Whispers and memories

Part 1

Whispers in the dark, telling me to look out. I catch my name on the edge of these same conversations. The sweet voice, louder than the others, tells me it is just in my head, I should take the pills, it isn’t me they are looking for. But that is why I disguise myself when I do the terrible things, the things I must. I know they are terrible the TV says so. She is there so they don’t drive me mad, but I’ve slipped up. My name is on the wind, someone knows, the description is too close for them not to notice.

I ask her to turn up the TV, and she responds with a question, typical of her profession, question the motive of everything. Of course it is a good idea, information has great value, the more I know the less chance of being caught. Unlike her, I never question the motive, I want to or I don’t, it makes choices and life very simple. This place makes life simple, the meals are served at the same time, someone keeps it clean, there are always clean sheets, I put my clothes and towel in the hamper in the bathroom and the next day they are folded, clean and in my locker.

How long before she realises, I’m not schizophrenic, I’m psychotic? Should I show her the real me? Do I let the game play a little longer? She is not like the rest, she isn’t afraid. I could change that, if I wanted, but her last thoughts of me would be pity, it is a strength I sense I could not break. I don’t want pity, this disgusting soul does not deserve such kindness.

The medication will make me sleepy, it makes me forget, until I forget to take it, then I will go hunting and remember. I hunt because I can, they hunt me because they are afraid. I tell her a story about a dream, or a memory, I forget which now. She writes more notes, the scratch of her pencil is soothing, a reminder of my childhood. I used to draw, but mother did not like my pictures. One day I made her like one, I think I was 12, they are still hunting her killer. Instead of punishment I was given a better one. I would have liked it there but the dog didn’t like me. I chose to leave, it wasn’t the dog’s fault, he wasn’t dumb, and he was too much for me at that age.

The voices struggle to be heard, hers is still the loudest, the clearest, she says the others aren’t real, but the whispers say the same about her, they say she is the evil that keeps me from doing good. She says I should take the pills and the voices will go away. That is a truth I already know. The choices are sleep or hunt. I’m tired, I take the pill.

………………

Part 2

Something is not right, I try to remember but it is fleeting, just beyond reach, then it is gone. The discomfort remains, I can hear my heart pounding, and I remember. It’s too quiet, the rumble is missing. Silence is unnatural, predators are hunting. Have they found me? The whispers are deafening in their absence. A quiet creak reaches my ears, maybe half way down the hall. I keep my breathing steady, resisting the urge to hold it, if there is someone there, to them, I’m still, asleep. I sit up suddenly and scream, “WHO’S THERE? WHAT DO YOU WANT?”. I don’t really care, but it shows what is. A door bangs, and running feet, someone else is screaming like they have found a body, there is high pitched wailing and low sobbing, chaos lives, everything is as it should be at 2am. I close my eyes and relax.

……………………..

Her voice is gentle, soothing, I like it. I tell her a story of hunters and prey, where I am the prey. Her pencil scratches at the paper and I hear my mother praying for me. I do not know why she bothered, I was her son, she knew what I was before I did. Her voice asks again, I ignore it again while searching for a memory I would have had if not for the interruption. She thinks last night was important, a trigger. She is right, almost, I was unsettled so I made myself calm, the trigger, I pulled. Almost a quarter of the other residents reacted. I tell her about another dream, well a story I made up, about a shadow that followed me, taunting me with unkind words about my mother and why she died. She believes the pictures I drew were inspired by my mother’s death, I do not correct her, it was the other way round. It makes her happy to think she is getting somewhere. The whispers say they are coming, but don’t say who. The TV says they are closing in. She says it is not me they are looking for. I feed her information, but only that which I underlined in the paper, which she has already seen. She offers me something for the paranoia. I’m not ready to leave, so I take the pills.

…………………….

