Dias
Fenrir
For a bit of background, a preview/background can be located here: http://www.serebiiforums.com/showthread.php?t=104430
Rating will be most definately R. R for language, violence, graphic scenes of torture, et cetera. This will be offensive. Read at your own risk.
Chapter One: And So it Begins With First Blood Drawn
They took me into a room, secluded from the maddening clamor of unanswered questions and the furious barrage of camera bulb flashes. I appreciated the tranquility of the scarcely populated, albeit small cubicle, even though they handcuffed my wrists to the chair at the farthest end of the wooden table which was the only present surface. As one guard made sure my manacles were secure, the other stood attention at the door through which we had entered, staring blankly into nothingness, firearm held tightly across his chest. Had I ever been like that? Mindless and submissive? I smirked at him and his position before leaning back into the chair (in which I was now, to the guard’s satisfaction, completely secured) and letting loose a sigh of relative boredom. All I really wanted to do at this point was go to my cell and relax during my days of waiting for the chair.
The door opened a moment later, and the psychologist who I had dismissively agreed to see walked in. I was surprised that it was a woman, though not really sure why. I had dealt with, in my past, so many psychologists that were all male that I suppose I was just expecting a man. She was attractive, with reddish hair pulled out of her face and green eyes. I scanned her over for just a moment as she walked over, her red coat coming off and into the hands of the guard who had bound me. She sat down across from me, and began setting things just-so on the table: a tape recorder with a small stack of tapes, some batteries, a pad of paper and a few pencils, and a pencil sharpener. She looked over her supplies and nodded, and then looked to me for the first time, and pressed the record button on her device.
“It is Sunday, October twenty-sixth, at precisely nine thirty-seven in the morning. I sit now with Dimitri Vilkates, also known as ‘The Jackal’ - infamous enforcer, murderer, kidnapper, burglar, interrogator, and informer of the criminal organization, Rocket. Mister Vilkates has agreed to be interviewed by me for a case study of criminal psychology. Mister Vilkates is here of his own free will and will not answer any questions he does not wish to answer.
First off, Mister Vilkates -”
“Call me Dimitri,” I said quickly. “I’m not partial to the ‘mister’ deal.”
“Very well. Dimitri. I suppose, before we get into your history, I shall ask about your nickname. Why ‘Jackal?’
“Hm..” I said with a smirk. Blowing air out of my nose and leaned back in the chair, thoroughly rendered uncomfortable thanks in part to the handcuffs. “Many things - traits, attributes, mannerisms - played a part in the construction of my alias.”
“Such as?” the doctor pressed. I shot her a dark look.
“I was getting to that. A little patience, if you please.” I took a moment to enjoy the satisfaction of watching a bit of color drain from her face before continuing. “The jackal is a predator. A capable hunter and killer. That reason alone is good enough for it to be a fitting name, but there is more.” I found myself becoming darkly dramatic as my answer continued. I wasn’t quite sure which disorder of mine exactly made it happen, but it had always been like that. I slipped pauses in my dialogue, and, of course, kept direct and intimidating eye contact.
“The jackal hunts rodents. Reptiles. It is what I did. I hunted the rats… the snakes… the vermin. Those who were filthy from crawling on their stomachs through the dirt and filth. The traitors and the squealers and the weak. The jackal is also a nocturnal predator. I hunted at night, mostly. How keen are you on mythology, miss?”
“Not very, I-”
“In Egyptian mythology, Anubis is the god of death. He is depicted as a figure with the body of a man and the head of - yes - a jackal. I was he - the crowned taker of life. I was also the giver of it, in some respects. But yes… I suppose that answers your question.”
“Yes, it does,” the psychologist murmured, jotting a few words down on her notebook. “Now, again, before we get into your… professional history, what of your childhood? Standards in psychology would go to suggest that you did not have what one would call a normal childhood, and I suspect it was possibly traumatic.”
“You don’t need clinical textbooks and a degree in the mind to decipher that, dear doctor,” I said sharply. I stared at her for a moment before continuing. “No, my childhood was not normal or pleasant, but I do not blame it for my future choices and courses of action. But, if you insist, very well.
I was born and raised - if you could call it that - in Saffron City. A settlement that earned the nickname ‘Undercity’ for reasons that are obviously clear. Saffron City is, though urbanized, a decent place to live. There are of course the typical noises of the city and environmental factors, but aside from that, it is, as I said, decent. Now, I don’t know if someone of your… breed… would have ever spent anytime in the Undercity, but allow me to paint you a portrait.” Before going on, I began to try to organize my memories, which was a task easier said than done. My mind did not work as a “normal” person’s would. If it did, I may have not even been sitting there in that chair, handcuffed and being studied.
“The Undercity is where all of the cretin crawl on their bellies through slime and filth. It is comprised of run down apartments, alleyways littered in shattered glass, refuse, bullet casings, and blood, and establishments that host and whole range of depravity and scum.”
“I find it interesting that you can comfortably castigate the depraved with the life you have led and the actions you have carried out,” interrupted the doctor. It was rather rude, and one of the beasts within me roared in annoyance and rage. I felt my fingers tighten on the arm of the chair, but I smiled.
“Dear doctor, would you call yourself a hypocrite?” I asked, fully intent on patronizing this woman in every way possible. The riled creatures lurking within me whispered in chattering laughter.
“To my own satisfaction, I do not believe myself to be-” She was interrupted by my foot slamming onto the floor and a cacophony of quick exhalations which slithered out of my nose in a sort of silent laugh.
