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[henryskillerism]

From One Bloodied Hand To Another , Part III

 Journal Entry, Page 37, candlelit on a cherry desk 

Cordon Grey is incomparable to a good man when in shadows he stands as the form of a monster. Let me explain...

My first killings attempt was of no solace to me. I had not yet found a home in my prodigal signature. I had none. I’d chosen, at first, to slit his throat in his sleep and found no reward in the darkness of leaving the light off, in the lack of being able to see the shock in his eyes. To me, it resembled art. Art I had missed out on. 

Demetri’s kill was a loss to me, but it gave no pause to discovering my new obsession.

Patriot Mathers was a newcomer in suicide group-therapy ( He was the only one who didn’t speak, besides I, the observer ) and ( like Demetri from the hospital ) I'd followed him home. Patriot was neat, an avid reader, and it was clear that he was abnormally well-designed and kept everything usually in place, except, ironically, everything was filled to the brim with a heavy coat of dust and upon entering his bedroom he’d sneeze a dozen times throughout the night in reaction. ( Clearly, he was allergic. I'd noted that ) The place hadn’t been swept in over a month and the dishes were piled something terrible in the sink. ( Men never liked to do dishes. ) And I ached to tidy everything but I was sure that he'd notice. I only took a wash-rag from a large pile of them kept in a kitchen drawer. ( Unless he counted them, he wouldn’t know it was missing. And since he hardly did the dishes, my guess is he didn't. ) I installed cameras disguised as smoke detectors in the place of his old ones and connected them to a spare phone I use specifically to watch my victims. Patriot seemed to sleep more than he did anything else. It was depression at its finest. Patriot liked to write notes to himself, leaving them in various places around his apartment. He wrote on his calendar for the whole of the month, but never crossed any of the days out. ‘Dr. Grey’ seemed to come up a lot. ‘Therapy appointment.’ That was the curiosity. What was it like to see a therapist? What did they say to you in session?

Of course, I didn’t mean to meet Dr. Grey in the way that I did, two of five in the back of the elevator. And usually, I wouldn't have picked up a personal item someone had dropped in favor of decency until I read what I did. His composition notebook flew open to the page. Really, it wasn’t my fault. What had he written?: “𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆. 𝑰 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆.”

and I thought, ‘how peculiar.... a therapist with a death wish.’ Which, assumed correctly, not just by the leather shoulder-bag he used as a briefcase, but because I was his next patient. I stood amused for how the secretary had delivered me directly to his care, only to find out that the composition-man was the infamous doctor himself. 

And oh, I tried to smile sweetly but it came out some sick kind of thing. If only I could’ve read his mind, that would’ve made it all the more better. And like so, with new obsession, the draw I felt to darken over Patriot seemed to fade to.....Grey.

Cordon lives in a house too large for comfort for a person that lives alone. He’s incredibly neat but not built for wall decoration and always finds time to keep his hair very kempt. He seems to ponder over his memories of caging school-girls from sororities in college shortcomings almost more than anything else. He says he ‘drugged them to keep them agreeable, but enjoyed the in-depth conversations they had while they were conscious.’ He said one ‘didn’t beg for her life, and that’s why he let her go.’ and it made me wonder how he made his pick, and 𝒘𝒉𝒚 he felt he had to make it. I didn't understand his calling. 

He seemed fascinated by the rot of disorders that had made their way inside the female brain. He liked them ‘ruined’ he’d say, so he could ‘build them back up again.’ He didn’t want to kill them. He always wrote how he let them go, with a threat & a promise that they would never tell the tale. It took me several times of re-returning to read all I could. He kept his composition under the floorboard, which had been slightly left ajar in a hurry and were noticeable when I entered his room. And seven-seven pages in a row, he contemplated taking his life from his sweet misfortune with a victim named ‘Lily.’ And this one—he hardly knew.

He liked to drug girls and keep them, then eventually, when he deceived them to trust in an inevitable trauma-bond, he would let them go. None ever told, and if they did, he’d threaten until the case were dropped, then sue them for defamation of character. That only happened once. Then he’d paid to have it taken down from the internet. Plausible deniability. ( But it’s still there if you know where to look, and so is his address, along with a $50 owed tax on a white truck he sometimes used. ) On this occasion, He’d never gotten Lily out of the room. He'd tried to abduct her in his new solo practice, the first patient he ever had, and had miscalculated the dose of the drug he usually used and killed her almost instantly. He shamed himself for it daily, and even, convinced himself he had killed the love of his life. He compared her to Juliet and various characters from long ago stories & plays and it became clear from the stains that he’d wept upon the pages. And since then, Cordon hadn’t abducted anyone else for a pet. It seemed to be around a year ago. Instead, he’d taken on new patients and set out to convince himself he was ‘trying to be good’ and found joy in the way he could heal the suffering in their desolation.