Part 3

I find people fascinating, how they pretend to be what they loathe. Pseudo Christians are the worst for it. The more vocal about Christianity they are, the less Christian, and the more they hate actual Christians. Those who shout about rights and freedom the loudest, are those who are the most oppressive. And the first to scream for censorship to silence anyone who disagrees with them. The pillars of our society, exploiting the masses for profit. Exploiting their fears, exploiting and claiming reputations and deeds, they abhor, of people they despise. Preying on those who cannot protect themselves. For what? Power, control, wealth, greed? Yet I am considered evil, why? Because I prey on those who cannot protect themselves from me. People are such hypocrites.

We sit quietly together, I want to hear her voice, but she has heard all my usual stories, those true, those made up, I’ve never run out before, a new experience for me, so we sit in silence. To repeat makes a pattern. Patterns are treatable, diagnosable, identifiable. Once they know who and what I am they will be able to follow the trail I have left criss-crossing the country. The scratching stopped a while ago, she wants me to say something, but trying not to prompt me, I need a new dream, but the pills stifle my creativity, so I try my hand at acting, I curl my body and rock, thinking of peeling onions. Crying on command for me is a real trial. The things I find beautiful give me an erection, as do the things that make me happy. The pills don’t let me be sad, and thankfully my erection doesn’t show. A single tear rolls down my cheek, and I sniff. The whispers tell me she is not being fooled this time, that I should do what I’m good at, they really don’t get it. They have known me as long as I have known myself and they still think their opinion matters. I smile and almost laugh at their stupidity, proof the whispers are real, no self respecting paranoia would be that dumb. She asks if it’s a happy or sad memory. I curl a little tighter and rock a little faster, my erection got harder. The scratching is furious, like the pencil has caught the scent of a thesis.

……………………………………………

Part 4

The TV news cycle has nothing new to say, papers are the same, empty of content. I’m no longer interesting. Their audience has a short attention span, and those in charge of it understand if they repeat and recycle content too often they become too predictable, people become complacent and they will lose viewers and readers, and then advertisers and profits. They trade on outrage and fear, the more outrage the more fear the longer they can keep people watching. Greed works that way, keep people either outraged or afraid and they will make bad decisions, bad choices seeking to protect what they perceive to be theirs, by triggering their self interest. The greedy like to exploit, but they can only exploit the greed of others. They may con people once, but trigger their greed and they can be exploited multiple times, greed makes people stupid.

The whispers want to torment me, to sap my confidence and resolve to do anything without their direction. Control is what they desire but like people, they need it to be given willingly, they too rely on fear and outrage to enable manipulation. They too exploit the greed of self interest. I hurt their feelings when I laughed them, and they are afraid. I use their fear against them, to get answers and confirm suspicions. They are too afraid to lie, they now know I only hear them because I choose to, and I choose to because it amuses me, they are also very aware if I decide not to hear them, they won’t exist.

She asks me about my drawings again, still believing they were caused by my Mother’s brutal mutilation. I tell her the truth, the images came to me in dreams. These are drawings of acts I performed on victims chosen by a jury of their peers for punishment. I did not tell her I’d been having these dreams for years before my Mother was chosen for punishment. I miss drawing, but the police are not stupid, no mater how they are portrayed in movies, and even a stupid person could work out my identity if I drew them a picture. I know what I am and what I do. I am not about to make it easy for them to stop me. She asks if I know why I’m here, I nod. There is a secret to good camouflage. If you want to hide a yellow flower, plant it among a field of yellow flowers of another kind, if you want to hide a psychopath, put him in an institution and label him bipolar. I mumble a lie, and she looks at me trying to decide if my talk of suicide is in the past or present tense, while making scratching sounds with her pencil. She asks how I feel now. I have two choices, an attempted suicide or come out of hiding. The whispers want me to self harm, the vindictive shits they are. I tell her the truth.

………………………………………….

Part 5

The babble is deafening, thousands of voices, cars and other sounds, mingle into a continuous stream of noise. It never changes, bar the occasional sharp interjection bursting out, only to be swallowed and blended into the babble. This is people noise, a living, breathing city. They call it, “life”, I call it, “an ugly death just too ignorant to stop breathing”.

Judgement has been passed, the guilty, my prey is not here on the street, but somewhere in the canopy of this concrete jungle, away from the noise, smells, and horrors, far above his prey and their filth The hunt begins.