“It seems psychology this day teaches its practitioners to focus so much on the abnormal that the simplest things in the universe go unnoticed and unstudied. You are a hypocrite, doctor. During our session so far, you have said only one thing that was hypocritical - and you just said it. Human nature, the most primitive and-” I paused to apply venom to the next word - “normal essence, defines all humans as hypocrites. There are three kinds of people. Did you know that, doctor? There are those who do not realize they are hypocrites, and deny it because of ignorance - another purely human mindset. Then there are those who do not admit they are hypocrites. They know but are too proud to let others know. Finally, there are those such as myself. Those who know they are hypocrites, and who embrace it. You came here to learn from me, doctor. I suggest you start with that lesson.” Again the demons within me made their presence known, this time with a roar of victory, egoism, and thorough appease. I rendered her speechless, I knew. Her dumbfounded expression and twitch in the corner of her mouth told me so. I wasn’t sure, however, if it was because she was slapped with what I had said or didn’t understand. I took her to be a smart girl, though.
“I’ll continue, if you please. I would very much like to get some sleep tonight,” I went. I closed my eyes for a second to let the image of my childhood home reassemble. “There is not any place in the Undercity that could be considered safe. The streets were battlefields and the disheveled apartments were just bunkers, under siege and waiting to be invaded. I lived in the western part of the Undercity in an apartment I never knew the name or number of. I think it had four rooms, but I would be hard pressed to remember. It was a dirty place, for no one ever bothered to clean. It smelled terrible and the stench reared its head every time I returned home, but I adjusted to it quickly enough. My bed consisted of a moth-eaten pillow and a shredded blanket that proved useless. Rodents were often my only company.”
“What about your parents?” she asked me, scribbling away on her notepad. I was filled with some sort of disgust, watching her take notes on the foul place and believing she could get an idea of it. I knew now she had never been there or even passed through or seen it. If she had, she wouldn’t need to write down a cavalcade of adjectives to produce a picture. She wouldn’t last ten seconds there. She’d be raped and gutted before she could uncap her pen.
“My parents, if you could even call them that, were some of the very filth and scum I speak of,” I muttered, eyebrows narrowing at the mere thought of them. “My father was a professional alcoholic and my mother sold her cunt for as much drug-infested money as she could get her dirty hands on.”
“Excuse me?” the doctor replied, apparently a bit shocked at my use of language. Honestly I was surprised I kept a clean mouth that long. I wondered if she was naïve enough to assume that my language would be couth.
“A whore,” I said sharply. “A prostitute, a streetwalker… stop me when I get to a euphemism you are comfortable with, doctor.” I paused and when she did not respond, I continued. “I figure that my father bought my mother at some point for a night, and by some means that I do not care to know, I was the result. This is purely speculation. My parents never told me how they met or how I came to be. You will have to excuse my ignorance in the realm of marriage. I never understood the concept of parents or marriage during my upbringing. My mother would constantly bring strange men into the house and fuck them, and they would leave a vial of crack or a few bills before departing. I witnessed these acts often, for my mother did not seem worried about privacy or being clandestine. Usually she would spread her legs right in our main room of our apartment on the decadence and decay that stagnated there. To me it was a bizarre act, and one I took no interest in."
“Where was your father during these… meetings?” prodded the doctor, trying to be as delicate as possible.
“Passed out or being thrown out of a bar, probably. Though there were times where he would watch from across the room with a beer in his hand. Then when my mother’s visitor would leave he would approach her and kick her and pour the rest of his beer on her and call her a whore. Other times he would push the stranger away who was pounding into her and take over the job.”
“And none of this affected you? You didn’t do anything when you saw your mother having sex with strangers or when you’re father abused her?” the psychologist questioned, a look of quandary on her face. I sighed and shook my head.
“I suppose this would all make more sense to you if you were one hundred percent aware of all of the “disorders” I possess,” I interjected. “But I suppose that will wait until my childhood story is done, since that is what you requested first.”
“Well, speaking of your disorders… were you diagnosed with any when you were a child?” she asked me, flipping the page in her notebook again and getting ready to write. She kept her eyes on me and they were alive with wonder and intrigue.
“My parents, I am sure, more often than not forgot I existed. My father was always drunk and my mother was always high. At one point they sent me to school. I don’t remember what led to that decision or how it came to be, but I do remember going. It was a short enrollment. On my first day, it was raining. The littered grounds around the ransacked building were muddy and slick, and I remember slipping in some of it and falling. A boy who was near me started laughing as I brought myself to a stand, slopped in the muck. I picked up a long shard of glass I had fallen near and stabbed him with it. I can still hear his screams to this very day, and sometimes they are the only thing that can get me to sleep at night.” I narrated, smirking to myself at the pleasant memory. My first taste of violence. My first sight of true bleeding. I unfurled my fingers on my right hand and turned it as best I could upwards. I gazed at the scar running along my flesh that I had received from clutching the glass so tightly.
“You stabbed him for laughing at you?” the doctor questioned, somewhat shocked. Her credentials as a criminal psychologist were slowly succumbing to her constant fear, awe, and naiveness.
“Did I stutter?” I spat, giving her one of those flesh eating looks that came so naturally to me. She cleared her throat and wrote something down more slowly than was her common practice.
“How old were you then?”
“Five, six, seven? I do not know. I don’t know how old I am now. I am unaware of what year I was born in, let alone the month or day. No one ever bothered to tell me - not that it was something I really cared about,” I explained. It was true, I had never worried or thought about how old I was. “After the incident, which I can admit was sadly not a fatal one, some school officials came to see my parents. You see, the teachers in the Undercity, or at least at this particular school, the teachers were philanthropic. You know, the types who settle down in an improvised, underprivileged area to try and make a ‘difference.’ They urged my parents to get me some sort of psychiatric or psychological attention. I honestly don’t believe that either of my parents were even close to sober at the time. All I remember is being pulled out of my home without my parents even noticing.”