I returned the notebook but put the wood completely back into place. I wanted him to notice. What's a bit of hair raised on a neck? The first time, he’d question himself. The next time something differed—he’d get his mind off Lily. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to punish him, bring his greatest fears to life,  simply kill him all together or worship him for the masterpiece that he was⸺cruel⸺but masterful. A therapist that was suicidal, who liked to drug girls and keep them, who ‘accidentally killed the love of his life’ the love of his life he knew nothing about, and who felt an endless guilt, not for the drugging, nor abduction, but for the murder he had committed. 

A very grey conscience for a man with the name Grey.

[henryskillerism]

Cordon Grey , ‘ Introduction

 As Written By EVENTIDE 

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

There was a running joke in undergrad that the people who chose psychology as their major, were only doing so in order to learn about their own illnesses.

Throughout the course of those four years, I came to believe that stereotype as I discussed personal lives amongst my peers.

The ones that continued past the collegiate level to further their careers were a much smaller class, and I went on to observe their behaviors (sometimes wondering if they were doing the same), and found myself utterly intrigued by the textbook disorders I was witnessing.

The only thing is, they were able to mask their symptoms much too easy due to the singular fact that all of our studies explained them in great detail.

Most called it quits after receiving a masters.

To have mastered a subject is quite an accomplishment, but only those of us sick enough pushed though until we signed M.D. after our names.

You see, that’s the tricky part about our society - the glitch, if you will.

Those of us trained to heal, taught to handle trauma with a calm demeanor, built to comfort those that are sick… we are the ones who need it the most.

Page Break 

My first 𝐩𝐞𝐭 was this sweet little brunette who had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder soon after she turned eighteen.

I was assigned to her case when I assisted at the campus clinic, shadowing one of the therapists that taught an upper level course in psychology.

It was the final year of my bachelor’s, so I wasn’t allowed much (any, really) contact with the patients.

So, in true stalker fashion, I picked up on her habits and routines surrounding your weekly shrink visits.

And like most people - as I would come to learn over the years - she had very obvious patterns.

First being that she would always have a smoke after her session, regardless of how the conversation went.

One day, I got brave (I didn’t know how to speak to women back then; some would say I’ve grown into that), and asked her for a light.

I coughed when I inhaled the cigarette, a telltale sign that my lungs were not prepared. I hoped she didn’t notice that, along with a few other things.

I learned her name was Violet.

She was a freshman, states away from any family, and she hadn’t made any friends in her new city.

We started as friends;

She ended up in a large dog crate that I had shoved beneath the lifted twin bed in my dorm room.

I drugged her to keep her quiet, but we had many in depth conversations when she was conscious.

I was able to keep her for the entirety of the semester, without anyone catching onto our little secret.

She didn’t beg for her life - that’s why I let her go.

Sometimes I think about Violet and where she is in the world today.

Did you make it out there, little sadness?

Or did the pain get the best of you?

The second - a fiery redhead with a criminal record.

We crossed paths during my time volunteering at the local jail in my late twenties.

I was nearing completion of my masters and had to write a thesis based off my hands-on experience with the prison’s mental healthcare system, or lack thereof.

Explosive personality disorder.

There was a lot of anger trapped in such a small girl. It captured my attention the very first day.

I admired her from afar until her short sentence had been served.

But the day of her release, I made sure to request off.

I was waiting for her.

She was only rewarded with a few breaths of fresh air before she someone new’s captive.

By then, I had enough income to afford an apartment in the suburbs, which had a second bedroom I had prepared for her.

Admittedly, it was difficult to get her unconscious body up the two flights of stairs without any notice from the complex neighbors, but after that, everything went according to plan.

Amelia had layers. She wasn’t always so vicious.

And when put in the predicament she was in, her hard exterior crumbled after a few days with no food or water.

She told me of her childhood, her abusive mother, and the things that led her down a path of delinquency.

I felt.. sympathy for her, but I couldn’t name that emotion at the time.

I only knew I wanted no harm to come to her; so on the last day of the third month of her stay, I granted her freedom with a conditional threat of her life if she were to ever speak of this.

I believed her when she promised her silence.

I received an A on my thesis.

I owe that to you, Amelia.

And then came the third.

Lily.

She was my first patient scheduled at my newly open solo practice.

I liked her.. very much.

She was a writer; quiet and I never quite got her comfortable with me.

Unfortunately, my time with her was cut short.

I made an error when measuring the dose of sedative on the day of her taking and she seized to death in my arms before I could ever transport her out of my office.

I still have nightmares.

I wish I could’ve gotten to know you, Lily. 
Your likes and dislikes; the things that haunt your mind.

But now, you are just one of my ghosts. 

 Page Break 

“Dr. Grey, your 3pm appointment is here.”

