Short Story: Not the Model Majority

This is actually one of my chapters of one of my novels I’m working on right now. I took a break from my second novel idea to work on this novel idea (the number has changed over the last few years). I’m getting more commitment and drive to get them done by my deadlines or as close to my deadlines as possible. Most of us have other adult responsibilities we can’t ignore and while I am focusing on these too, it’s important to try to keep as busy as possible and remain open minded to all opportunities and creative outlets for brain survival. Enjoy the read. It’s a little weird (in a way).

If you sit long enough with your eyes closed and your mouth slightly open in the middle and sideib you can put yourself on a beautiful island with colorful birds that sing sweet songs to you all morning and when you are ready to lay your head down on your makeshift pillow because you are a true believer in roughing it without any kind of civilized assistance, and a huge bonus of all this make believe are the birds singing. You get to choose the lullabies that help you sleep. These birds are smart. These birds didn’t fall out of the nest or be neglected by mommy birds. 
No matter how proficient you are in attaining a Zen like status, it isn’t possible to be in this state for long. This particular place is another form of hell. If you block out all the noises around you including the screaming and yelling, you can sleep a few minutes longer every morning and by the time the end of year appears, you have conditioned yourself enough to sleep through anything and wake up refreshed. 
You see each new day as what you will make of it. You don’t have try to get rid of the unidentified smelly object within a canvas bag shoved underneath your bed by your cellmate. He doesn’t care for you, but you don’t care. The officer told you in the first week you will either sink or swim. You are still swimming. A different officer said something similar to your cellmate five times removed. This is definitely not the place to believe making friends if worth your while.
These are the kinds of truths one needs to hear when they first enter through the steel gate. Nothing else matters except the present moment, not even the age-old question of whether you are guilty or not can help you because no one fucking cares. Not a single living, breathing soul in any body around here will convey or produce a suitable rat’s ass even if you display psychopathic or sociopathic tendencies. 
Everybody with a little bit of brain matter understands you don’t have to show either one to know most people will not know who you are or what you’ve done unless you open your fat lips and pour out your heart like there’s no tomorrow. You are simply here for a reason. You’ve been deemed unacceptable to live in regular society, and I hate to tell you, but the judges and juries get it right most of the time. No one who kills another human being especially out of spite deserves to stand in line at Starbucks to get a cup of hot coffee or whatever fancy schmancy drink on the menu.
As a species, humans pretend to listen. We act as if we care about the welfare of others. The only reason we allow others to get close to us is to manipulate them for our own personal benefit. We perceive others are inferior including the psychologists who happily dispense medications to us. Sure, a few of them might have a cute pixie haircut. None of them will give you the time of day if they saw you outside these walls.
It’s inaccurate to claim every single doctor doesn’t care because a few do care more than the average psychologist, but being in this setting past a year quickly changes any positive outlook they might’ve had when first entering. I’ve learned if you try to include every little problem in your weekly discussions, you lose precious personal time and patience in others. Those alarming instances that psychologists used to bring up to their boss are now brushed under the rug when they occur. They realize drudging up the dirt doesn’t produce results. 
I’m sure they believe they are doing society a great favor by keeping us drugged up. They rely on scientists to do the dirty work. I’m sure there is a group of scientists somewhere that have figured out how to change the criminal’s mind for the better. However, they have yet to figure out how to contact me even though the Internet is crawling with newspaper articles of my past aggressions and my current location. Even if most everyone knows my name is not worth a lick of redemption, don’t I too deserve some credit for ridding a small pocket of this big city of its vermin especially the last one.
Let me say the following. I don’t care about listening to the expert views of my so-called poor upbringing and how that impacted the way I am today. Nor do I care about hearing how much I deserve to die and am beyond any kind of help. I already know this and accepted a long time more people want me dead than alive. If the state could kill me a thousand times over, I would be okay with it. I would welcome it and make no excuses for my actions. I simply was born, turned over, and grew stronger. I was what I became. I am what I will be.
Yes, I have the hardest time seeing people as people. I slow my breath at the sight of a visitor matching certain characteristics I admire. Like most serial killers, I developed my method of haphazardness by subtracting the detailed curiosities that did not serve me well and ending with a formulaic sheet I check marked off within my head. The mushy, middle part became hard and all that remained was very little inside me that cared.
I’m intrigued by people who aren’t intrigued by me. Don’t tell me about how your pre-conceived image of a serial killer resembles nothing my face shows. As I’ve hinted at before, I’m a bad man. I don’t give a shit about someone else’s wellbeing. I don’t give a crap about a homeless man begging for change. This is why people roll up their windows when they see a bum approaching. No one wants them there. I don’t care if you beg for food. I don’t care when you beg for water. I don’t care if doctor A and B disagrees on my diagnosis.
I’m interested in wherever the conversation flows other than me. I know people well enough I could be their second shadow without them realizing I’m there. I don’t fear consequences like the young people of today. These are the same ones who are distraught by not having as many friends and likes as their high school classmates. The 21st century has brought us into some questionable times, stupid times. 
Do I not understand myself? Not more or less than any other person.. Do I know right from wrong?  Of course, I do. Who the hell doesn’t! Only a fucking idiot would claim this. Even Ted Bundy found a way not to kill his ex-girlfriend, so I hate to break it to all you Bundy fans, he knew exactly what he was doing, up to and including his sanctioned death. Do I have a conscience? Does it really matter? If I pretend to have one, will it make you feel better when you’re alone at night? Will it give you more peace that a serial killer has a conscience? 
It’s this simple. 

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