“The teachers just took you away from your parents?” the woman asked. I nodded. “And did you ever see them - your parents, I mean - again?”
“Of course I did. I killed them twelve years later.” I smirked at the memory and ignored the now commonplace look that spread across the doctor’s features. “It was then that I met with my first psychologist. A child therapist by the name of Raymond Thistle. He was more incompetent than he was old, which is saying a lot. My sessions with him were incredulous, and he was a firm advocate of the style of crackpot therapy which primarily entails the asking of ‘how does that make you feel?’ My responses were often repetitive. This particular doctor did not last long, and he recommended me to a colleague after I, fed up with his impertinent questioning, attempted to drive his pen into his neck.”
At that, my current psychologist cleared her throat in a bout of obvious nervousness and stopped clicking away on her own pen and was careful to lay it down on a stop of the table that I’m sure she hoped I could not reach. I made a point of eyeing the pen - scrutinizing it - and then let my eyes drift up to her exposed neck. I kept my gaze locked on her alabaster flesh only for a few seconds, but I could see the barely noticeable twitch of the vein in her neck as her heart rate increased. Menacing voices in my mind kept whispering ill tidings to me. ’Do it, do it’ they chanted. I continued.
“My next psychologist was much less of an imbecile,” I went on. “His name was Michael Wren and was a man sporting many less years than Raymond Thistle. I could tolerate the man, and my sessions with him were, to his satisfaction, with progress. He was the first to actually diagnose me with any disorders. The first and most obvious was my chronic insomnia. I rarely sleep, but function normally despite. Next, he found in my paranoid schizophrenia, which accounts for my auditory hallucinations. The last of my disorders he discovered is also the most dominant beast within me. Antisocial personality disorder.”
“I see,” she replied. “That makes sense… your complete lack of guilt and empathy… it explains a lot. But what of your simple desire to hurt and kill? Being a sociopath doesn’t necessarily imply senseless violence or brutality.”
“I suppose that is just garden variety sadism,” I responded, not knowing the answer myself. At this point my eyes jerked away from the feminine form ahead of me and stared into a feeling. I sort of lost focus on reality, and my surroundings blurred into nothing recognizable. “I find solace in the sensation of blood slick on my hands… the pleading of those about to die… their screams when you draw a line across their flesh with a knife and they can’t do anything but let the tears slither down their cheeks and belt out futile wails. There is no greater feeling than the bliss of murder.” I was silent then for a time period I was unaware of. It seemed like it was a while; a while of staring into the pure nirvana of the kill. IN that moment I could feel wetness on my hands and hear a quavering scream.
“Mister Vilkates?”
My euphoria was shattered and I saw the blank, formless world around me suddenly disintegrate around me in colored pixels until conscious shapes were rebuilt. My eyebrows bent into angles and I felt my lips fold into an involuntary snarl. A voice within me hissed at the doctor, questioning why she had broken my concentration. I had a shaking urge to pull so hard at my restraints that the steel severed my hands just so I could leap across the table and eviscerate her by any means necessary. I gripped the edge of the arms of the my chair to the point where I felt pain, and my knuckles looked as though they were about to burst out of my flesh.
Yes… I could do it. The loss of my hands would be of little consequence. I could sever them, and dive across the table at her. My feet or teeth would suffice. But, there was also the guard to keep in mind. His firearm could make short work of me. Or, I could only rip off one of my hands - my left. Then I could use the chair as a weapon with my other arm still attached to it. The guard would probably rush over as soon as I started dismembering myself, and would not expect the blow. I could then find the key and work the lock on my restraints with my mouth, as I had before. The gun would then be mind, and I could be rid of this place..
My thoughts were once again shattered as the doctor spoke again, repeating her last utterance.
“What,” I said sharply, putting my eyes back upon her. She looked startled and confused.
“What’s wrong… what were you thinking about?” she asked, looking concerned for a reason that was beyond me. I forced a single nasal exhalation.
“I was having delusions of killing you and the guard and escaping,” I snarled bluntly. The guard, who I knew could overhear, suddenly was on full attention, turned his senses upon me, and readied his weapon. The doctor looked to him and shook her head. I went into a soft chatter of subliminal chuckling.
“Were you ever diagnosed with any other disorders?” she asked, trying to get the session back on track. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, again trying to situate, organize, and bring myself to a level of function.
“Yes, several, but none as severe as the three I have already mentioned. Antisocial personality disorder combined with sadism, the stress and mentality derived from insomnia, and the delusions and hallucinations of schizophrenia prove to be a potent mix. The others are more or less inconsequential - overshadowed by the dominating trio.” My heartbeat began to slow to normal and the cacophony of voices pounding in my brain quieted. I regulated my breathing and continued.
“Again, that psychologist did not last long. I did not make an attempt on his life, but he recommended that I be moved into a more hospitable environment. I was sent to the Corbin Institute in Lavender Town - an establishment for psychologically defective youth. During my time there, I saw a series of psychologists and psychiatrists and was subjected to countless tests and medications. Each one proved to be a failure, and I grew more and more resilient, annoyed, and angered. I was oftentimes punished for attempting to murder other patients, nurses, doctors, or other staff members. I was no more than ten when I was first sent to this institution, and I heard the doctors talk about how they had never seen a person, young or old, as troubled as I. I was there for six years. During that time, I injured nine people and killed one.”
“You killed someone there?” asked the doctor, again looking surprised. And again I did not know why. I thought about asking her the of source of her reactions, but I did not. “Who? And how old were you then?”