The whispers keep saying, they are watching, they know, everyone knows. It seems they have gained their backbone again. They keep me alert for anymore than passing interest. It is easy to pick the predator once it has picked its prey. They are the one watching for the opportunity.

My prey will venture out, there are places his kind congregate, where they mix, preen and strut, seeking companionship, mates and more importantly, flattery and accolades to feed their vanity. These places are accessible to three classes, their kind, the beautiful and the invisible. Clothing is what separates them, the material the quality and the brand. The beautiful can wear anything, they are the toys to be discarded when past their use by. The invisible fit two categories, workers and those who seem to belong, but nobody really notices. Wear the right clothes and no one questions and no one sees.

More babble, only a more refined kind, voices, music, laughter, hypnotic strobing lights, people forgetting about everything but the moment they are in, seeking love, but in this room few if any are capable of giving love. This room is full of predators, living in an alcohol and drug fuelled truce, while weighing the competition. Some are here only to watch, some are here to trap a mate, some for a night, some a bounty or meal ticket, some to be trapped to feed a fetish they can blame on the drugs and alcohol, either for pleasure or punishment depending on how much they hate themselves.

I weave my way through the throng, bodies press against me, they call it dancing, I’m getting old. A drink is offered I politely reject it. Only the naive accept drinks from strangers in a place of predators, those that do will not remember their night, as the ruthless use them until they are sated. He is not here. I see her, two men, one either side are walking her to a side door. She has become prey, I move to intercept. They look annoyed, SHE IS MINE. They offer her with no resistance, they work in shadows, my presence and voice are like a beacon, a spotlight upon their deed. Behind that door are cameras and perverts, their victims become instant internet porn stars, they seem willing and consenting and the film makers reap the cash of the thousands of downloads. They disappear and we leave, she will not remember.

Part 6

The taxi drops us at her building, her card and keys let us into her apartment. She is compliant with every command only vaguely aware of her surroundings and being sat on her bed. I get her to drink two glasses of water then make her lay on her side and cover her with a throw. I sit in the chair, that seems to serve as a clothes horse, with a book from her shelf. Reading will pass the time until I can leave.

…………………………………………………….

I lose count of dance clubs and parties, the whispers sound like a broken record, I ignore their whining, and search the faces. A text message from her arrived two days after I left her apartment. “It was you”! I ignore it. A day later, “WHY”? I respond with her kind of question, she answers, “no”. I continue to search the faces. My phone vibrates again, “Can we talk”? I smile and resist the urge to say we are, I text back, “I am at your leisure Doctor.”

……………………………………………………….

I sit in her office, not the one in the institution but her private consultancy. Her clients here have money, the institution is her charity work, her penance to justify charging exorbitant fees for listening to people complain and brag about their extravagant and entitled lives. There is silence, she is uncertain as to why we are here in her haven. When she speaks her voice lacks confidence, that is normal, she understands how close she came to being a statistic, if not her near debut as a skin flick actress. Her friends abandoned her to be preyed upon knowing she would be, while they pursued their own destinies. In her world, and study, people are motivated by desire of something. Her questions are not about their motives but mine, what I expect in return for helping her. I left no trail, my voice was her key to my identity, she recognised it and remembered it when she awoke. I do not want there to be blurring of patient doctor confidentiality. I tell her, I was looking for an absent friend whom I have lost contact. It does not satisfy her, I tell her the whispers say she should seek therapy for her trauma, as it will impact her decision making, employment and personal relationships. It is a lie the whispers berate me for not taking advantage of her, they say it was what she was there for. She smiles, my reward, but it is not real, her eyes are troubled, she is damaged, she knows she needs help. I tell her we can talk again when she is well. …………………………………………………………

