“Mom, Jarod's Being Mean Again”

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            “Mom. I swear. I was just playing ‘Princesses’. I was minding my own business, and then Jarod came up and broke Cinderella’s head off,” Maria says crying.

            Her mother replies, “I understand, honey. I’ll buy you a new one. Sometimes that’s just how older brothers act. They get big and mean sometimes, but he doesn’t mean it.”

            “Why does he always do it though, Mama?” questions Maria, still teary-eyed. “He’s so mean to me, and he never says sorry, a-a-and I just don’t know why.”

            Her mother embraces her, “We need to have a talk, okay? C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll make some cookies.”

            They enter the kitchen and Maria’s mother begins to explain, “Okay. You’re old enough now to understand. Your brother has this thing that makes his brain funky, and sometimes it causes him to have these…experiences.” She pauses, beginning to tear up, “It makes him extra mean and cranky, but I need you to be strong and let it be as best you can…He’s working on it.”

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 Target Practice

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            He clicks the safety. He inhales deeply, slowly. He lines up the target. Bang! He watches the rabbit bounce a few paces, and walks after it, keeping a close eye. He finds his kill, picks it up, and throws it near the garden, seeing a pile that he’s made this week. He walks on back to the house, B.B. gun in hand, his mother calling for dinner.

            “Hey Jarod, how was shooting? Hit the bullseye a few times?” his mother asks.

            “Yeah mom,” Jarod says with little to no emotion, “absolutely killed it. Four rabbits this week.”

            His mother is startled, “Jarod, what? You can’t just be killing rabbits for no reason.”

            “Mom. It’s not a big deal. Who cares?” He walks upstairs, his mother speechless.

            At dinner, Jarod’s mother explains to her husband the situation and proceeds, “We need to get Jarod evaluated. He doesn’t seem to care about anything, and he’s killing animals as if it’s nothing!”

            “I’ve noticed that too,” her husband replies. “Could be dangerous. Better to get it checked out now.”

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 Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.

 

Dear Diary,

If I had to describe myself in a word, it’d be ‘needless’. I need nobody, I need nothing. Having friends and close relationships is nice and all, but are they necessary to me? Not at all. I am human though, and I do crave things. I love to get what I want. I’m greedy, just as everyone is. Some are simply able to reserve that greed more than others. However, if I want something, I simply use others to get it. I manipulate, I steal, I do what I must to get what I want. It’s really quite simple. Why am I that way? I don’t know. Do I care? Not especially. It’s a ‘take what you can and run’ kind of world. If I have to let a few down to build myself up, that’s what must be done. Feelings get you nowhere. I have to get somewhere, wherever that may be.

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It’s Working

 

            “Mary your son is so nice. He gets along with the other kids so well,” Cheryl claimed. “I’m sure you’re proud.”

            “Oh my, thank you for noticing! That’s extremely reassuring actually,” Mary replied as they sat together near the park bench.

            “Wait, reassuring? Why do you say that? So long as I’m not getting to nosy here,” Cheryl asked.

            “Well…uh, yeah,” Mary started, acting as if she was distracted by something on her phone, “he hasn’t always seemed to show the best social skills, but I’m glad you’re noticing otherwise.” Meanwhile, her mind races as she thinks the therapy may be helping her son, Jarod.

            “Wow. I really would’ve had no idea,” Cheryl stated, seeming very surprised. “He really seems like he’d do well in any situation!”           

            It’s working. Mary thought about it. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe Jarod would turn out just fine. She sat there, holding back tears. It’s working.

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Finding What Was Hiding

 

            It was a normal day. I was hanging around with my normal friends, doing what normal kids do. We hung around in the back yard, swam in the pool, and then we went to explore the woods. We must have gone a mile or so, just me, Stacy, and Jenna. I stumbled upon a struggling squirrel, who must’ve had a broken leg since it was hobbling slowly away. Impulsively, I ran up and struck it with a rock, killing the little animal. That’s when my life seemed to take quite a turn. Both Stacy and Jenna looked at me, frightened almost, saying, “Oh my god, you’re such a psychopath. What the hell!” Hearing the word psychopath triggered everything. Was I a psychopath? Is this why I act the way I do sometimes? Am I unnecessarily cruel? What’s wrong with me? Psychopath. I had just found the identity that has been hiding from me for so long. And I don’t know what to do.