“I was, I figure, thirteen or fourteen at the time of my first murder. The doctors thought that providing me with a roommate could help with progress in treating my disorders. Needless to say, they were wrong, and I killed the young man before the weekend. I remember it vividly. It was my first kill, and I have not forgotten a moment of it. We had lamps, you see. They were bolted to the nightstands which were, in turn, bolted to the floor. Fortunately, the light bulbs were simply screwed into the fixture.” I grinned at the thought of this moment, which was so long ago but seemed so recent. I could almost feel the soft glass in my hand.
“You killed him with a.. light bulb?” asked my psychologist. I forced a chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear doctor. I tortured him with the light bulb... and then killed him with its remnants,” I countered, sneering. “I took the bulb and approached him while he was asleep. He awoke as I opened his mouth as wide as I could. He immediately began to struggle but I was much stronger than him. I kneed him in the stomach to keep him relatively immobile and crammed the light bulb into his mouth. I turned it about by the silver end, and I looked deep into his soul through his transparent eyes. They showed a world of fear. Beads of perspiration began to flood from his brow and his heartbeat was so erratic that I could actually feel it. I pressed the bulb further into his mouth and he began to cough. I let a little bit of air down his throat by moving the object off to the side. He was moaning something, but I didn’t care to try and decipher it. Instead, I punched the side of his face.
His screams filled the room, and I like to assume, the entirety of the building. My punch, of course, shattered the glass in his mouth, and liquid crimson began to trickle out over his lips. His wails of immense pain were intoxicating and he began to thrash about on his bed, tears streaming out of his eyes. He spat out shards of glass and blood, and I just stood, looming over him, watching. In my hand there still sat the silver end of the bulb, which still had a circumference of jagged glass protruding out of it. I waited before doing anything with it, for I wanted to watch him squirm and spit and scream and cry for as long as possible. He started reaching into his mouth and pulling loose shards that had lodged themselves in his flesh.
I heard footsteps… several of them, pounding quickly into the tile. There were doctors coming, guards as well. I frowned when I realized that I would not be able to enjoy this for much longer. But my job was not finished. I lashed out with my hand and my open hand slapped him on the face head on, and I curled my fingers into a grip. I forced him to lie back down, and I tightly gripped the remnants of the light bulb in my hand. I gave him one more long, hard look right into his eyes. And then I shoved the jagged edge of my weapon into his flesh and ripped a wide and fatal gash in his throat. He began to go into convulsions and I took a step back to watch blood bubble and flow out from his wound. He made a few gurgling noises as plasma began to flow out of his mouth as well, and then his person stopped its spastic movements and fell silent.” I stopped talking to test my questioner’ reaction. To my utter surprise, it was one that I had not expected.
“Is that all?” she asked in a tone that sounded disappointed. “What happened next? Was there any legal involvement?” She pressed the subject with a twinkle in her eye that portrayed the thirst for more. I quenched it.
“Because I was a minor, and because I was labeled insane, and because my victim was without known family, I was not charged criminally,” I explained. “Instead, I was stripped of whatever freedoms I had in the wretched place and was kept there in seclusion for my remaining three years. I interacted with only a few doctors and never even saw other patients anymore. My original psychologist, Wren, took me out when I was sixteen. He came for a visit and realized that the place was no help to my conditions. He continued to have sessions with me for a few months as I stayed in a different institute in which he then worked. I made it my business to not inflict pain on any others there. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to endure, and I oftentimes damaged myself just to easy my sadistic urges. Michael Wren thought I was making progress after I had not harmed anyone in six months, and the watch on my was loosened. My plan had worked, and I finally escaped custody for the first time in my life.”
“And then you joined Rocket?” asked the doctor, her interest at its peak. I nodded. “And now for the reason I am really here,” she said ominously, pressing the stop button on her tape recorder. She ejected the tape and put in a new one, and went to press record.
“Before I begin, doctor, I must take this time to turn the tables and ask you a question,” I said, leaning forward as far in the chair as I could without having the handcuffs rip at my flesh. I felt strands of loose hair shiver across my forehead as I stared at her. I knew my eyes were burning holes into her flesh and spirit, because she gave me that look that everyone always did when I bored into their soul.
"My story so far has been nothing compared to what I am about to tell you. Nothing. And where I just left off… it was the end of my first life. My first past. Here starts my second.. Are you ready, doctor? Are you prepared to delve into a past so Hellish that it could keep you up at night, much like it has kept me awake? To hear the screams of victims so numerous that you might very well fall to the insanity that you so zealously study? I will hold nothing back, doctor. You will feel the cold steel in your hands, you will taste the blood. You will see the anguished faces of the victims of psychotic brutality. You will see flayed flesh and dismemberment, bodily fluids so vulgar you will wonder how they could have come out of a human. Killing through the eyes of the killer and the victim is nothing like it is through the eyes of the outsider. The spectator. The average person. The doctor. When I’m done with my story you may very well beg me to kill you.”
At that point I exploded in laughter, keeping my eyes baring down on her. The guard sprinted across the room and grabbed me by the shoulders, slamming me back into chair. I didn’t stop laughing for a few more moments, for the tears and fear welling in the dear doctor’s eyes kept me going. When I did stop, I spoke again.
“Well then… where shall we begin?”
__
Right, so this chapter was basically, as Dimitri said, his "first life." I know there was a lot of block dialogue in this chapter, but there will be more descriptive stuff and a bit less dialogue in furute chapters as it will get into his past and read as if the past is the fic itself in most parts.. if that makes sense. Anyway.. I don't have a set schedule for getting chapters at, but im hoping to get one out a week.