Part 7

Weeks passed before I see the face I am looking for, he is chatting to one of the beautiful people. I find a place to sit in shadow where I can maintain a view. When they leave I follow, it is not a long trip, they walk, never entering the street, staying on the concourse connecting the complex made of 6 towers. He is on the 42nd floor, one of 4 appartments. The time of waiting begins. To know my prey as only his habits know him. To know by the sound of his voice, the carriage of his man bag which way he will turn, which path he will follow and when he will present himself for punishment. I move quietly through his apartment, I open every draw, and every cupboard. I touch and move nothing. Everything for his punishment is here. The rope, the tape, the knives and the bags. I need bring in nothing. His life would seem bland, no pictures, no plates or food, a stereo but no records, a large flat screen TV and DVD player but no DVDs or digital connection, there are suits and night wear but no casual clothes, this is a prop for image, and a place to sleep and fuck, the FBI would call it a safe house, I smile and adjust my erection. I check every corner, every crack and device, there are no hidden cameras or sensors, it is not a trap nor place of entrapment. The whispers try to direct me, they attempt to second guess my next move to enable them to claim the credit, but they are greedy so believe I am motivated by greed. Not enough nous between them to tie a shoe lace, if they wore shoes. If they were in control I would have been caught years ago. The apartment is cleaned 3 days a week, the same lady arrives at the same time and leaves at the same time, she has her own access pass and key. His clothes are dry-cleaned by a service that picks up and delivers from a drop box. It is not a life, it is an existence reminiscent of the institution, I could be happy here. …………………………………………………………

I find myself doodling on a napkin, it is her face I have drawn. Yet it is not her. The person I have drawn is vulnerable, frightened and alone. Is this from a dream? The present? The future? The future I prevented? Something feels wrong. What has changed? I search my mind for a clue, the whispers sense my confusion and see a weakness they relentlessly try to exploit. Motivation has never been a concern, so why now? I draw because I can, because I want to. They are a vision of what should pass. I have always known what they mean. But not this one. She has not returned to work yet, they offer someone else and I decline. I leave no message though they will no doubt tell her I tried to make an appointment. My prey’s punishment can wait a little longer. I’m am sure he would not mind even he knew what was coming. …………………………………………………………

Part 8

The buzzer to her apartment zzzzzts for the sixth time before the door opens and allows me access to her building. I knock on the her door and wait, another new experience hits me, impatience. I am usually very happy to wait. It’s what I do best. That and watching. I knock a second, then third time. Eventually it too opens. I am faced by the image I drew. I try to resist the urge to question my reason for being here, but the whispers make it impossible. She hardly looks at me says nothing, turns and walks away into the room leaving the door open. I accept this as an invitation to follow. There ends the doctor patient relationship. I knew that the moment I decided to come, now that is finalised. By the time I’d closed the door, she had taken up a position on the lounge her arms around her legs, her chin on her knees, watching me, she is searching for something.

I have always found empathy difficult, but I consider all the human frailties associated with betrayal, shock, abuse and trauma. Fear, loss of confidence, the inability to function or manage even simple tasks beyond the necessity of survival. Her intelligence, imagination and the words and images of every abuse victim she had sit or lay on her couch, coupled with the near zero memory of the hours the drug had her, was causing her endless nightmares. Her mind, her voices were consuming her every moment with scenes of things that could have happened, might have happened, with no idea which was a dream or potential memory and the result was debilitating.

The whispers were relentless, “do it, she wants you to, she needs you too. End her, give the peace she is craving, the pain she knows she has earned”. They were wrong of course, she needs to know what happened and understand all the motivations involved. She needs to know the truth! She also needs to have something solid to trust in. The first is simple, but getting her to trust me enough to believe anything I say will be more difficult. The whispers may have been wrong about her knowing I was lying to her when they said it, but now it’s true. She knows I am not schizo! That adds further confusion to her current state, she thought she understood who I was, now she knows none of it was real. She knows I was manipulating her. My stay in the institution, the hours of conversations were nothing but play acting a character for her to diagnose as Bipolar, add to that the pictures that were clearly real, and the claim of being a hunted killer. Misdirection and hiding things in plain sight are tools of the con artist, once one lie becomes unravelled the entire structure of deceit collapses and becomes clear, the “why”, suddenly becomes chillingly obvious for her. She still hasn’t spoken, all of this is written in the searching looks seeking something to cling to. I can see what it is she needs, she needs to know who I am, she needs to see who I am, then her world will make sense again and the endless “what ifs” will stop. “Get dressed we are going for a walk”. ……………………………………………………………………