I had picked up the phone in my office mid-thought. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

However, if I were to defend my paranoia, I wouldn’t know where to start.

There was no tangible evidence to lead to my suspicions, but yet still, it consumed my thoughts.

“Sarah, I have asked you this many times. State the name of the patient when you are alerting me to their arrival.”

“Yes… Sorry, Dr. Grey. Ms. Tudor is here for her appointment.”

Ah, yes, my newest obsession. I had plans for you.

“You may send her in.” Click.

I didn’t give my ditzy receptionist enough time to respond before I hung up the phone. I didn’t take well to repeating myself and she had made me do so numerous times.

I opened my desk drawer to pull out a fresh notepad, catching a glimpse of Lily’s favorite pen, which I kept close by to remind me of my failures.

I would never make the same mistake again. She deserved a better doctor.

And that, I would be. For you, Henry.

[henryskillerism]

From One Blooded Hand To Another ,  Part II

Journal Entry , Page 23 

Well to be frank, I think I’ll stalk them for several months before I make the kill. I want to know the sound of their voice when they speak and the inflection of tone and how it changes with different people. Do they sleep with the light on or off? Do they dream or do they not? I want to know what’s unusual, or the things they hide when they think no one’s looking. I want to know if they read or if they know the constellations. 

 It’s curious, isn’t it? It doesn’t quite make sense to me. What happens in the mind that makes someone seek the end. And I’ve decided, they must have failed an attempt at least twice before they’ll qualify as a target. I need to know that, like Culver, they didn’t want to fight. Is that empathy? Have I finally discovered the art of it? 

‘Sociopathy’ the doctor called it. A disorder that causes someone to experience little to no shame, guilt, remorse, or empathy. Those that generally aren’t concerned with the possibility of negative consequences for their actions, leading to risky, impulsive or harmful behavior. “It seems she has no empathy” he said to my mother. “Your daughter displays clear signs of sociopathy and should be closely monitored.” I still remember the words. I remember the hatred in which she looked at me for the ten years that followed. Her dying day was my only freedom. What an eighteenth birthday gift. 

But this, is this finally my empathy? Being their saving grace? 

PAGE BREAK 

 An Unlikely Therapist, scene 

I truly believe there is no one in this world who could resemble Cordon Augustine Grey. He is almost lanky except for light muscle, set at best height, and his eyes glow a grey ( much like his last name )  I believe no one else’s reflect. His hair is short cut, but no where near buzzed, and he dresses like a vampire that’s been invented with style to the 21st century. I don’t mean to imagine him gothic--that’s not the picture. I mean there’s an aesthetic to him that’s antique but... to be plain, bad. You would understand if you saw him. 

That’s not what struck me first. It was his notebook--possibly his journal. He’d dropped it in the elevator up and it spilled open, a polaroid of a blonde sliding along the floor. And on the page, it was the drawing of a razor blade that caught my eye. And next to it, the poetry “I know I want to die. I dream of nights where death might come for me.” Not very peculiar for a therapy office. Peculiar if you’re a therapist. Quickly, the man reached to collect the notebook. For him, I retrieved the photo, gave it no second glance, and returned it. I gave him an odd kind of smile, wondering if the brightness of curiosity had reached my eyes. It would make me appear ‘friendly.’ 

“I think you dropped this.” I said simply. He grit his jaw, snatched it, and hurriedly tucked both items in the leather side-bag on his shoulder that acted as a suitcase. He never thanked me. When the sound of the elevator chimed, I brushed my way past the others in front of us and approached the front desk. I didn’t realize the man followed. 

“I’m here to see Dr. Grey.” 

“He’s right behind you. You must be his 3 o’clock.”

My brows furrow as confusion becomes me. I meet a familiar face that’s filled with an expression I can’t quite read. Does he scowl at me? Is he surprised? Displeased? Annoyed? So my head tilts, and his throat clears--so I smile at him in that way people are supposed to when they meet someone. At least, I think. For a moment, I think his eyes narrow. He does well to contain.. whatever it is that he feels. His tone is even when he speaks. 

“You must be Henry...” 

You have to understand. Therapy wasn’t my idea. Although, I think my dead mother might appreciate it, let’s say.. it was inspired. I was learning ( stalking ) Patriot when I discovered his weekly therapist appointments written on the kitchen calendar. ‘Dr. Grey, 12pm. Dr. Grey 2pm. Dr. Grey 2pm.’  

What could he tell him that he couldn’t tell his journal? ( My personal Patriot manual. ) It fascinated me: Paying a complete stranger to listen to your feelings & to tell you how your own psyche operated. And I wanted to know Mr. Grey’s advice. That name, mentioned ten times throughout the pages of Patriot’s journal. That name written on the kitchen calendar in his apartment. The man trying to save lives, wanting to end his own. 