Until next time.
Rating will be most definately R. R for language, violence, graphic scenes of torture, et cetera. This will be offensive. Read at your own risk.
Murder: A Manifesto
Chapter One: And So it Begins With First Blood Drawn
They took me into a room, secluded from the maddening clamor of unanswered questions and the furious barrage of camera bulb flashes. I appreciated the tranquility of the scarcely populated, albeit small cubicle, even though they handcuffed my wrists to the chair at the farthest end of the wooden table which was the only present surface. As one guard made sure my manacles were secure, the other stood attention at the door through which we had entered, staring blankly into nothingness, firearm held tightly across his chest. Had I ever been like that? Mindless and submissive? I smirked at him and his position before leaning back into the chair (in which I was now, to the guard’s satisfaction, completely secured) and letting loose a sigh of relative boredom. All I really wanted to do at this point was go to my cell and relax during my days of waiting for the chair.
The door opened a moment later, and the psychologist who I had dismissively agreed to see walked in. I was surprised that it was a woman, though not really sure why. I had dealt with, in my past, so many psychologists that were all male that I suppose I was just expecting a man. She was attractive, with reddish hair pulled out of her face and green eyes. I scanned her over for just a moment as she walked over, her red coat coming off and into the hands of the guard who had bound me. She sat down across from me, and began setting things just-so on the table: a tape recorder with a small stack of tapes, some batteries, a pad of paper and a few pencils, and a pencil sharpener. She looked over her supplies and nodded, and then looked to me for the first time, and pressed the record button on her device.
“It is Sunday, October twenty-sixth, at precisely nine thirty-seven in the morning. I sit now with Dimitri Vilkates, also known as ‘The Jackal’ - infamous enforcer, murderer, kidnapper, burglar, interrogator, and informer of the criminal organization, Rocket. Mister Vilkates has agreed to be interviewed by me for a case study of criminal psychology. Mister Vilkates is here of his own free will and will not answer any questions he does not wish to answer.
First off, Mister Vilkates -”
“Call me Dimitri,” I said quickly. “I’m not partial to the ‘mister’ deal.”
“Very well. Dimitri. I suppose, before we get into your history, I shall ask about your nickname. Why ‘Jackal?’
“Hm..” I said with a smirk. Blowing air out of my nose and leaned back in the chair, thoroughly rendered uncomfortable thanks in part to the handcuffs. “Many things - traits, attributes, mannerisms - played a part in the construction of my alias.”
“Such as?” the doctor pressed. I shot her a dark look.
“I was getting to that. A little patience, if you please.” I took a moment to enjoy the satisfaction of watching a bit of color drain from her face before continuing. “The jackal is a predator. A capable hunter and killer. That reason alone is good enough for it to be a fitting name, but there is more.” I found myself becoming darkly dramatic as my answer continued. I wasn’t quite sure which disorder of mine exactly made it happen, but it had always been like that. I slipped pauses in my dialogue, and, of course, kept direct and intimidating eye contact.
“The jackal hunts rodents. Reptiles. It is what I did. I hunted the rats… the snakes… the vermin. Those who were filthy from crawling on their stomachs through the dirt and filth. The traitors and the squealers and the weak. The jackal is also a nocturnal predator. I hunted at night, mostly. How keen are you on mythology, miss?”
“Not very, I-”
“In Egyptian mythology, Anubis is the god of death. He is depicted as a figure with the body of a man and the head of - yes - a jackal. I was he - the crowned taker of life. I was also the giver of it, in some respects. But yes… I suppose that answers your question.”
“Yes, it does,” the psychologist murmured, jotting a few words down on her notebook. “Now, again, before we get into your… professional history, what of your childhood? Standards in psychology would go to suggest that you did not have what one would call a normal childhood, and I suspect it was possibly traumatic.”
“You don’t need clinical textbooks and a degree in the mind to decipher that, dear doctor,” I said sharply. I stared at her for a moment before continuing. “No, my childhood was not normal or pleasant, but I do not blame it for my future choices and courses of action. But, if you insist, very well.
I was born and raised - if you could call it that - in Saffron City. A settlement that earned the nickname ‘Undercity’ for reasons that are obviously clear. Saffron City is, though urbanized, a decent place to live. There are of course the typical noises of the city and environmental factors, but aside from that, it is, as I said, decent. Now, I don’t know if someone of your… breed… would have ever spent anytime in the Undercity, but allow me to paint you a portrait.” Before going on, I began to try to organize my memories, which was a task easier said than done. My mind did not work as a “normal” person’s would. If it did, I may have not even been sitting there in that chair, handcuffed and being studied.
“The Undercity is where all of the cretin crawl on their bellies through slime and filth. It is comprised of run down apartments, alleyways littered in shattered glass, refuse, bullet casings, and blood, and establishments that host and whole range of depravity and scum.”
“I find it interesting that you can comfortably castigate the depraved with the life you have led and the actions you have carried out,” interrupted the doctor. It was rather rude, and one of the beasts within me roared in annoyance and rage. I felt my fingers tighten on the arm of the chair, but I smiled.
“Dear doctor, would you call yourself a hypocrite?” I asked, fully intent on patronizing this woman in every way possible. The riled creatures lurking within me whispered in chattering laughter.
“To my own satisfaction, I do not believe myself to be-” She was interrupted by my foot slamming onto the floor and a cacophony of quick exhalations which slithered out of my nose in a sort of silent laugh.
