kill this random person who did nothing wrong. They start twisting my perception of reality. Force me to believe anything just to make me commit. They'd disfigure a beautiful lady into a horrible, putrid monster that begs to be killed. Sometimes, they'd be a lot more insidious, and simply alter what people say in conversation. They make me think I'm actually hearing "Hey, Jakob, I want you to follow me into a dark silent alleyway, so you can kill me there. I think it'd be awesome." or some shit like that. I have to do a double-take every time, and my friends think I'm deaf at this point with how much I ask "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?". They'll never get what I'm going through, you see, dear diary.
And before you say it (even though you're a bunch of paper), yes, I take my medication. Quite regularly, actually. I'm not the one to miss out on my self-prescribed antipsychotics. I tried increasing the dosage and prescribing other medicine, but nothing fucking works. They never stop. I don't get it, diary. I really don't. This is the only time I am entirely unable to help a patient. I am unable to help myself. Even with a damn degree from a very prestigious university and raised qualification, working in a private clinic (in all fairness, not a very popular one), and experience cannot tell me what exactly am I dealing with. Some sort of schizophrenia or another disorder on that spectrum? ASPD? Whatever it is, it's a total bitch to treat and nothing works.
So, dear diary, I abide by it, and I kill.
This is Jakob Richter, I am a qualified psychiatrist, and I'm a measly 27 years old. And this is my first entry into what seems to be a manifesto of sorts.
Seems like a lot of killers keep those. It's foolish to think I am anything different to them, even if I do my best to be as functional in society as possible. Even if I don't hate people.
I don't have any reasons to hate humanity. I wasn't bullied as a child, and even if I have any traumas, I had them treated a long time ago. I've been afflicted with this curse for years. I recall having these urges ever since I hit my teens. They were a lot more timid back then. Easily supressable. But as I aged, the withdrawal from killing had been only worse, as I described above. Perhaps, the first, curious kill had started it all. They always say if you start, you'll never stop. That is my guess.
What was my first kill, you may ask? It's a very captivating story I still recall with a strange sense of sentimentality. Perhaps I can describe it now, because what other time will I really have?
As any other, I started with an animal. It's almost cliche by now. We always ask the patient what they started with, or sometimes ask them outright whether they hurt animals. And it almost always starts with them. The explanation, from my view, is quite simple: this is the first time the curious young mind finds out how it feels to be in control of someone else's life. Feeling a small bird squirm in your hand, panicking, silently begging you to release it. Cats and dogs clawing and biting at your arms, struggling to escape from your grasp. Guinea pigs carefully trying to breathe, not even moving, as you threaten to strangle them. So small and hopeless.
My first animal kill was a tiny bird. I used to catch smaller birds for fun, trapping them with a self-made little bait. Usually I released them after staring at their puny little dot-eyes, or the beautiful colour of their feathers. But that day, the young, happy Jakob held a pathetic teety tiny bird in his hands… and felt the power.
It felt so soft to hold, and I played around with it a little, stroking its feathers carefully with my thumb. Even in my small hands, it felt puny. Maybe it was a little baby bird that just learnt to fly. I don't really recall the visual details by now - what was important to me is how I quickly came to realise that it was fully within my power to let it live, or slaughter it, squash it. I was curious. Way too curious for my own good. And I think this is what really started it all. This is nothing compared to putting down your beloved dog with a gun, or killing a chicken for food. It's a lot more personal when you hold that tiny life in your own grasp. A life you've never seen before. All you know is that now, this tiny bird's fate is entirely up to you. This is how it feels to be in control for once.
So I killed it. I pressed my hands together, and eventually, it splattered, its bones crushing under the pressure as its disgusting guts and blood spilled all over my hands, some bone pieces lodging themselves into my skin. Only its head poked out, as it whistled its last weak squeal before getting its lungs crushed.
I remember being overwhelmed. Hard to even say what I felt. A mix of disgust from all the mess, surprise, and strange sense of… pleasure, I think. What I just did really didn't sink in for a while. I threw it from my window in a weird state of horror, but not without taking a little trophy. I plucked its feather and put it into a pretty box. It was a little blood-stained. Well, not was, but is - I still keep my unusual trophies from these days.