[henryskillerism]

From One Bloodied Hand To Another ,

 Therapy Appointment 

"I’ve felt love once. 𝑂𝑛𝑐𝑒. It felt like being hollow and full simultaneously.” "What was his name?" “Culver. He was very sad. He killed himself." A pause. A terrible silence in a small room. Dr. Grey shifts uncomfortably with the even pitch; with how I could've spoken about the grilled cheese I had at noon with the exact same impression. ( But I can't make sense of that. ) My head cocks to one side to symbolize an unspoken "What? Was it something I said?" and he continues, pen in hand over a notepad of paper. He just shakes his head. "How did that effect you... when he died." He says. Effect me. 𝑬𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑪𝑻 𝒎𝒆. Cause and effect. Dead. He Died... how does that.. effect me. "You're intellectualizing your feelings.." "But I haven't said anything ye--" "How did you feel when he died?" He presses. "He wanted to die...." I reply. "He may have.. but how did that make you feel? You said you loved him... could you have felt loss? Abandonment? Fear?" Silence again. But he's patient with me and he waits. "...He called me. He was crying. I think he needed something from me." "Comfort?" "It wasn't up to me to save him.." "You knew he'd try to kill himself?" "Yes." "And you didn't try to save him?" "He wanted to die.." I say it again as if it's supposed to fill in a missing piece. I'm not sure that he gets it. Dr. Grey moves to the edge of his seat and puts an elbow to each knee, his hands clasping together to steady his position. "But you loved him..." "Yes." "Don't you try to save someone you love?" "He was sad and he-" "He wanted to die. I know." He sighs. "But Henry, his well-being was important to you. This is someone you loved. You had the chance to call the paramedics.. did you do that?" "No." "Why not?" His brow arches. He doesn't try to hide the judgment in his face. It wouldn't matter. I don't understand that either. "It was his choice. 𝐻𝐼𝑆 choice. If I had saved him.. I'd have been choosing his fate. And it's his life. 𝐻𝐼𝑆 life.." I stressed. "You didn't want him to depend on you?" "It's not up to me.." "The paramedics aren't your personal hand. Someone else could have saved him. Whether someone lives or dies isn't up to you... but in a case where death can be prevented.. Why didn't you call?" He's calm when he speaks. He prods into my psyche while maintaining the facade of being collected. "..Henry.... Did you want him to die?" "No. But if that's what he wanted. I couldn't stop him." "But you could've prevented it. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑'𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡." I blink at him. Frustration is the only change in face. Something about those words makes a mark in me. "...I didn't want to be involved." "But you were involved. He called you. You were the last person to hear from him... you felt love for a person who wanted to end their life. He was sad and hopeless.. but he called you." "He didn't want to be saved." "He did." "No- he didn't. He took all those pills. He wanted to lay in bed and die. It sounded like trouble to me. It was self-preservation. Choosing not to be involved. I was looking out for me." "There's no danger in calling the paramedics....In doing a wellness check." I didn't reply. And then finally: "..How can you save someone from themselves?" He wants to say it. He wants to reply. But he sits quietly, stewing over the story. He wants to say it, but he doesn’t. ( You can call the paramedics. ) 

 PAGE BREAK  

Journal Entry, a fresh book, crisp and leather, page one  

In the hospitals, I overhear the families of loved ones who are checked-in for suicide attempts crying for themselves and for their own anxieties. “How could he/she do this to us?” they’d say. That always pisses me off. They speak as if it’s an act of crime and hatred planned upon them personally.

It’s always due to sadness. A dark, seemingly endless despair that eats inside the psyche until the spirit can’t contain. Culver said it felt like an overwhelming need to be free of the entrapment of a body which made him feel caged. He said he felt consumed by his shadows--by his deep desolation--and by the way he felt he had no resume in the world or no true purpose. ‘Lost’ was the best way to describe it. It all begins when the one who falls victim to suicide says they feel lost. Lost eventually becomes despair. Despair eventually arrives to the first attempt. Sometimes the first attempt is the last, for success and for failure. 

The hospital was a place meant for those who are sick and for those who sought health again, but I’ve come to know it’s also filled with those who wished death would find them sooner than their natural expiration date. And the grief it brought upon their families was seen as a shame. It seems a worse fate to take ones own life than to have it taken by another. That’s where I got the inspiration: A family in a waiting room weeping for their loved one Demetri. And really, Culver had planted the seed. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒇.. 𝑰 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎? Just the ones who want to be killed. Just the ones who want to kill themselves. What if it’s murder instead of suicide? Is that dying with a greater dignity? I could be a new angel of death with a new way to ease the pain. 

I write because I want to log this. I’ll need to know every detail--every wicked little reason my death star wants to hang. And my way of killing? What is my way?

Someone might think me mad, but 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.