Part 9

Emotions are truly strange. Human conditioning of them can screw a child up just by how often the child is hugged. Deep inside her subconscious mind she knows she is not at fault, but human conditioning, the way people treat those that have been abused, and then there is the punishment for reporting abuse, her conscious mind believes it is. Beneath this internal conflict lies anger and resentment and hate, all of which she should be directing at those predators seeking to use and abuse anyone they can catch, she, like so many others in her place, has been directing it at herself. She believes her current state of mind trauma is her fault, that she is solely responsible for her fear, loss of confidence, and without being punished, she believes death is her only course. Mentally abusing and admonishing herself for acts and abuses she did not do nor had any control. All of it because of emotions and how they have been conditioned and developed. Sometimes I pity them and am pleased I don’t feel the way they do, other times I wonder what it would be like to have that little control. I still feel, just not in the same way. It is not feelings I lack it is the ability to empathise that has not developed. The feelings of others rarely comes into consideration, even when it is considered socially appropriate. Again I am stuck by the question of why. Why am I here with this doctor? And why am I questioning my motives? What has changed?

The walk is a slow silent one until we reach a vacant bench at the edge of a park fronting a busy walk way. We sit and I start a one sided conversation. “There before you is the human race. Just animals with an opposable thumb, that enables them to do stuff other animals can only dream. Look at them, rushing around in meaningless lives until they die. They believe their lives mean something, but they spare no thought about anything but self. They don’t think about the cost their life has on others only the cost they pay, no thoughts to those who are sacrificed, exploited, enslaved, raped and murdered in the name of civilisation. They know it happens, they know they are part of it and the cause, but they have been conditioned to believe it is necessary to not consider those deemed lesser than themselves, those without power or wealth, be it people, animals, or earth. It is all there to be used and exploited for their happiness. They call it civilisation, they are predators preying on those weaker than themselves, there is nothing civilised about it. Most are too afraid to stand out, to become a target. They lack the strength to face the predators and stare them down, they choose the easy path and rely on the herd numbers praying it is someone else, not them that gets taken. Some try to be different, but like the victims of predation, they are seen as the weak and cowardly, to be mocked, yet it is they who are the strongest in heart and mind, with the courage to stand against the evils of greed. Civilised society they call it. Civilised? Society has been going backwards since the stone age.”

Part 10

An hour passes then two, the passage of people never changes, rushing to places with purpose, their meaningless existence, breeding, over populating, polluting and destroying everything that does not fit in their view of how life should be. And the noise, the noise, it never stops. I say to her, “We could be watching an ant colony, or one of the plains herds, for all the difference it makes, just the stench here is worse. A putrid, corrupt, seething mass, contaminating everything with greed. Humans have the ability to choose to be better than mere animals, yet the majority choose not to be. They might believe they are somehow better, but it is just hubris, every time they are faced with something they don’t understand, they do what instinct tells them to do, kill it or destroy it. If it bothers them, they follow instinct, if it makes them afraid, they follow instinct, if it might compete for food or a mate, they follow instinct. Instinct, an out of date survival mechanism left over from our ape ancestry, easily over ridden by a compassionate thinking mind, yet they choose to live in and celebrate their ignorance and unwillingness to be no better than the animals we evolved from, and in many cases more parasitic than those creatures we think are lesser than ourselves, because we are greedy. We not only want our share, we want and take what we don’t need, depriving and denying others a chance of life, because we can. Our sense of entitlement to take and destroy, use, abuse and lay waste to land, species and cultures without thought, without shame, shows we are not civilised. We are killing our host and when our host dies we will too will die out. We do not deserve the power we hold, we do not deserve to be in control, we cannot be trusted to be fair or just, and most of us have have shown we have no right to exist any more than any other parasite and cancer”.

