I liked hurting girls.
Mentally, not physically. I never hit a girl in my life. Well, once. But that was a mistake. I’ll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either, because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I killed a few of them. Their souls, I mean. It was their souls I was after.
Thus begins Diary Of An Oxygen Thief by Anonymous. A work of fiction. Grabs you. Sadism. Who is this guy? And before you say, “Well, of course it’s a man.” No. Could be a woman. Antisocial Personality Disorder. He doesn’t claim this disorder. That’s me diagnosing him. He blames an addiction. His Da. I claim addiction as a consequence, side effect, symptom of dealing with the disorder. But he’s self-aware. At least that’s something.
That’s what I just read. A quick read. Only 151 pages in my version. Disturbing. One person hurting another with deliberateness and attention to detail and joy. Over and over again with different women. Waiting for a death. Disappointed by resilience. Disappointed even more by forgiveness. And scary, a little recognition of people I’ve met. Recognition after the fact. After the fact? Because at first you’re charmed, drawn in. And then when you’ve been landed. Wham! Hammer over the head. You totally missed it.
Anonymous. (2006) Diary Of An Oxygen Thief. New York, NY: Gallery Books.