“It seems psychology this day teaches its practitioners to focus so much on the abnormal that the simplest things in the universe go unnoticed and unstudied. You are a hypocrite, doctor. During our session so far, you have said only one thing that was hypocritical - and you just said it. Human nature, the most primitive and-” I paused to apply venom to the next word - “normal essence, defines all humans as hypocrites. There are three kinds of people. Did you know that, doctor? There are those who do not realize they are hypocrites, and deny it because of ignorance - another purely human mindset. Then there are those who do not admit they are hypocrites. They know but are too proud to let others know. Finally, there are those such as myself. Those who know they are hypocrites, and who embrace it. You came here to learn from me, doctor. I suggest you start with that lesson.” Again the demons within me made their presence known, this time with a roar of victory, egoism, and thorough appease. I rendered her speechless, I knew. Her dumbfounded expression and twitch in the corner of her mouth told me so. I wasn’t sure, however, if it was because she was slapped with what I had said or didn’t understand. I took her to be a smart girl, though.
“I’ll continue, if you please. I would very much like to get some sleep tonight,” I went. I closed my eyes for a second to let the image of my childhood home reassemble. “There is not any place in the Undercity that could be considered safe. The streets were battlefields and the disheveled apartments were just bunkers, under siege and waiting to be invaded. I lived in the western part of the Undercity in an apartment I never knew the name or number of. I think it had four rooms, but I would be hard pressed to remember. It was a dirty place, for no one ever bothered to clean. It smelled terrible and the stench reared its head every time I returned home, but I adjusted to it quickly enough. My bed consisted of a moth-eaten pillow and a shredded blanket that proved useless. Rodents were often my only company.”
“What about your parents?” she asked me, scribbling away on her notepad. I was filled with some sort of disgust, watching her take notes on the foul place and believing she could get an idea of it. I knew now she had never been there or even passed through or seen it. If she had, she wouldn’t need to write down a cavalcade of adjectives to produce a picture. She wouldn’t last ten seconds there. She’d be raped and gutted before she could uncap her pen.
“My parents, if you could even call them that, were some of the very filth and scum I speak of,” I muttered, eyebrows narrowing at the mere thought of them. “My father was a professional alcoholic and my mother sold her cunt for as much drug-infested money as she could get her dirty hands on.”
“Excuse me?” the doctor replied, apparently a bit shocked at my use of language. Honestly I was surprised I kept a clean mouth that long. I wondered if she was naïve enough to assume that my language would be couth.
“A whore,” I said sharply. “A prostitute, a streetwalker… stop me when I get to a euphemism you are comfortable with, doctor.” I paused and when she did not respond, I continued. “I figure that my father bought my mother at some point for a night, and by some means that I do not care to know, I was the result. This is purely speculation. My parents never told me how they met or how I came to be. You will have to excuse my ignorance in the realm of marriage. I never understood the concept of parents or marriage during my upbringing. My mother would constantly bring strange men into the house and fuck them, and they would leave a vial of crack or a few bills before departing. I witnessed these acts often, for my mother did not seem worried about privacy or being clandestine. Usually she would spread her legs right in our main room of our apartment on the decadence and decay that stagnated there. To me it was a bizarre act, and one I took no interest in."
“Where was your father during these… meetings?” prodded the doctor, trying to be as delicate as possible.
“Passed out or being thrown out of a bar, probably. Though there were times where he would watch from across the room with a beer in his hand. Then when my mother’s visitor would leave he would approach her and kick her and pour the rest of his beer on her and call her a whore. Other times he would push the stranger away who was pounding into her and take over the job.”
“And none of this affected you? You didn’t do anything when you saw your mother having sex with strangers or when you’re father abused her?” the psychologist questioned, a look of quandary on her face. I sighed and shook my head.
“I suppose this would all make more sense to you if you were one hundred percent aware of all of the “disorders” I possess,” I interjected. “But I suppose that will wait until my childhood story is done, since that is what you requested first.”
“Well, speaking of your disorders… were you diagnosed with any when you were a child?” she asked me, flipping the page in her notebook again and getting ready to write. She kept her eyes on me and they were alive with wonder and intrigue.
“My parents, I am sure, more often than not forgot I existed. My father was always drunk and my mother was always high. At one point they sent me to school. I don’t remember what led to that decision or how it came to be, but I do remember going. It was a short enrollment. On my first day, it was raining. The littered grounds around the ransacked building were muddy and slick, and I remember slipping in some of it and falling. A boy who was near me started laughing as I brought myself to a stand, slopped in the muck. I picked up a long shard of glass I had fallen near and stabbed him with it. I can still hear his screams to this very day, and sometimes they are the only thing that can get me to sleep at night.” I narrated, smirking to myself at the pleasant memory. My first taste of violence. My first sight of true bleeding. I unfurled my fingers on my right hand and turned it as best I could upwards. I gazed at the scar running along my flesh that I had received from clutching the glass so tightly.
“You stabbed him for laughing at you?” the doctor questioned, somewhat shocked. Her credentials as a criminal psychologist were slowly succumbing to her constant fear, awe, and naiveness.
“Did I stutter?” I spat, giving her one of those flesh eating looks that came so naturally to me. She cleared her throat and wrote something down more slowly than was her common practice.
“How old were you then?”
“Five, six, seven? I do not know. I don’t know how old I am now. I am unaware of what year I was born in, let alone the month or day. No one ever bothered to tell me - not that it was something I really cared about,” I explained. It was true, I had never worried or thought about how old I was. “After the incident, which I can admit was sadly not a fatal one, some school officials came to see my parents. You see, the teachers in the Undercity, or at least at this particular school, the teachers were philanthropic. You know, the types who settle down in an improvised, underprivileged area to try and make a ‘difference.’ They urged my parents to get me some sort of psychiatric or psychological attention. I honestly don’t believe that either of my parents were even close to sober at the time. All I remember is being pulled out of my home without my parents even noticing.”