From that day on, most birds I caught weren't released. Most of them starved to death or suffocated as I put them in a jar and closed the lid. I plucked the pretty feathers from their corpses, and put them into my trophy box. The bodies themselves I usually buried or threw in the trash outside, hoping it'll never be known. I was always quite a secretive person that knew how to never be found, you see.
Soon enough, birds were too boring for me. I wanted a bigger fish. The birds taught me how to fly, and now I wanted to reach new heights.
So I hunted down stray cats. My parents were simply happy I finally started going outside more, not suspecting a thing.
"Lately, all her neighbour's cats have disappeared…"
Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick, and I'm telling you, them pussycats is quick.
Dealing with sick, dying cats was not only difficult, but also outright not sanitary in any way. I must've gotten sick a solid five times before I stopped chasing illness. "Don't pet the strays, or at least wash your hands afterwards" memo from my mom must've gone entirely over my head, just because of how excited I was about knowing something she didn't. Of what I actually did to these bloody cats.
Initially I caught them and strangled them, but eventually, my interest turned more gory. I brought a knife from the kitchen and turned to stabbing them instead. We had plenty, so one missing wasn't all that rare, and I also didn't want to risk bringing disease into the household, so I just kept it tucked away in the furthest corner of my drawer. Always thoroughly washing it before that. Turns out, blood is a little bit of a bitch to wash off when it's a little dry, even when dealing with metal surfaces.
I did go out of my way to never spill any of the blood on my own clothing. It wasn't super messy work anyway, more like a vivisection. Had to keep the knife sharpened, and I always did it when I was alone to not raise any suspicion for sure. Even if no one would really question it. I was about 15 at the time, I think.
I slaughtered cats just to see what's inside of them. And for fun, can't forget fun. It became a habit to always go outside on Saturdays and pop a pussycat's life.
Then, I moved to dogs. These were actually tough to take down, but as I aged, it became something of a sport. My neighbourhood was quite filled with strays, and the cutdown of them, if anything, was a blessing to the locals. No more annoying cats or scary dog packs. I lured the dogs out one by one with a bone or some meat, then while they were eating, I stabbed them in their neck multiple times. Took a habit of wearing black, as it's harder to see bloodstains on it.
And I had to quickly learn the most efficient ways of washing out blood from clothes with household items. I'm not sharing them there. Screw you. Do it yourself, it's half the fun of it. I'm talking to you, edgy teenager reading the printed version of my manifesto ten years after all of this is said and done, thinking you relate to me and my urges in some way. What a joke. Go out and play with your friends instead, or do something useful. Help your mom, hug her and tell her you love her and appreciate everything she's done for you. Actually, if you read this and think we're anything alike, you probably don't even have a mo…
Okay, I'm going on a tangent here.
Point is, at the time, the excitement of killing a life started diminishing more and more. Initial kills of the bigger animals were satisfying, but as I killed more, it never felt the same. Like a junkie, I chased a new high. And what's higher than a man's best friend? That's right, a man.
But that's a story for another day. My hand is tired from all this writing, and I've got a long day tomorrow. A long day of listening to psychos with daddy issues and schizos believing themselves to be the new Messiah. The hell they are, but can't just tell that to a patient now, can I? Ugh…
Rating: Mature
Warnings: A lot of vividly described deaths, animal cruelty, and yada-yada.
"The deeper I sank... The less I died."
A young, sophisticated man has a nagging itch in his brain. The urges overpower him again and again, causing people to die in gruesome, sadistic ways. How kind of him to document his entire descent into insanity.
Story is written from the perspective of the killer, as he writes in his diary about his life, and the unruly tendencies causing him to do the deeds.
