Sullivan's notebook was a collection of madness, a tangible manifestation of the twisted thoughts that raced through his mind day and night. The pages were filled with scribbles, frantic writing that varied between neat, careful handwriting and jagged, chaotic scrawls, as if his rage had taken control of his hand mid-sentence. Each page was dedicated to someone who had wronged him, with vivid descriptions of the punishments they deserved. The words dripped with venom, hatred, and obsession.
For Richard, his brother, the page was torn and smeared with pencil marks, as though Sullivan had pressed too hard, desperate to capture every detail of his plan:
"Richard-That smug bastard. Always the favorite. Always stronger. But not for long. I'll break him. Break him until there's NOTHING left. I'll start with his hands, make him watch as I crush each one, bone by bone. He'll scream, he'll beg, but I won't stop. I'll tie him down-NO, chain him to the basement floor. He likes to laugh at me, right? I'll make sure his last laughs come out as broken sobs. Then his eyes... gouge them out, let him live in darkness like he's left me. Blind and useless. Useless like he's made me feel. I'll burn him, maybe, cut him open, inch by inch, feel the warmth of his blood. Hear him BEG ME to stop. And then, maybe I'll stop. Maybe I'll let him live long enough to see the rest of them die. Maybe I'll bring him back after, just so I can KILL HIM AGAIN."
For his father, the plan was even worse. The handwriting was more jagged, more erratic, reflecting the years of rage building inside him:
"Father-Fucking coward. He never helped. NEVER. Just sat there while Richard tore me apart. I'll drag him out to the backyard, where he used to pretend we were a family. I'll tie him to that old tree and make him FEEL IT. Make him FEEL the pain he ignored for all these years. First, I'll slice him open, nice and slow. Make him bleed out, but not too fast. I want him to know what's happening. I'll carve MOM'S NAME into his chest-remind him of what he lost because he didn't CARE enough. Every cut will be a reminder of his FAILURE. His worthless life will end beneath MY HANDS, where he deserves. But I won't kill him right away. No. I'll let him beg first. Beg for the mercy he never showed me. Then I'll gut him."
For the bullies at school, the notebook became a collage of manic thoughts, like Sullivan couldn't even contain the hatred in one place. His handwriting varied between neat and frantic, words crossed out and replaced by more violent, graphic ideas:
"For THEM-all of them. I'll find each one. Pick them off, one by one. Brian, Jacob, fucking Travis. Think they're tough? Think they're BETTER? They'll be nothing but corpses when I'm done with them. I'll corner Brian first, get him alone after school. Maybe smash his head against the lockers until it cracks open. Let his brains leak out onto the floor. The others? They'll be worse. I'll string Jacob up, cut his throat but not too deep-watch him choke on his own blood. Make sure Travis sees it before I get to him. That asshole will cry, I KNOW HE WILL. But I'll make him suffer too. I'll make him bleed. Cut his tendons so he can't run, so he has to crawl through his own blood."
At the bottom of the page, Sullivan added one more note, written in a slow, deliberate hand, as if this was the thought he cherished the most:
"But then, I'll bring them back. I'll make them ALL mine. After they're dead, I'll drag them from their graves and make them worship ME. I'll have them groveling at my feet, dead or alive, it doesn't matter. They'll serve me FOREVER. No more insults, no more beatings-just obedience. Richard will be first. I'll have him begging me to die again. And then my father. I'll make him SEE what he did to me. They'll all see."
Each page of the notebook was a descent deeper into Sullivan's psyche, an expression of the twisted fantasies he had kept bottled up for years. The violence wasn't just physical; it was psychological, a raw need to make those who had wronged him experience the same helplessness, the same suffering, that had defined his life. Every word oozed with a hunger for control, for dominance, for the power he had never known.
And in those pages, Sullivan felt alive.
