Gypsy Blood
March 1st 2008 00:00
My son is starting to disturb me more than he usually does. And that’s saying quite a bit. He’s being conspicuous by his absence at the moment. I’m sure other mothers haven’t had to suffer like I have. I’ve done everything in my powers to help him. All my life. Nothing seems to help. It’s not like he lacks intelligence. Maybe his father was right. “He’s too smart for his own good.” He should talk. I’ve never met a more cunning serpent in my entire life. He was a liar and a thief. And a lazy bastard to boot. My mother tried to warn me. Sometimes I wonder if I married him just to spite my mother. As my son keeps reminding me, “You wouldn’t be the first.”
I’m sure he only married me because I had a car.
It’s not so much what my sons says. He doesn’t say much. Just like his father. I don’t like secretive people. It’s what he writes. We share the same computer, when I get a chance to use it that is, and I’m just learning to navigate my way around all this new fandangle technology. David’s certainly been helpful in that respect. I’ll give him that much. If I had to describe my son, I’ll call him kind and helpful. He’s always willing to help someone. I just wish he’d get a job and help himself for a change. That would be a red-letter day.
I’ve got no idea where he is today. He hasn’t’ been home for a couple of days. He just disappears, then reappears. You’d think I’d get used to it. But I’m a mother. I don’t think we ever get used to not worrying about our kids. They’ll never understand until they have kids of their own. And that’s not likely to happen. He’s nearly fifty and still single. No-one will put up with him besides me.
I wish his father had disappeared before I ever met him.
I know he makes a lot of stuff up. I haven’t met a man yet that wasn’t an expert at making things up. My husband was the world’s preeminent liar. Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He could look someone straight in the eyes and tell a lie without blinking. His eyes would just turn icy blue. It’s not surprising. He had plenty of practice. About the only time he wasn’t lying was when he was drinking and gambling. Or thieving my money. The things that man did to me were criminal.
But even fiction is based upon fact. So I’m not sure where what my son writes about came from. I’ve tried to understand him, but he’s his father’s son, and I could do without rehashing his memory.
We lost contact for a few years, and then one day David just turned up on my doorstep saying he needed somewhere to ‘camp’ as he puts it. He’s spent more time sleeping on floors and couches than he ever has in a bed. Or outside. That’s been going on all his life. He just can’t seem to settle on anything. Apart from writing, which is hardly a real job. Why anyone would want to be a writer is beyond me. And all he’s done since he’s been here is sit at this computer and write. And drink. Mum always said we had gypsy blood. Or came from gypsy stock.
David keeps saying he can’t get published because no-one understands what he’s writing about, so I’ll publish it for him. On Orble. Maybe he’ll stop saying he can’t get published. But only after I’ve corrected the spelling and grammatical errors. They certainly don’t teach children English like they did in my day.
Nothing Land
(Novella version)
(Novella version)
I can’t speak for other serial killers. I haven’t met any of the other prisoners yet.
I’ve spent most of my time in Yatala speaking to you. Well, being with you, anyway.
The reality is, I find speaking for myself hard enough, without speaking for others.
Killing someone is easy compared to speaking to someone. After the first time, anyway. That was rugged. I wouldn’t want to go through that again. I’m glad there’s only a first, first time. In everything. I’m not so sure if I’m glad there’s a first time for everything. Like a first time to kill.
But no-one can escape the truth of a cliché. Clichés are truer than the truth. Death, taxes and clichés.
Some people will argue the second time can be exactly the same as the first time. But it can’t. For starters, it’s in a different time frame or zone. Even if the two events are only separated by a moment. It still makes them different. Even if they appear to be identical. It’s all a question of how intelligent you are.
Some people are seriously stuffed in the head. The way they think is just so. Well it’s stupid. Wrong. Sometimes I wish I’d gone around killing stupid people. Although, I wouldn’t have lived long enough. There’s too many of them.
I reckon if I hadn’t ended up doing what I did, I would have made a great philosophy teacher. Make that an excellent one. I could see myself standing in front of a class teaching philosophy. “You’re all stuffed in the head.” That would have been my first lecture. I would have dismissed the class straight afterwards. Just told them, “Have a good think about what I just said. And write an assignment on it. Due by next lecture. No excuses. I’ll see through them. I’m not stupid.”
Just think. I could have been considered normal. A bloke with a real job. University Philosopher. Just one more anonymous brown-nosed, arse-licker moving through society unnoticed. Making friends with other normals. Being part of the Mutual Appreciation Backslapping Society. I’d probably have been the founder. Who else would have thought of it? I could have had two business cards. Three, even. The third one would have read: Me. Normal Person. And my phone number. I could have dropped it in a jar and won a free gym membership. I could have worn a tweed jacket. And pretended I was interested in people. Not intolerant of them.
I’ve always found speaking to people hard. Maybe if I’d been allowed to get a word in early on, I wouldn’t. But the rot set in early. Real early. Maybe if I’d been allowed to get a word in later on, I wouldn’t have found speaking to people hard either. Or just being around them.
If there’s one thing in life people love more than themselves, it’s the sound of their own voice talking about themselves.
If you hadn’t asked me to write all this down, I’d probably die in here without telling anyone a thing. I probably won’t last long in here, anyway. Once they find out what I did, someone will top me. He won’t be in for murder. He won’t understand. Until he kills me. Then he’ll regret it. He’ll realise he’s no different from me. He’ll probably beg someone else to top him. But when will the cycle end? Who will the last person get to kill him? He’ll probably have to commit suicide and die a failure. Yep. I would have been an excellent philosophy teacher. Maybe when I finish writing this, I’ll write a book on philosophy.
I like it in here already. I don’t have to worry about anything any more. Rent. My next kill. Nothing. Even the food is prepared. I might even draw up my own business card. Professional Writer. Income: $5/wk.
You keep asking me, how did I become a serial killer. And why. I don’t like that term. It makes it sound like that’s all there is to me. That I’m just a label. I’m not.
But I’ll write down the answers to your questions because I like you. You’re probably the first person whose ever taken a genuine interest in me. Not a pretend interest. I know it’s your job and all that, and you’re getting paid for it because you’re a psychologist, but still.
If you were dead I wouldn’t find it difficult to speak to you. I used to open up a bit after they were dead. I felt like I could tell them anything and everything. The best thing was, they didn’t interrupt me. I could speak at my own pace. Slowly.
It’s funny how people open up to complete strangers. Or confess to a priest. And say things like, “I’ve never told anyone this before, but … “ I think it’s all tied up with religion. People’s need to confess to a fellow human being rather than a God or gods they’ve never met. To unburden their consciences. If you stand out in a paddock at night by yourself and confess to a God or gods, it’s not the same as telling someone made of flesh and blood. Even if they’re dead. For some people it’s a priest or a stranger. For me it was always dead people. I always felt better afterwards. But then I’d have to kill someone else to tell them about the last person I killed. It almost makes me glad I got caught.
Maybe if I’d realised I could pay people to listen to me, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have spent my money on what I did. I could have paid someone $125/hr to listen to me. I would have needed a corporate job just to pay the professional listener. Nup. It wouldn’t have worked. I guess I’m just who I am. Me. That’s not going to chance. And it’s too late to go back and be someone else. Even though that’s impossible anyway. I’m who I am. I always will be. Always have been. Never won’t be.
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Comment by Norm
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Comment by Norm
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Comment by Lady Henrietta Muddling
Potter in a Harry
Do you know where David is? Please dont' tell me he's at your place again.