I feel this strange... urge. Homicidal urge. It's called homicidal ideation as a medical term, or simply bloodthirst for more simple minds like my own. They don't joke around when they say therapists tend to need a therapist themselves. I was never officially diagnosed with anything, but if I was... I fear they'd stuff me in a psych ward. I've sent off enough patients to my colleagues who then threw them in such facilities. I almost feel like I betray my people, you know. Even though these madmen are not my people at all. You have no idea how scary it is for a patient to be describing their terrifyingly specific homicidal thoughts, and be thinking about how much you bloody relate to that.
I tried to surpass it, I really did. But any time I tried, it only made it worse. If initially I can ignore the nagging thoughts about killing a random old woman alone at a bus stop in the dead of night, then the latter events are simply impossible to overcome. It's like noise screaming in my brain (sometimes outside, like I hear a whole lot of people telling me the same thing in tandem), bellowing about how they made their choice and I just have to kill this random person who did nothing wrong. They start twisting my perception of reality. Force me to believe anything just to make me commit. They'd disfigure a beautiful lady into a horrible, putrid monster that begs to be killed. Sometimes, they'd be a lot more insidious, and simply alter what people say in conversation. They make me think I'm actually hearing "Hey, Jakob, I want you to follow me into a dark silent alleyway, so you can kill me there. I think it'd be awesome." or some shit like that. I have to do a double-take every time, and my friends think I'm deaf at this point with how much I ask "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?". They'll never get what I'm going through, you see, dear diary.
And before you say it (even though you're a bunch of paper), yes, I take my medication. Quite regularly, actually. I'm not the one to miss out on my self-prescribed antipsychotics. I tried increasing the dosage and prescribing other medicine, but nothing fucking works. They never stop. I don't get it, diary. I really don't. This is the only time I am entirely unable to help a patient. I am unable to help myself. Even with a damn degree from a very prestigious university and raised qualification, working in a private clinic (in all fairness, not a very popular one), and experience cannot tell me what exactly am I dealing with. Some sort of schizophrenia or another disorder on that spectrum? ASPD? Whatever it is, it's a total bitch to treat and nothing works.
So, dear diary, I abide by it, and I kill.
This is Jakob Richter, I am a qualified psychiatrist, and I'm a measly 27 years old. And this is my first entry into what seems to be a manifesto of sorts.
Seems like a lot of killers keep those. It's foolish to think I am anything different to them, even if I do my best to be as functional in society as possible. Even if I don't hate people.
I don't have any reasons to hate humanity. I wasn't bullied as a child, and even if I have any traumas, I had them treated a long time ago. I've been afflicted with this curse for years. I recall having these urges ever since I hit my teens. They were a lot more timid back then. Easily supressable. But as I aged, the withdrawal from killing had been only worse, as I described above. Perhaps, the first, curious kill had started it all. They always say if you start, you'll never stop. That is my guess.
What was my first kill, you may ask? It's a very captivating story I still recall with a strange sense of sentimentality. Perhaps I can describe it now, because what other time will I really have?
As any other, I started with an animal. It's almost cliche by now. We always ask the patient what they started with, or sometimes ask them outright whether they hurt animals. And it almost always starts with them. The explanation, from my view, is quite simple: this is the first time the curious young mind finds out how it feels to be in control of someone else's life. Feeling a small bird squirm in your hand, panicking, silently begging you to release it. Cats and dogs clawing and biting at your arms, struggling to escape from your grasp. Guinea pigs carefully trying to breathe, not even moving, as you threaten to strangle them. So small and hopeless.
My first animal kill was a tiny bird. I used to catch smaller birds for fun, trapping them with a self-made little bait. Usually I released them after staring at their puny little dot-eyes, or the beautiful colour of their feathers. But that day, the young, happy Jakob held a pathetic teety tiny bird in his hands… and felt the power.
It felt so soft to hold, and I played around with it a little, stroking its feathers carefully with my thumb. Even in my small hands, it felt puny. Maybe it was a little baby bird that just learnt to fly. I don't really recall the visual details by now - what was important to me is how I quickly came to realise that it was fully within my power to let it live, or slaughter it, squash it. I was curious. Way too curious for my own good. And I think this is what really started it all. This is nothing compared to putting down your beloved dog with a gun, or killing a chicken for food. It's a lot more personal when you hold that tiny life in your own grasp. A life you've never seen before. All you know is that now, this tiny bird's fate is entirely up to you. This is how it feels to be in control for once.
