Kipobe
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- Sep 13, 2001
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Tagline: Where does fiction end and fact begin? When does the game turn deadly?
He stared him squarely in the eye, as if this living human being was nothing more than the shooting range target he practiced at over and over. Callously, he held his weapon with the grip of a lion, and squeezed the trigger with ease. Nothing more than the residue of a dead man's blood served as the sole reminder of the... ugh... ya know, this is where it loses it for me. This guy is a cold-hearted assassin, and yet his accomplishment is forgotten in just a moment?
I'd read enough of these murder novels to know more than probably a murderer themselves. I don't know if it was my jaded upbringing, or the fact that I always believed the true victim was the murderer, but the thought of killing someone seemed truly amazing. It was created a sense of power and accomplishment that you couldn't get anywhere else.
But don't be creeped out, I'm not as sadistic as you might think. I studied the human mind as a therapist for many years... I dealt with everything from the delusional to the suicidal. I'd like to think I helped many achieve something positive in their lifetime, but I never achieved what I wanted through their accomplishments... so I became a writer.
Exploration of the fictional human mind led me to areas that dealing with actual people never could take me to. Ironic, I know... but I could be the innocent AND the guilty within my words. No one had to understand my characters but me, and no one could ever truly sympathize with them like I could. Then there was the added benefit. My characters always won.
With my patients, the delusional would often turn worse and unleash themselves on the face of society with disastrous effects. The suicidal would take their own lives because no matter how much they had someone to talk to, they never felt anyone understood them. But I did. I always did. I knew my patients better than they knew themselves, and it occasionally gave me a power that I couldn't control because I knew that if I could live their life for them, I could always give them the win.
Well, this was how I felt almost all the time. My inborn imperfection gave me a less than perfect batting average when middle-aged guy walked into my door. Psychologically understanding this mind appeared out of my control, but I undertook him as a patient for both of us. It would be a challenge for both of us, a game that we would both win. But dealing with the patient being suicidal was only half the battle. No, I was dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, one on a mission to complete his game.
PART I
He stared him squarely in the eye, as if this living human being was nothing more than the shooting range target he practiced at over and over. Callously, he held his weapon with the grip of a lion, and squeezed the trigger with ease. Nothing more than the residue of a dead man's blood served as the sole reminder of the... ugh... ya know, this is where it loses it for me. This guy is a cold-hearted assassin, and yet his accomplishment is forgotten in just a moment?
I'd read enough of these murder novels to know more than probably a murderer themselves. I don't know if it was my jaded upbringing, or the fact that I always believed the true victim was the murderer, but the thought of killing someone seemed truly amazing. It was created a sense of power and accomplishment that you couldn't get anywhere else.
But don't be creeped out, I'm not as sadistic as you might think. I studied the human mind as a therapist for many years... I dealt with everything from the delusional to the suicidal. I'd like to think I helped many achieve something positive in their lifetime, but I never achieved what I wanted through their accomplishments... so I became a writer.
Exploration of the fictional human mind led me to areas that dealing with actual people never could take me to. Ironic, I know... but I could be the innocent AND the guilty within my words. No one had to understand my characters but me, and no one could ever truly sympathize with them like I could. Then there was the added benefit. My characters always won.
With my patients, the delusional would often turn worse and unleash themselves on the face of society with disastrous effects. The suicidal would take their own lives because no matter how much they had someone to talk to, they never felt anyone understood them. But I did. I always did. I knew my patients better than they knew themselves, and it occasionally gave me a power that I couldn't control because I knew that if I could live their life for them, I could always give them the win.
Well, this was how I felt almost all the time. My inborn imperfection gave me a less than perfect batting average when middle-aged guy walked into my door. Psychologically understanding this mind appeared out of my control, but I undertook him as a patient for both of us. It would be a challenge for both of us, a game that we would both win. But dealing with the patient being suicidal was only half the battle. No, I was dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, one on a mission to complete his game.
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