Alive

Chapter 3: Chemistry

Like every other serial killer, I've got my fair share of mommy issues. I always wonder if my upbringing had been different, easier, would it change anything about how I am? Or is it something inside me, something that can't be fixed, something that no amount of therapy or love could ever touch? Nature versus nurture, I guess we'll never really know.

Personally I think it's a combination of the two. I mean, it's as if my id took my ego and superego, slit their throats and dumped them in some unreachable abyss in my mind, but I'm sure the traumatic childhood memories don't help either.

When I was around 10 I became obsessed with creatures such as vampires and werewolves, there was just something about the darkness of it all that fascinated me. I guess serial killers are the closest things you can get to real vampires.

We need blood, it keeps us alive. Okay so we don't drink it, well, most of us don't, but we feed off of it. And if we're caught we live for decades, even centuries after we die, in documentaries and horror movies based on our killings, and in scary stories that boys and girls tell to their younger siblings. Look at Jack the Ripper. Ted Bundy. Dr H.H.Holmes. All immortal, forever living inside people's nightmares.

Society is fixated on labelling and categorising us, because if we don't fit into some sort of box then there's a chance we could rebel, cause trouble. The masses don't like individuality in any form. I'm sure the people of the world would have a lot of labels ready to pin on me if they prized open my mind and my darkest thoughts spilled out. There's the obvious names; 'freak, psycho, sicko...' and then the more trivial ones that are thrown in everyone's direction. Words associated with the colour of your skin, your sexuality, your intellectual capacity.

Bisexuality; a very controversial prospect in modern society. They call us greedy, confused, but I prefer to think of myself as open minded. As I stated before, I can't love, it's just not an ability I possess, but attraction is a different matter. I've dabbled in boys and experimented with girls, and my conclusion was; why choose? I like to keep my options open.

By now you ought to be expecting my twisted spin on normal circumstances, and I'm not one to disappoint. Attraction for me isn't about who's face is structured perfectly, or whose body calls for my touch, it's about who I want to be in control of.

An innocent kiss always turns into murderous fantasies, a soft stroke of someone's hand makes me want to take hold of their neck until they stop moving. I'm far from the only 'sicko' who has fucked up fantasies though, sex and violence are easily confused in the human brain.

Surrendering control really isn't my style, the thought of feeling powerless, submissive to someone else angers me. I can count the number of times I've felt that way on one hand, on one finger. She was my best friend, we did everything together including harmless experimentation. Amy, the only girl who ever made my knees weak, who drove me insane with a single look.

Of course she insisted that she was straight, that it was all just fun and games to her, even when she was the one pulling me into empty rooms whenever the chance presented itself. Even though it takes two to make a great kiss; it's not about who's skilled at it, who's experienced, it's about chemistry. You can't have an explosion if one of the elements is unreactive.

There are two types of girls; the ones who torture their subjects, and the ones who torture themselves. When it came to Amy, I was the latter. Lying awake at night thinking about her lips, when I knew she was thinking about someone else's. Conjuring up scenarios in my mind where we'd admit our feelings for each other, and then interrupting myself with the painful reminder that whatever it was between us, wasn't as big for her as it was for me.

It's like some unspoken rule for lesbians and bisexual girls; that we fall for our straight best friend in high school and refuse to give up the idea that one day it will work out.

Even back then, it wasn't exactly love. But it was something close, it was whole and pure and terrifying. It was trust. I gave everything to her, I took what little heart I had and I placed it in her hands, hoping that her warmth would make it swell, make it better, but that's never the way.

I never laid these words out before her, I never told her what it was to me, because I knew that it wouldn't change anything, I already knew how she felt. It wouldn't have been fair to guilt her with that, and so I laughed when she teased me with beautiful words and I stopped myself from searching for her lips again after she pulled away.

Amy, that beautiful, hilarious, unbreakable girl; she didn't break my heart, but she didn't fix it either, not the way I needed her to.