The whispers grow impatient, they were silent while I spoke, but when I stop they start, relentless in their ongoing attempts to manipulate my actions. You are exposed, you‘ve been seen, they know it’s you, kill her, run, she wants it, run, you can’t do it, if you leave her she’ll betray you, you cannot leave her, they’ll know your name, you are wrong, run now, while you can, run, they’ll cage you, you hate cages, run before they get here. I give them the acknowledgement they deserve, I ignore them, smile at their stupidity and they fall silent. I can feel their fear again, they feebly try a few muffled no’s, don’t, you need us. They truly are as pathetic as only the greedy can be. It is time to move, there is a hunt to complete.——————————————————————————

Part 11

There is no fear in her, only curiosity. The whispers were almost joyous in their tone when I tied her to the chair, still telling me they are coming, and I’ll be caught. I must do it now, quickly and flee. Yes, he is coming, my prey, he will open the door, and step through alone. They were correct about her wanting to feel the punishment she feels she deserves, including death. She sat calmly like a lamb for slaughter as I made her secure and methodically collected and laid out the tools of my trade. She, like the whispers, believe this is for her, but I sit near the door looking at her. We wait.

An hour of silence passes, well an hour of the whispers telling me to get it over with and leave her mutilated body for my prey to find. At the sound of the key in the lock, I stand and as he enters, her eyes bulge in shock as the gag muffled her screamed “No”. He sees her as I step behind him and a swift blow from the meat mallet he falls face first, and thuds to the floor.

There is always something satisfying in a well placed blow, not too hard, where the prey dies before they hit the ground, but firm enough to render them unconscious, without any of that unnecessary and unpleasant struggling and fighting.

I produce a sketch drawing and lay it before her. It had been years since I had actually drawn like this, it was exhilarating. A release, it bought a calmness, a peace I had forgotten. I had not drawn since my mother’s punishment. Something I learnt from Mother, if it does not exist, no-one can see it. Until her. She triggered something in me. It is not that I feel for her, like her, that concerns me. It is the something that makes me question it. I have never questioned motive, only ever do or don’t do, never should or shouldn’t. So why now? What’s different? More questions! Why? The whispers see an opening and strike. It’s a trap, she baited you, she knew all along, she was playing you, you’re a fool, Run, run now. I ignore their bleating. I remove her gag and let her catch her breath. I don’t need hear her, to know the first word out of her mouth, a question, she doesn’t disappoint and I smile at her, “Why?”. I repeat the question back at her and follow with. “Which part”?. Context is always important in a conversation.

“Why are you doing this”?

“Doing what”?

“This, the picture…. him”?

I shrug, “I hunt monsters, does it mater why”?

“What’s he done”?

I shrug again, “he’s a monster, I’m a monster hunter, would you ask a fisherman why they fish”?

“I don’t understand”.

I smile, “That is why you are here. Do you remember what I said as we left the park”?

“Don’t step on the ants”?

“Did you notice the ants”? She shook her head. “You looked down, what did you see”?

She closed her eyes, and lines formed across her brow, “Concrete, stains, dirt, grass, rubbish”?

“But nothing of importance, nothing deserving of life or respect? You didn’t see the ants! That is how monsters view the world. You saw the humans on the street scurrying around mechanically doing what their ancestors have done with their meaningless lives for millennia. Humans like this one, and many of those at the club, where they drugged you, look down at those in the streets below them and see nothing, because they are monsters. To the ants you are a monster, to other humans, he is“.

“But what’s he done, why him”?

“What did the marlin do? Why does the hunter choose one beast over another? Does it mater if God told me, or it was a dream or because? He is a monster, it is his time. I saw my prey, the hunt began. I don’t question it. It makes me happy”.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, “But that is wrong, you cannot kill for no reason”.

“He is a monster, I hunt monsters, that is reason enough.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“You want me to spare this one?”

“Yes”, I could hear the break in her voice. It was a plea.

I shrugged, there would be other hunts. I pickup the drawing and methodically wiped my fingerprints off every surface I touched. “The cleaner will be here at 10”. 15 hours is more than enough time for me to disappear. With the whispers shrieking in my ears, I left.