Because I Am That Man

    I open the door to my office. It's a small room furnished with a large wooden desk, an office chair and a file cabinet. It smells strongly of coffee. The ticking of the clock pierces the silence. It's now 11:02 pm.

I sit at my desk. Papers are scattered all over it. A framed picture of my wife stands on the left corner. I take a sip of the coffee that I had left here this morning as I try to somewhat organise my documents. I walk back and forth from my desk to my file cabinet as I place papers into their rightful folders. 

Once my workplace is cleared, I make sure to polish my golden name-plate engraved with the words "Dr. Gilbert" on it. I set it on the front of my desk and smile proudly, "Doctor", the word is not just a title, it's a reflection of all of my hard work and life achievements.

I am a psychologist, a criminal psychologist to be more precise and all of my work revolves around serial killers. My job is to study their wills, thoughts, intentions and reactions. In other words, I am to understand their minds and find out what causes them to commit their crimes. 

It is easy for people to simply state that serial killers do what they do because they are mentally and morally damaged. But it's so much more than that. Each and every serial killer is different. They have their own pasts, their own experiences and their own stories. They have their own personalities and mentalities. And all of these things lead up to their own individual cause that triggered their desire to hurt, maybe rape and of course kill. 

I open the right drawer of my desk and pull out a journal underneath a pile of papers. 

There are different ways to understand a serial killer's mind. Sometimes it's by analysing their crimes via pictures and even videos or sometimes it's by speaking to them and asking them questions personally. But the best way to get inside their head is through their personal thoughts.

I open the journal and begin to read. 

April 27th 

I have developed some sort of tolerance; my body is going through the process by which it has adapted to the "substance" and now requires a larger amount to achieve the original effect.

What I have been watching on the Internet for the past months is no longer enough to feed this growing desire, no, need within me.

I've tried searching for some more intense material, but there are limits, even to these kinds of things. I've thought of having my wife satisfy these needs, but that would mean doing a whole list of unethical deeds. And I know Nina, she is a pure, simple woman who would never participate in such deranged behaviors.

So now, every few nights, I call Nina and tell her that I have to stay at work late, but in reality I just sit in my office alone, stare at a wall and let my mind wander off into a world of deep, dark fantasies.

But the thoughts don't satisfy me. On the contrary, they stimulate me. They leave me wanting more and it's driving me mad.

To add to these tortures, I am beginning to feel symptoms of withdrawal: anxiety, irritability and of course, intense cravings. 

I need help.

May 21st 

Her name was Sarah Parker. I know this because after it was over I checked in her pocket and found ID. I shouldn't have done that, her name now haunts me. 

I shouldn't have done a lot of things last night. I had never meant to do those things. But I did, I did do them, and I will never be able to undo them. 

Taking a walk had seemed like a good idea at first. The night air had cleared my mind from the torturous thoughts. I had felt at pace. But everything quickly changed when I saw the girl. 

She had been sitting on a bench as I walked into the park. Empty beer bottles lay scattered on the ground all around her. Even in the dark I could see her eyes; puffy and red from crying. 

She had tilted her head back as she took a drink from the beer bottle she currently held in her hand, but then threw it angrily as she realised it was empty. The bottle landed at my feet. That's when she noticed me. 

She had seemed startled at first but then her expression softened. I guessed she noticed the look of sympathy and concern on my face. For a girl as drunk as her, I guessed that was enough to make her feel comfortable in my presence. 

She looked down at the bottle at my feet and then back up at my face again. 

"I'm sorry" she had mumbled. 

"It's okay, you didn't see me. It was accident."

"I could have hurt you." 

"But you didn't." 

She gave me a sad smile. That's when I had noticed how pretty she was. How sweet, innocent and vulnerable she looked. I should had left them then, but I had let myself look at her a moment longer -a moment too long. 

Suddenly, dark thoughts began clouding my mind. The next thing I knew, I was sitting by her side, no memory of walking over to her. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears and feel the sweat roll down my spine. I noticed that the park was empty. I swallowed hard. It was just me and her. I could almost hear a voice in my head whispering "do it, do it..." 

I hesitated for a moment. This girl deserved none of the things I wanted to do to her. But then I remembered the tortures that my withdrawal had inflicted upon me. I felt the hunger that had been devouring me month after month. I felt that this was the only way to achieve the original effect that I had been lacking for so long. So I listened to the voice and I did it, I turned my fantasies into reality...

I close the journal. Why read any further when I already know what happens next. 

After it was over the man couldn't get himself to leave the girl as she was; hurt, traumatised and scared. He knew what he had done. He had damaged a young woman who was already broken. He knew that if she lived she would forever be psychologically and emotionally scarred, more than she already was. He wouldn't let that happen...

He never expected it to feel so good. To have her watch him with her wide, pretty eyes and desperately grab at his arms made him feel powerful.

When she was dead, the man noticed a new, intriguing beauty about her as she lay on the ground. Her skin was so pale it seemed to glow under the night sky. Her blonde hair flowing across the ground looked silver under the moonlight. Her wide, unblinking eyes shone as they stared up at the stars. Her lips were slightly parted. She truly was beautiful.

He folded her hands over her chest and found flowers that he placed into her silvery hair. She looked so delicate, so fragile. He couldn't resist resting his lips upon hers one last time. 

That's when he knew he had a problem. This was what he had wanted to experience for so long and he knew that unless he got help he would continue to take the lives of other girls. 

But he knew he would never admit to this. He had too much to lose: his wife, his job, his social status and most of all, his pride. He wasn't going to sacrifice his life for the ones of his future victims.

That man is a horrible, selfish man and he hates himself for it. 

I hate myself for it, because I am that man.