“The teachers just took you away from your parents?” the woman asked. I nodded. “And did you ever see them - your parents, I mean - again?”
“Of course I did. I killed them twelve years later.” I smirked at the memory and ignored the now commonplace look that spread across the doctor’s features. “It was then that I met with my first psychologist. A child therapist by the name of Raymond Thistle. He was more incompetent than he was old, which is saying a lot. My sessions with him were incredulous, and he was a firm advocate of the style of crackpot therapy which primarily entails the asking of ‘how does that make you feel?’ My responses were often repetitive. This particular doctor did not last long, and he recommended me to a colleague after I, fed up with his impertinent questioning, attempted to drive his pen into his neck.”
At that, my current psychologist cleared her throat in a bout of obvious nervousness and stopped clicking away on her own pen and was careful to lay it down on a stop of the table that I’m sure she hoped I could not reach. I made a point of eyeing the pen - scrutinizing it - and then let my eyes drift up to her exposed neck. I kept my gaze locked on her alabaster flesh only for a few seconds, but I could see the barely noticeable twitch of the vein in her neck as her heart rate increased. Menacing voices in my mind kept whispering ill tidings to me. ’Do it, do it’ they chanted. I continued.
“My next psychologist was much less of an imbecile,” I went on. “His name was Michael Wren and was a man sporting many less years than Raymond Thistle. I could tolerate the man, and my sessions with him were, to his satisfaction, with progress. He was the first to actually diagnose me with any disorders. The first and most obvious was my chronic insomnia. I rarely sleep, but function normally despite. Next, he found in my paranoid schizophrenia, which accounts for my auditory hallucinations. The last of my disorders he discovered is also the most dominant beast within me. Antisocial personality disorder.”
“I see,” she replied. “That makes sense… your complete lack of guilt and empathy… it explains a lot. But what of your simple desire to hurt and kill? Being a sociopath doesn’t necessarily imply senseless violence or brutality.”
“I suppose that is just garden variety sadism,” I responded, not knowing the answer myself. At this point my eyes jerked away from the feminine form ahead of me and stared into a feeling. I sort of lost focus on reality, and my surroundings blurred into nothing recognizable. “I find solace in the sensation of blood slick on my hands… the pleading of those about to die… their screams when you draw a line across their flesh with a knife and they can’t do anything but let the tears slither down their cheeks and belt out futile wails. There is no greater feeling than the bliss of murder.” I was silent then for a time period I was unaware of. It seemed like it was a while; a while of staring into the pure nirvana of the kill. IN that moment I could feel wetness on my hands and hear a quavering scream.
“Mister Vilkates?”
My euphoria was shattered and I saw the blank, formless world around me suddenly disintegrate around me in colored pixels until conscious shapes were rebuilt. My eyebrows bent into angles and I felt my lips fold into an involuntary snarl. A voice within me hissed at the doctor, questioning why she had broken my concentration. I had a shaking urge to pull so hard at my restraints that the steel severed my hands just so I could leap across the table and eviscerate her by any means necessary. I gripped the edge of the arms of the my chair to the point where I felt pain, and my knuckles looked as though they were about to burst out of my flesh.
Yes… I could do it. The loss of my hands would be of little consequence. I could sever them, and dive across the table at her. My feet or teeth would suffice. But, there was also the guard to keep in mind. His firearm could make short work of me. Or, I could only rip off one of my hands - my left. Then I could use the chair as a weapon with my other arm still attached to it. The guard would probably rush over as soon as I started dismembering myself, and would not expect the blow. I could then find the key and work the lock on my restraints with my mouth, as I had before. The gun would then be mind, and I could be rid of this place..
My thoughts were once again shattered as the doctor spoke again, repeating her last utterance.
“What,” I said sharply, putting my eyes back upon her. She looked startled and confused.
“What’s wrong… what were you thinking about?” she asked, looking concerned for a reason that was beyond me. I forced a single nasal exhalation.
“I was having delusions of killing you and the guard and escaping,” I snarled bluntly. The guard, who I knew could overhear, suddenly was on full attention, turned his senses upon me, and readied his weapon. The doctor looked to him and shook her head. I went into a soft chatter of subliminal chuckling.
“Were you ever diagnosed with any other disorders?” she asked, trying to get the session back on track. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, again trying to situate, organize, and bring myself to a level of function.
“Yes, several, but none as severe as the three I have already mentioned. Antisocial personality disorder combined with sadism, the stress and mentality derived from insomnia, and the delusions and hallucinations of schizophrenia prove to be a potent mix. The others are more or less inconsequential - overshadowed by the dominating trio.” My heartbeat began to slow to normal and the cacophony of voices pounding in my brain quieted. I regulated my breathing and continued.
“Again, that psychologist did not last long. I did not make an attempt on his life, but he recommended that I be moved into a more hospitable environment. I was sent to the Corbin Institute in Lavender Town - an establishment for psychologically defective youth. During my time there, I saw a series of psychologists and psychiatrists and was subjected to countless tests and medications. Each one proved to be a failure, and I grew more and more resilient, annoyed, and angered. I was oftentimes punished for attempting to murder other patients, nurses, doctors, or other staff members. I was no more than ten when I was first sent to this institution, and I heard the doctors talk about how they had never seen a person, young or old, as troubled as I. I was there for six years. During that time, I injured nine people and killed one.”
“You killed someone there?” asked the doctor, again looking surprised. And again I did not know why. I thought about asking her the of source of her reactions, but I did not. “Who? And how old were you then?”
