The end of the f*cking world

JAMES

I'm James. I'm seventeen. And I'm pretty sure I'm a psychopath.
I don't feel emotions. I don't feel anything
I prefer to keep to myself, and by the looks of it, everybody else prefers that too.
I was eight when I realized I didn't have a sense of humour
"Why doesn't the queen wave with this hand?" My dad chimed out of nowhere to ease the uncomfortable silence at the dinner table
"Because it's my hand!!"
Id always wanted to punch my dad in the throat. Especially now. His face was all contorted and red with laughter, his hot breath all over my face. I decided from that moment that I hated him.
When I was nine, my dad bought a deep fat frier. I'd decided by now that I don't feel anything and to be honest I was growing sick of the numbness.
So one night, whilst the frier was cooking chips and spewing hot oil all over the counter, I plunged my hand into the frier. The pain came as sort of a comfort to me, even though it hurt like hell. I don't know how long my hand was in the frier for, but it was in there long enough to leave an ugly scar on my hand that is still there eight years later.
When I was fifteen, I put my neighbors cat into a box, and took it into the woods. It probably had a name. After that, I killed more animals. And I remember every single one of them.
School was beneath me. I still went, though. It was a perfect place for observation and selection.
Because I had a plan. I was going to kill something bigger.
Much bigger.