You often think that psychopaths come from a broken home or that they have some sort of deep, dark, dreary past. That’s not the case, at least not for me. I’m 17 years old and I have dark brown hair that reaches the middle of my back, my skin is a medium tan and I have dark brown eyes with flecks of gold and green. I live in a modest suburban home with my parents and two younger siblings – in short, I’m an average North-American teenage girl. Not really though, I’m kind of obsessed with the dismemembering of human bodies.
My obsession with the human body began long before anyone could imagine – see, I have this theory; before you are born; you are fixated with a personality. Your parents may try to alter it as you grow, and you may hide from your true persona for as long as possible but you will always come back, because throughout your miserable existence, it is the one thing you can resort to provide you with pure pleasure. This trait is not a terrible curse though, because if your one true desire is to help others, then you might find peace in helping victims of floods and that benefits everyone. But sometimes, your true desire is not as glorious, not as beneficial. Sometimes your desires are twisted as hell.
Mine definitely is.
When I was around six, I would snap off the limbs of my Barbie dolls and hide them all over the house. Once my mother found a doll’s leg in the kitchen sink cabinet and she called me over to find out how it got there. I would always tell her that the Barbie Doll’s looked prettier this way, and that if you had one piece, you could imagine the rest. She must’ve thought it was a phase. I actually don’t know what she thought. I do know that if my six year old was dismembering Barbie dolls, I would’ve scheduled a psychiatric appointment.
Over the next few years, I had accumulated a large number of Barbie doll parts. I decided that it would be fun to put them all back together. But I didn’t want them to be all pretty and perfect again. So I took a blonde girl’s head and stuck it on a African-American girl’s torso. I added a pasty white leg and another caramel colored one. I wedged in a rosy-pink arm, and an olive one. I colored her blonde hair in with a red sharpie I found on the floor. I named her Stefanie, because that was the name of the original Barbie. I still have her, to this very day. Her torso and legs are hollow and I use them to store my most secret belongings.
As I grew up, I moved on. No more Barbie dolls for me, I was a tween: 13 years old and I did what most popular middle-school girls did. I became engrossed in the world of fashion and beauty; I watched every episode of ‘Keeping up with The Kardashians” with an extreme amount of attention, I poured over “Seventeen” and “Teen Vogue” reading each article, each page with a furious concentration. I would hear, and read about these models and I would envy them. I would hate them. I wondered ‘what is it that these girls possess that I lack?” When Selena Gomez’s luscious locks were praised, I would claw at my own, hating what I was cursed with. When Alessandra Ambrosio’s perfect body was admired, I would pinch my extra skin and wish it would disappear. Mind you, I wasn’t ugly. Not even close. I wasn’t even chubby. I just wasn’t perfect, and that bothered me.
As I continued to obsess over this world of fame I grew more and more hateful. All these models, and actresses; they all possessed something I didn’t; power, riches, and ultimately, perfection. I wanted to murder them, slaughter them, and mutilate them as easily as I had mutilated my Barbie’s. After all, these women were vacuous, made beautiful with plastic and fillers and injections. Why should they get something that I couldn’t have?
And that’s why I did it. That’s why I dismembered and disfigured her. That’s why I tore her apart, limb by limb. That’s why I cut her open. That’s why I beautified her, just like my dolls.
That’s why I murdered a celebrity.
