Devestation of the Self

This is an excerpt from a later stage within the story. The characters, John and Sarah have been plotting against a girl Jessica, whom they believe murdered Johns ex-girlfriend Stacy. It turns into a burst of emotional explosions that lead John to realise what he really is. Enjoy.

“What do you mean you couldn’t do it?” her eyes were wide, staring knives into me.

“I mean to go with your fucking plan is suicide. It is completely ridiculous that we're even considering doing something like this. We’re both out of our minds.” I replied.

“Calm down John, calm down.”

I was breathing heavy and my nerves were on edge, every muscle tense. “I’m calm okay. I was at her house last night. I skipped going home once again to try and pull off our plan, but when I got there, all I could do was see things going wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were sitting on her couch, not really doing anything at all. She read for a bit, gave me a message, and one thing led to another.”

“No John, you didn’t?” she looked panicked.

“I had to. She would know something was up if I didn’t.” It was completely mind blowing, like it is every time. I enjoyed every minute of it and I knew it was messed up, I mean, she was a psycho path killer. She killed my ex girlfriend, the girl I probably would have married if she didn’t come along.

“Fuck that - did you even think about the plan at all?” she asked me.

“Of course I did.” I rolled my eyes and tried to show how stupid her question was. I continued, “I looked around for an opportunity to slip her some of those drugs, but the thought of doing that to someone, it just seemed so sadistic. Besides that, her entire house is filled with my DNA in many forms. Having a house burning would do nothing but send evidence towards me – that plan has faults. What if the house didn’t even fully burn enough to do anything and it was put out. It would be investigated, leading everything to me. She was drugged, she would know it, and so would the police after finding a pill bottle or bit of her drink or something. The story would be that ‘I’m the psycho path because I drugged a girl and attempted to burn her house down with her in it.’ How completely fucked up is this idea.”

“I didn’t...”

I didn’t even give her time to start her sentence. I just went on with what I was ranting about. “They would find gasoline remains on the house and know how unprofessional and demented we are. It was impossible for me to get out of any romantic situation without ruining it. Our lives are in danger by this woman, we have to be careful.” It was true, but for some odd reason I started to like it. I was demented and sick, manipulating two girls to do whatever I wanted. I have killed people, I could have done it again, and I would have if I ever needed to. I felt indestructible, it was a new form of experience, and it was a sensation of beautiful sadistic pleasure.