• I’m Not Sadistic

    “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Paul, the creepy detective with the monotone voice asked me. I shook my head no as the lights flickered. The cold concrete walls of the interrogation room gave me goose bumps. I kept my arms crossed and my glare towards Paul’s black stone eyes. “I want to help you. If you tell me what happened you will feel better, I promise.”
    “I don’t need help!” I screamed back, jumping out of the crappy metal chair they gave me to sit down on. “What I did was self-defense, and quite frankly, I was hungry.”
    “What you did is what got you in this mental institution!” Paul yelled back in anger. We were both out of our seats now. “We saw the evidence, but were missing the story behind it.” Again the lights flickered.
    “Either way I’ll end up in a strait jacket! I prefer this story to be left untold,” I smirked back, giving him a devilish smile. Paul didn’t say anything. He just sat down, crossed his arms, and stared at me for a while. I was still standing, trying not to crack up laughing at the ridiculousness of this all. After a while, I got tired and sat down. I started tapping my fingers; I couldn’t stand the dead silence. Dead; my favorite word next to gush. I looked up to see Paul still staring at me, not moving, just staring. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “OKAY, OKAY! God, you put up a good fight! I’ll tell you my story. But remember, I warned you. You might not like what you hear.”
    “I’m listening.”
    As a younger kid, I wasn’t really social. While other kids played tag, I drew pictures. That might sound normal, but I didn’t draw the kind of pictures you might expect. Most kids my age drew stick figures and flowers, but I drew corpses and knives. You’d think my parents would be worried about me; their seven year old daughter drawing people getting stabbed and hung; but you’d be wrong. My mother committed suicide when I was five and my father brings in new women he meets at the bar into our house every night, so he couldn’t care less about my life.
    When I was eleven, people started actually noticing my drawings. They called me emo and sadistic and said I probably came from Hell or that my mother committed suicide because she hated me. Kids were mean. Every day I wanted to kill myself, but I knew that in Hell they wouldn’t let me draw.
    The things I have told you so far have just been the background of my life, here is where the real story begins. I am a thirteen year old girl. I’ve never had a boyfriend, yet I’ve been called beautiful. People talk to me, but once they get to know me better and see my drawings they start to ignore me and call me sadistic just like the rest of the jerks and douchebags in the world.
    After school one day I was walking home. Alone. But I was used to walking home by myself, secretly watching the crowds of people across street in my peripheral vision. Today, though, was different. Today there was an after school pep rally, a pep rally I didn’t feel like attending. Of course all of the “so-called-popular” kids were at the rally, so I was walking home with only the sounds of the cool fall air blowing the leaves off trees to listen to.
    A car drove by, crushing the branches and leaves underneath it. It was a small black car with tinted windows, new wheels and no license plate in the back. A few minutes later it drove by again. Then again. Then again. By the fifth time it passed I decided that the person driving the car wasn’t lost, but stalking me. When it passed by once again, I hid behind a small bush. The car came around the block and stopped. A tall, thin man with dirty-blonde hair to his shoulders and cheap plastic sunglasses stepped out of the car. He was looking around with something sticking out of his pocket. The next thing I remember I was tied up in a broken rocking chair with the strange blonde guy staring at me from across the room. I looked around and saw that I was in an old tire warehouse with some burnt marks on the walls and ceiling. The man started telling me how beautiful I looked and started slowly coming towards me. I flipped out and started kicking and screaming. I got my hands loose enough so I could grab the knife that was in my pocket and got up and ran with the chair on my back. I stabbed the man once in the stomach and twice in the heart. He fell to the ground in pain, dead as road kill.
    I cut off the ropes so I was free and searched for some food but had no luck. I then stared at the blonde haired man lying dead on the floor. I shuffled over to him and kneeled down next to him, got my knife out, and stabbed him again. And again. And again. I stabbed him as his blood splattered onto my smiling face. “This one’s for stalking me!” I yelled, “This one’s for kidnapping me! And this one’s for tying me up in a chair!” I kept screaming until I was completely satisfied. It was complete and utter bliss and enjoyed every last bit of it.
    I searched him for his phone and called the police. When they got to where I was, instead of worrying about my safety, they were all stunned by the sight of the blonde haired man dead on the floor with his heart ripped out and my body covered in his blood. And that’s how I got here.
    The light in the interrogation room flickered again “I’m done,” I said.
    “Very interesting,” Paul the detective spoke in his creepy monotone voice.
    “You’re going to put me in a strait jacket now aren’t you?”
    Paul took a while to ponder this before he talked again. “Yes,” he said, “Yes I am.” The lights flickered again and then went out for about three minutes. When they came back on, Paul was on the floor with my knife stabbed into his heart and my hands covered in blood. I then realized, that I was sadistic.