After all that our families have been through, it’s absolutely comical sitting here across from you as you stare at me with that ridiculously smug smile on your face. As you judge me. As you demand that I answer your questions as if I could give a fuck. It’s comical because I can tell you can’t quite figure me out or why I did what I’ve done and I can see the anger growing behind your eyes. Would it piss you off even more to know that your anger is more obvious to me than a fat chick waiting in line at a buffet?
If only you could remove your collected thoughts and actually listen to me, you might begin to understand what I’m thinking. What makes me tick. What gets me hard! I can guarantee it would rock your world in more ways than one and I have to admit I’m not sure if you would be able to handle it. Jesus, if you knew the half of what ran through my mind throughout the day, you’d probably take a razor to your own throat.
It really isn’t so much that I think my thoughts are odd, strange or disturbed. I feel that they are perfectly normal, which, in turn, leaves me relaxed and at ease day in and day out. It’s just that I know your mind better than you do. I understand you’re too simple to grasp an “alternative” way of thinking and living. Of feeling. Because of basic thinkers such as yourself, I will now spend my days isolated from what brings me pleasure and excitement all because of people like you. As if you have the right to decide what is just and what is not.
But what does it matter in the grander scope of things if I don’t answer your questions or if I don’t fit inside of the trendy box you barely fit in yourself? Would it make you stop spending your husband’s money on your fuck boy toy that all of Manhattan knows about? Does your social calendar come to a halt? Did it even miss a beat when they started finding the bodies of my friends that I buried throughout Central Park? They were impromptu graves, by the way, that you could probably see right from your apartment with a cheap pair of binoculars!
I won’t answer anything but I will tell you something sad, though. I heard that Daphne killed herself after they found Derek’s head. It really is such a shame because she was so talented at…looking pretty…and giving great beauty tips. Why would she go and do a thing like that? Derek was a miserable little shit but I’m sure he left her something? If not his money then at least some of those gaudy baubles he collected during his travels. Say what you will about him but I always thought that he would take care of his girl considering they were practically inseparable since high school.
And if you’re wondering how I heard about Daphne, you can stop. I have visitors believe it or not! People who still see me versus the character the media has created. Don’t get me wrong, the first few reports totally inflated my ego but by the time they ran my photo, I felt like they were completely missing the mark on who I am. Even still, I have to admit it was fascinating how they turned little old me into this mega story for the front pages of their papers. Go to a Barnes & Noble and you’ll find articles about me in magazines spanning the “Women’s Interest” and “Current Events” categories. Who else can jump around publications like that besides politicians like Hillary Clinton?
By the way, you would be surprised at some of the faces that show up here. Many of them just like yours. Faces too scared to ask the real questions but arrogant enough to think you can rattle my bones with irrelevant threats. These people that want answers as to why I did what I did but there really isn’t a reason I can think of. I suppose you could blame the media or say that I did it for power but neither of those rationales would really fit. I murdered my friends because I could.
The night I killed Derek, he couldn’t keep his hands off of me. They went up and down my thighs in a booth at our favorite diner. Remember, it was the one you took us to back when we were kids and we claimed it for our own after that? Yes, you remember and you’ll never look at it the same way again after this conversation. It was such a turn on to let him get me off underneath the table as if our server didn’t know exactly what was going on mainly because I knew what was going to happen next. With his fingers working me for the last time, my mind flashed over the many times we’ve been there before, he and I, doing the exact same thing. How the staff said nothing because they knew who he was; since they knew who his parents were.
That night was more special than any time before because I knew once the check was signed and we hopped in a cab back to his place, it would be the last time he would be able to watch the city fly by in a blur. I thought about blowing him in the backseat but decided against it. I had my hand on his crotch and I knew he would be up for it but had a change of heart in the last minute. I thought it would be so much better for him to go into the next world full of sexual energy? Don’t you think that would be a fabulous feeling?
I imagined some unfortunate person flatlining on an operating table at the exact moment I felt Derek’s last breath exhale onto my face. I tried to breathe it in and channel it to that person on the operating table because it would obviously go into their body, right? Then, their eyes would fly open as they were brought back from the dead and they’d be completely consumed with thoughts of sex. The next morning, I woke up and revisited the person on the operating table who was back in a regular recovery room and they get caught masturbating by the night nurse but convinces the nurse to help them come quicker.
Where are my manners? I suppose these things aren’t really important at this point in time to you. I’m sure the only conversation you’d like to have has everything to deal with yourself so let us go ahead and dive right in. Would you like to know where your daughter is buried?