“I was, I figure, thirteen or fourteen at the time of my first murder. The doctors thought that providing me with a roommate could help with progress in treating my disorders. Needless to say, they were wrong, and I killed the young man before the weekend. I remember it vividly. It was my first kill, and I have not forgotten a moment of it. We had lamps, you see. They were bolted to the nightstands which were, in turn, bolted to the floor. Fortunately, the light bulbs were simply screwed into the fixture.” I grinned at the thought of this moment, which was so long ago but seemed so recent. I could almost feel the soft glass in my hand.
“You killed him with a.. light bulb?” asked my psychologist. I forced a chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear doctor. I tortured him with the light bulb... and then killed him with its remnants,” I countered, sneering. “I took the bulb and approached him while he was asleep. He awoke as I opened his mouth as wide as I could. He immediately began to struggle but I was much stronger than him. I kneed him in the stomach to keep him relatively immobile and crammed the light bulb into his mouth. I turned it about by the silver end, and I looked deep into his soul through his transparent eyes. They showed a world of fear. Beads of perspiration began to flood from his brow and his heartbeat was so erratic that I could actually feel it. I pressed the bulb further into his mouth and he began to cough. I let a little bit of air down his throat by moving the object off to the side. He was moaning something, but I didn’t care to try and decipher it. Instead, I punched the side of his face.
His screams filled the room, and I like to assume, the entirety of the building. My punch, of course, shattered the glass in his mouth, and liquid crimson began to trickle out over his lips. His wails of immense pain were intoxicating and he began to thrash about on his bed, tears streaming out of his eyes. He spat out shards of glass and blood, and I just stood, looming over him, watching. In my hand there still sat the silver end of the bulb, which still had a circumference of jagged glass protruding out of it. I waited before doing anything with it, for I wanted to watch him squirm and spit and scream and cry for as long as possible. He started reaching into his mouth and pulling loose shards that had lodged themselves in his flesh.
I heard footsteps… several of them, pounding quickly into the tile. There were doctors coming, guards as well. I frowned when I realized that I would not be able to enjoy this for much longer. But my job was not finished. I lashed out with my hand and my open hand slapped him on the face head on, and I curled my fingers into a grip. I forced him to lie back down, and I tightly gripped the remnants of the light bulb in my hand. I gave him one more long, hard look right into his eyes. And then I shoved the jagged edge of my weapon into his flesh and ripped a wide and fatal gash in his throat. He began to go into convulsions and I took a step back to watch blood bubble and flow out from his wound. He made a few gurgling noises as plasma began to flow out of his mouth as well, and then his person stopped its spastic movements and fell silent.” I stopped talking to test my questioner’ reaction. To my utter surprise, it was one that I had not expected.
“Is that all?” she asked in a tone that sounded disappointed. “What happened next? Was there any legal involvement?” She pressed the subject with a twinkle in her eye that portrayed the thirst for more. I quenched it.
“Because I was a minor, and because I was labeled insane, and because my victim was without known family, I was not charged criminally,” I explained. “Instead, I was stripped of whatever freedoms I had in the wretched place and was kept there in seclusion for my remaining three years. I interacted with only a few doctors and never even saw other patients anymore. My original psychologist, Wren, took me out when I was sixteen. He came for a visit and realized that the place was no help to my conditions. He continued to have sessions with me for a few months as I stayed in a different institute in which he then worked. I made it my business to not inflict pain on any others there. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to endure, and I oftentimes damaged myself just to easy my sadistic urges. Michael Wren thought I was making progress after I had not harmed anyone in six months, and the watch on my was loosened. My plan had worked, and I finally escaped custody for the first time in my life.”
“And then you joined Rocket?” asked the doctor, her interest at its peak. I nodded. “And now for the reason I am really here,” she said ominously, pressing the stop button on her tape recorder. She ejected the tape and put in a new one, and went to press record.
“Before I begin, doctor, I must take this time to turn the tables and ask you a question,” I said, leaning forward as far in the chair as I could without having the handcuffs rip at my flesh. I felt strands of loose hair shiver across my forehead as I stared at her. I knew my eyes were burning holes into her flesh and spirit, because she gave me that look that everyone always did when I bored into their soul.
"My story so far has been nothing compared to what I am about to tell you. Nothing. And where I just left off… it was the end of my first life. My first past. Here starts my second.. Are you ready, doctor? Are you prepared to delve into a past so Hellish that it could keep you up at night, much like it has kept me awake? To hear the screams of victims so numerous that you might very well fall to the insanity that you so zealously study? I will hold nothing back, doctor. You will feel the cold steel in your hands, you will taste the blood. You will see the anguished faces of the victims of psychotic brutality. You will see flayed flesh and dismemberment, bodily fluids so vulgar you will wonder how they could have come out of a human. Killing through the eyes of the killer and the victim is nothing like it is through the eyes of the outsider. The spectator. The average person. The doctor. When I’m done with my story you may very well beg me to kill you.”
At that point I exploded in laughter, keeping my eyes baring down on her. The guard sprinted across the room and grabbed me by the shoulders, slamming me back into chair. I didn’t stop laughing for a few more moments, for the tears and fear welling in the dear doctor’s eyes kept me going. When I did stop, I spoke again.
“Well then… where shall we begin?”
__
Right, so this chapter was basically, as Dimitri said, his "first life." I know there was a lot of block dialogue in this chapter, but there will be more descriptive stuff and a bit less dialogue in furute chapters as it will get into his past and read as if the past is the fic itself in most parts.. if that makes sense. Anyway.. I don't have a set schedule for getting chapters at, but im hoping to get one out a week.
Until next time.
Last edited: