EXIT PAPERS FROM PARADISE - A Novel

Chapter 1

I’m as alive as my prey but feel nothing but resentment toward him. Does his brain refuse to shut off, like mine? Does he have

trouble falling asleep, fearful of what he might dream? Is he constantly on trial with the voice in his head?

No.

He simply exists, and as an envious witness to this, I notice the pressure on my trigger finger increase as the final grains of sand in his egg timer of a life race to the other side.

Nature’s scent has led him to this field, like a teenager to a high school dance. Fuelled by opportunity. You won’t find what you’re looking for, Mr. Buck. She’s not here. She doesn’t even exist. I tricked you. Life is what you smell, but there’s nothing but death for you in this particular field.

After much voyeurism through the scope on my Winchester Model 70, it strikes me once again how strange a fetish voyeur- ism truly is. But I completely get it. I fully understand the desire to lay eyes on something beautiful, while remaining anonymous. No judgmental eyes staring back. No expectations. That, mixed with the excitement from getting away with it, which I’m sure for the “peeker” is more thrilling than the act of physical lovemak- ing itself. Voyeurism isn’t right. It’s a violation of privacy and I would never do it — but I felt obligated to investigate the fetish. I clicked on “voyeur-cam” Internet porn once (to try to get a sense of what it’s like) and watched a supposed sorority collegian towel dry after a hot shower. Brushed her long brunette hair for awhile in the nude. Skin cream went on next. Deodorant was then applied under her arms, but I couldn’t tell if it was anti- perspirant, which contains aluminum, and aluminum has been linked to Alzheimer’s. Regardless, she then lay splayed while leafing through a magazine on the edge of a motel-looking bed — the kind you put quarters in. But that’s not real voyeurism. I knew the camera had been set up and the fraud was likely a coked-out amateur porn star or failed actress. Are you sure that she knew the camera was there? Because if she didn’t, then it classifies as true voyeurism, and you violated her privacy, Isaac. No, she knew it was there. Every stilted action was blatantly played to the camera. Let’s hope that was the case — or you’re a huge pervert. No I’m not, because it didn’t get me off, and it was for research purposes. Fair enough.

My diagnosis, then, is that voyeurs are either addicted to the endorphin rush yielded from the act itself, or they suffer from severe lack of confidence — bordering on depression. Either could be dealt with professionally. No one is born a voyeur, and that is a fact.

I find myself increasingly concerned at the tense in which I talk to myself. I hear the word “you” get thrown around a lot in my head: “‘You’ should do this.” “‘You’ can’t say that.” “‘You’ need help.” “‘You’ shouldn’t think that.”

Who is that speaking to me in my head? Is it me? It can’t be.

It sounds exactly like my regular inner voice — the one speaking right now. Which thoughts are my own, and which don’t belong? Or do they all belong to me? Could it be that my inner voice has more than one personality? Possible. I’m not schizophrenic. I don’t suffer from hallucinations or delusions or incoherent word salad. My inner voice must be schizophrenic.

How would a professional even begin to treat a schizophrenic inner voice? There can’t be medication on the market for that — something to make the conversation in my head stop talking to itself. Or me. Even for a second. And what if it stopped? Would I cease to be me? You’d be bored. Maybe. That’s scary, too. In no way is this a professional prognosis, but I may be fucked in the head. Inconclusive. Perhaps this is all very normal. You have no idea what the inside of someone else’s head sounds like. That’s a great point.