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Court Date

 

            There I sit, waiting to speak with the prosecutor. I’ve been brought in for reckless driving, which could lead me to imprisonment for possibly a year. I remember it all. I just began to press the pedal down harder. Then it hit the floor. Oh. Here comes the prosecutor.

            “Hello, how are you?” the prosecutor asked me. “Looks like you’ve been brought in on reckless driving charges?”

            “Yessir,” I replied, scared to speak longer.

            “I’m just confused on what was going through your head,” he began. “You could’ve killed someone out there, easily.”

            “Sir, I don’t really know,” I replied. What was going through my head? This is happening all too often. I remember everything so clearly, but I have no emotions toward it. I continued, “I can’t really explain.”

            “Well you might wanna figure that out. You sure you’ve never been diagnosed with a mental disorder?” he questioned.

            “No, sir, I haven’t.” Wait. Maybe that’s it. It all makes sense now. I need to get to the hospital ‘ASAP.’

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To Know But Not To Understand

 

            A friend once reached out to me, saying she felt the pain of my problems. She didn’t. She wasn’t like me. She knew what was wrong, but not how it felt.

            I explained to her: They may know what’s wrong. They may think they know what it’s like, but they will never really understand. When they know, they feel entitled to label you. In their eyes, I’m a monster. A liar. A theft. Heartless. Cruel. The worst though? Psychopath. Labelled as someone who has no feeling to anyone and who has gone completely mad? It brings it all together. Nobody has hope in you. Nobody feels as though there may be some good inside. There may be times when they are right, but often it’s just a hole that every one of us are thrown into, with no ladder or rope to get out. They may know, but they will never understand.

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Through the Eyes of Therapy

 

            September 5th.

            Patient seldom loses eye contact. He looks as if to examine me, as if plotting. His emotions change rarely to any simulation I have questioned him about. Patient scans the room at times, as if looking for something specific.

 

            September 12th.

            Patient continually questions me. Seems to manipulative. Trying to dig into what drives such action is extremely difficult. Cannot seem to get any emotion out of the patient.

 

            September 19th.

            I’ve noticed that patient has taken a few items from the office. Meaningless items, however, theft nonetheless. The signs and symptoms of the patient’s mental disorder are clear and consistent.

 

            September 26th.

            I have discharged the patient, recommending him to several other therapists and institutions. The signs of disorder are unbelievably prevalent. Patient seems to have become comfortable with my presence and will not share what goes on in his mind.

 

 

 

 

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In Cold Blood

 

            The interrogation room was silent. Jarod Corkol sat there, no emotion on his face, waiting. Twenty minutes had gone by until finally someone entered the room, slamming files on the desk, ready to put Jarod on blast. He was arrested for the murder of Stephen Prochta. The interrogator questioned Corkol endlessly why and how he did it. The only thing was, Corkol never held back. He confessed to everything, not giving a damn what he was questioned. He explained the entire process. He manipulated Prochta into robbing the fast food restaurant, brought him to the house, and he proceeded to stab him countless times. He almost seemed impressed with himself, illuminating the murder as if it was a game. He showed no remorse for any of it. The interrogator, during the whole process, continually referred to the word psychopath. Jarod Corkol found it amusing. Psychopath. It rang over and over in his head, as it would for years to come.

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How? But More Importantly...Why?

 

            It was evening. The sun had set. 8:23 to be exact. The plot was so precise, so customary. I had found my way to the bar. The man whom I had set eyes on, sitting just where he does every weekend evening, carrying knife on the belt loop of his worn-down jeans. The thought raced through my head endlessly, causing my heart to skip. He would get up to relieve himself, but as he leaves I slyly slipped the knife from the belt loop. Simple. At the count of 45, I too went to the restroom, with different intentions however. As he came from the stall, I crept behind a small panel, just big enough to shield me from view. As he slipped by, I gave a swift puncture to the left side of his throat. He fell as quickly as I would leave. Why, you ask? I will not be manipulated...by anyone.