AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“But earlier you said something about some big numbers.”
“Four rounds a night isn't bad. I don't keep count, because they're usually one right after the other.”
“Really?” I pretend to not care and rest my head on the backrest of the lounge. “That sounds like a threat,” I trace imaginary steps with my fingers along the lounge's armrest. “I'm just letting you know you'll have plenty of dessert tonight, but before that, let's get rid of these nasty clothes.”
I look at his blood-stained shirt and my dress and realize he's right.
“Do you still care about the ecosystem?” I raise an eyebrow, and Manasseh lifts me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes, excited about my idea to take a shower together.
“I was the president of the recycling club in high school,” he playfully smacks my butt, and I start laughing.
CHAPTER 22
Five years ago
MANASSEH
But inside doesn’t matter…[...]
There are no more barriers to cross.
All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed.
My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others.
I want no one to escape.
But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.
This confession has meant nothing. - American Psycho, 2000
How many times have I seen this movie?
It must be the fifth, or even the tenth. I can't remember. It's a classic, and classics have always been better than anything else, and I consider myself a classic guy. From the Leonardo DiCaprio-style haircut to the casual style and a polished look. My favorite brand is Polo, though I also buy clothes from other brands due to the wide range of sportswear. I never go without the leather-buckled watch on my wrist, or the clean, long socks. I have a compulsive obsession with my underwear, I can't stand it when someone touches it, and I hate when people go through my things. My favorite days are the ones when I have boxing training, when I can vent the stress that piles up during the week and channel my excess energy into something productive. This sport suits me, but everyone who dares to step into the ring with me knows from the start that it's better to avoid my face, even though it's a contact sport and the blows are usually aimed at the upper body. I take care to shield my face from any harm, as my mom can't stand me coming home with face bruises.
My schedule is usually pretty packed, and I've gotten used to keeping things in order, both in my room and in my life. But sometimes, all this structure just drains me, both physically and mentally, and in the end, I find myself in chaos. I envy my siblings and how they get to enjoy their freedom while I'm the eldest and stuck with the most responsibilities.
This burden is heavy, but my knees are sturdy, and my back won't give up.
I'm into watching documentaries about real events, especially about crimes and serial killers. After I've binged almost everything on Netflix about serial killers, I've returned to the movie that captivated me a few years ago. Back then, I was too young to understand that those who do wrong were once good people who got tired of suffering alone. When people don't get the help they need, they tend to unleash their pain onto others so they can keep going.
No one deserves to go through pain alone.
Not even the worst people, kind of like... me.
On the flip side, I've been dealing with my own pain for as long as I can remember. I can't open up to anyone about what's really bothering me, and it's easier to let my pain onto others, making them suffer in the hope that it'll ease my own suffering.
The easiest way to escape your own pain is to make others hurt.
It's like a trade-off where I get a little relief.
Sharing the pain makes it easier.
I don't exclusively want to hurt others, but it also doesn't seem fair to suffer on my own. For whatever reason, I feel like this existential crisis began the day I was born and might only end when I close my eyes for good.
Death—a topic that triggers overwhelming anxiety in me with just a simple mention, a word with a strong impact on my fragile psyche.
I'm afraid of death, and perhaps that's why I occasionally get inexplicable panic attacks. Most often at night, when I find myself dwelling too much on everything bothering me in this messed up life, I lose control over my emotions. It's as if an invisible monster grips my throat, as if it could crush my neck barehanded. In those moments of terror, my lungs seem to empty of air, and I feel myself slowly and painfully suffocating.
