Read It At Your Own RiskI’ve been treading through the corridors of these thoughts for a long time now. The more I walk, the closer the walls get to me, the shorter is the roof. It is about time I say it, without letting the pendulum swing any more. I must not be buried and squashed by the walls. Finally, I must act.

They are thoughts not easily expressed, not easily felt. It looms and controls and drags you through a dilated sense of time which you can never be habituated. They slowly ooze out of you, silently at first, then, like a rash, they start itching you, irritating your skin, staining your reality with their heavy presence. Your whole life, day and night, becomes a swamp for those thoughts that turn your face upside down, all the blood gushing through your eyes and nose and ears. Belligerently you try to reverse it, but it won’t do. These thoughts dress your head with their despotic crown of thorns.

You cannot cry. You cannot laugh. You cannot speak. You cannot look with easy eyes and you can never lavish your saddened heart. You swallow your tongue and stare blankly into the daily events that occur around you. You become a neutral spectator, bound and tied by Thoughts; staring face down into the deep, searching for an end, but there is no end, and there will never be a catharsis.

Every day, the cycle begins again. Dull and dry mornings, dull and dry evenings. Meaningless days and squandered nights. Spirit never free, skin peeling and wrinkling by the hour; hair falling and muscles failing. Reality gilds these thoughts with its fakeness. There is no truth.

The crowd, all as one, pierces every barrier with its feeble laughter and it drives your mind, heart and soul to sin. Anger stays inward to become the fuel of your violent imagination. Violence becomes your deliverance.

In truth, how can anyone live in such a world? I’m not talking about the inequality of opportunities; the pollution; the gravity; the vicious morals from hell; the poverty; the mental, physical and international violence; economical problems; the scarcity of resources; world hunger; AIDS and cancer; pedophilia; homophobia; drugs; taxes; abuses; lousy welfare systems; unemployment; paradoxes; nuclear arms race; racism; secularism; sectarianism; corruption; politics; materialism; extremist spirituality; pornography; tyranny; uncontrolled freedom; gun trade; fanatic Islamist terrorists; fanatic Zionist terrorists; the Israeli-Arab conflict; the oil crisis; consumerism; conformity; decaying music; decaying youthful minds; decaying adult minds; deforestation; psychopaths; narcissistic schizophrenics. I’m talking about the fakeness: the Russian who does not speak Russian; The hobo who owns three villas across town; the indebt wana-be yuppie who drives his new four-door Porsche Panamera; the slut-in-disguise university student searching for her perfect target; the mindless youths who ride the tides and drift without any serious thought of anything; the mindless youths who think they have it all sorted out, who refuse to be politically affiliated, who think everything is a conspiracy, who think that having an empty and unstained paper has the power to change things; the mindless youths who think that by being politically affiliated they can change things but do not realize how impotent their own package of thoughts is because they’re so stoned and high on party slogans and blue skies; mindless youths who think it is cool to be depressed, to be chemically imbalanced, to be mad, to be on the verge of collapse, who feign depression and madness in order to rise up in the social ranks of society; mindless youths who wear Ralph Lauren shirts just because it’s more esteemed than everything else; vegetarians who refuse to eat meat but suck on dick like a it’s their only source of respite. Nearly everyone wants to be the next pathetic fucked-up case. Nearly everyone wants to be involved in a disaster in order to be the one who survived to tell the tale. Nearly everyone clutches every chance to feel down, to feel sympathy, to pity other people. Nearly everyone tries to benefit from the death of a close friend or family member. Nearly everyone wants to be nostalgic. Everyone suffers from fake psychological disorders and traumatic events which they try so hard to forget, but the memory is so light it can be included in a comedy script. Everyone is obsessive compulsive; everyone has attention deficit disorder; everyone is a retard. Everyone is a deviant now: the male who fucks a male, the female who fucks a female, the female who fucks a male while the female fucks a female, the male who fucks a male who fucks a female, the male who fucks a female while fingering a dog etc. Our whole world is a simulation of how life should or shouldn’t be. But you’re not even alive because you are all appendages to the inanimate external. You are all replaceable products! You are all mass produced.

It all angers me. It all triggers violent imaginations in me. These imaginations overflow.

I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.

My first victim, a teenage girl coming out of school, barely thirteen years old, talking on the phone, talking to, and not with, her boyfriend, talking without worry, talking so merrily on her shiny black six-hundred dollar mobile phone. I followed her as she walked and talked without a care. I waited until she finished talking. I waited until she walked under the dark shadow of a tree and I snatched her. One arm to her mouth, the other to her wait. When I snatched her I got turned on. I did it quickly. No rape, just murder. Behind to a big green dumpster, I knocked her unconscious. I threw her phone and purse in the garbage. I pulled the kukri knife out of its sheath and I started. I killed her quickly death by cutting her throat. The blood poured. I raised my hand and started hitting her neck with the edge of the knife, trying to decapitate her. After three strong hits, her neck was obviously separated from the rest of the body even though they were still connected through rivers of blood. I did the same to all her limbs and then I carved a long line that divided her body in half. I left her bloodied, fragmented and mutilated body in the dumpster and put her head in the hard cover guitar case I had with me. I walked very calmly away. No one had seen me and my raging heart and excited mind assured me that I would do it again. My hand did not even tremble.

I was born again that day. The new genesis of my liberated self and my liberated world. The genesis of Sheriff Jaroudy.


4 thoughts on “Genesis

    • Gabriel

      it would be plagiarism if this were an essay. But since it’s a work of fiction, artistic license permits him to say it, especially in this case, since this is the voice of the character, not the voice of the author.
      From this basic point, we can live with the fact that the author is not the serial killer he is writing about.
      Simple but important.

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