So I killed it. I pressed my hands together, and eventually, it splattered, its bones crushing under the pressure as its disgusting guts and blood spilled all over my hands, some bone pieces lodging themselves into my skin. Only its head poked out, as it whistled its last weak squeal before getting its lungs crushed.
I remember being overwhelmed. Hard to even say what I felt. A mix of disgust from all the mess, surprise, and strange sense of… pleasure, I think. What I just did really didn't sink in for a while. I threw it from my window in a weird state of horror, but not without taking a little trophy. I plucked its feather and put it into a pretty box. It was a little blood-stained. Well, not was, but is - I still keep my unusual trophies from these days.
From that day on, most birds I caught weren't released. Most of them starved to death or suffocated as I put them in a jar and closed the lid. I plucked the pretty feathers from their corpses, and put them into my trophy box. The bodies themselves I usually buried or threw in the trash outside, hoping it'll never be known. I was always quite a secretive person that knew how to never be found, you see.
Soon enough, birds were too boring for me. I wanted a bigger fish. The birds taught me how to fly, and now I wanted to reach new heights.
So I hunted down stray cats. My parents were simply happy I finally started going outside more, not suspecting a thing.
"Lately, all her neighbour's cats have disappeared…"
Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick, and I'm telling you, them pussycats is quick.
Dealing with sick, dying cats was not only difficult, but also outright not sanitary in any way. I must've gotten sick a solid five times before I stopped chasing illness. "Don't pet the strays, or at least wash your hands afterwards" memo from my mom must've gone entirely over my head, just because of how excited I was about knowing something she didn't. Of what I actually did to these bloody cats.
Initially I caught them and strangled them, but eventually, my interest turned more gory. I brought a knife from the kitchen and turned to stabbing them instead. We had plenty, so one missing wasn't all that rare, and I also didn't want to risk bringing disease into the household, so I just kept it tucked away in the furthest corner of my drawer. Always thoroughly washing it before that. Turns out, blood is a little bit of a bitch to wash off when it's a little dry, even when dealing with metal surfaces.
I did go out of my way to never spill any of the blood on my own clothing. It wasn't super messy work anyway, more like a vivisection. Had to keep the knife sharpened, and I always did it when I was alone to not raise any suspicion for sure. Even if no one would really question it. I was about 15 at the time, I think.
I slaughtered cats just to see what's inside of them. And for fun, can't forget fun. It became a habit to always go outside on Saturdays and pop a pussycat's life.
Then, I moved to dogs. These were actually tough to take down, but as I aged, it became something of a sport. My neighbourhood was quite filled with strays, and the cutdown of them, if anything, was a blessing to the locals. No more annoying cats or scary dog packs. I lured the dogs out one by one with a bone or some meat, then while they were eating, I stabbed them in their neck multiple times. Took a habit of wearing black, as it's harder to see bloodstains on it.
And I had to quickly learn the most efficient ways of washing out blood from clothes with household items. I'm not sharing them there. Screw you. Do it yourself, it's half the fun of it. I'm talking to you, edgy teenager reading the printed version of my manifesto ten years after all of this is said and done, thinking you relate to me and my urges in some way. What a joke. Go out and play with your friends instead, or do something useful. Help your mom, hug her and tell her you love her and appreciate everything she's done for you. Actually, if you read this and think we're anything alike, you probably don't even have a mo…
Okay, I'm going on a tangent here.
Point is, at the time, the excitement of killing a life started diminishing more and more. Initial kills of the bigger animals were satisfying, but as I killed more, it never felt the same. Like a junkie, I chased a new high. And what's higher than a man's best friend? That's right, a man.
But that's a story for another day. My hand is tired from all this writing, and I've got a long day tomorrow. A long day of listening to psychos with daddy issues and schizos believing themselves to be the new Messiah. The hell they are, but can't just tell that to a patient now, can I? Ugh…
