The Problem is Me [EDITED)

Chapter 26

December, 2014

One thing that had worked out in my favour was the weather. The weather was definitely on my side. I’m not saying here that it was sunny and warm, but at least it wasn’t raining. I’d known of the hotel near the bus stop for a while now, I’d seen it when I went home for the holidays (and believe me, that was a fucking rarity).

It had the flashing hotel sign and everything, but it was dodgy in every sense of the word. I’m pretty sure it’s the type of place where people go to kill themselves, or to dump a body or something.

I’m very confused within myself at the moment. Sociopath’s aren’t typically meant to feel emotions, and even if they do it’s incredibly shallow. They cease to feel guilt or remorse for their actions, and have a complete disregard for others. See, for many years I displayed many, if not all of the symptoms. But this is where it gets confusing. I do not feel guilt, or remorse, as you can see clearly. However I do feel something. I don’t know what it is, but there is something there, and it isn’t a very pleasant feeling. 

The only thing I can compare it to is that feeling when you know something bad is about to happen; like when you’re watching a film and you can tell that the main character is about to get obliterated or something. I don’t know.

It’s Christmas Eve at the moment, not far off Christmas day actually. The hotel’s still open from what I can see, and I figure that if I give the receptionist enough money they’ll just let me stay there regardless of my age. Fortunately for me I don’t look that young; I could probably pass for seventeen or eighteen if I tried hard enough.

So I took myself in, and asked for a room. The girl was reading a magazine and just held out her hand for the money without sparing me a glance. It cost me a twenty spot to book in for the night, but I didn’t have much of an alternative. I still had the credit card, so I can easily just take out another load of money.

I’m such an asshole.

It was what you might call adequate. I think that's the best you could say about the room. Sure, there was a bed, a fridge with an off carton of milk in it, peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of bleach but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Look on the bright side, at least there wasn’t a dead body in the bath.

The hotel, or b&b if you’d like, was one of those seedy places men with beer guts went to bang other men's wives with promises they couldn't afford to keep. Or else the hooker's brought their john's there and paid for rooms by the hour.

There are a few different types of murderers in this day and age. Whenever someone say’s the word ‘murderer’ the first thought that might come to mind for some people is ‘psychopath’. If someone killed another person in order to survive, then it’s not particularly frowned upon. Say if someone were getting raped, and they clobbered their attacker with the TV remote, it wouldn’t really make anyone think any less of you.

Of course then there’s the people who can’t handle the guilt; the ones that usually end up handing themselves in to the police or dying by their own hand. I suppose I understand why people kill themselves after committing a murder; I can’t imagine the guilt to be a very gracious feeling after doing something of that sort.

And then there’s the people who killed, whether in cold blood or not, and just did not care. I’m probably one of those now, if you’d like. These are the type of people who can continue on with day to day life, like they hadn’t just lugged a corpse halfway across the city center. These people are usually gang members, or people in the mafia.

Finally there are the wonderful citizens who killed for fun. Like Ted Bundy, or someone like that. These motherfuckers are all calm and cool, and then they’re still all cool when they’re putting an axe in your head, and then after that they just don’t give a fuck. I could be one of those, but I don’t kill for fun. Doesn’t mean I give two shits though.