Murder...It's Harder Than You Think!
Utah Savage has invited me to submit, for a magazine she's starting, a story about murdering a man. I jumped on it, thinking "Oh boy, I can get imaginary revenge on at least one of the S.O.B.s who has wronged me." But golly! I'm having a hell of a time actually doing the deed. I can think of, and enjoy fantasizing about torturing them and making them beg for mercy, but I can't get into snuffing them, even fictionally. Geez, I don't even hate Bush and Cheney enough to kill them!
Okay, I'm going to go off and really concentrate on all the reasons at least one of the fuckwads from my shady past deserves to die.
15 comments:
Off topic from the murdering, I felt so comforted by your comment just now. When you are in the midst of a bipolar melt down you feel like the craziest creep in the world--it's a very isolating experience. So to know that somebody gets it is a comfort.
Imagine that you have a child and your married to your second husband. Your child is six or seven and you find out he's been diddling your baby. What would you want to do to him? Plan it very carefully and go from there. Give it a bit of back story, how you met, how much you daughter liked him, how happy that made you, how do you find out and who do you make him pay. You don't have to kill him, but you can certainly make him think you might.
I was that child, and nobody protected me. I wanted my mom to saveme and despite the fact that she knew what he was doing never made her come to my aid. She treated me worse than he did. I wanted a mom who would protect and love me. I never got that. When we grow up we keep trying to recreate a relationship that feels familiar and the familiar is in one way and it's a challenge in another. Because the model for a man is some version of mom or dad. In my case, it was usually mom. Trying to get it right with a phantom is a losing proposition. And in the end you just keep repeating the same crap you always got and it never ends well for me. So that sort of childhood leads to chasing a phantom. If she''d killed the bastard, I'd have believed she loved me, because she chose her reputation, and the respectability his family name gave her, she chose him. And when I was "too old" at eleven, I became a liability. And then the mind fuck began. I have taken my revenge on my daddy in one of my stories. Try taking the mother's roll. Just a suggestion I think you can probably sink your teeth into. You know that if law enforcement is involved in a case of child sexual abuse, 99 out of 200 of these guys will either get off completely or they'll get 6 months in jail and a bit of probation. Then they find another woman with a little girl. My dad, a psychologist, was a life long pedophile. He never faced the music that should have been some form of castration, and at the very least a quick death. Why no death penalty for murdering a child's ability to love or ever trust? At least a very long sentence. Shit, if you rob a 7/11 you'll do more time, than if you rape a child. Rape an adult you'll do more time. Just a thought. I'm sure you have plenty of reasons to want a little sweet revenge for something. But if killing, even fictional killing isn't your thing how about driving a man crazy enough for him to kill himself. Just saying.
I meant 99 out of a 100 of these guys. It seems to be no big deal to fuck kids anymore, no big investigations--they're too difficult to prosecute and usually end it acquittal. or maybe probation. There is no satisfaction that justice has been done. Show me a woman with a drug problem who takes to prostitution, I'll show you a sexually abused little girl. We children of sexual abuse need a lot of medication to make it through the day.
You could always not kill them yourself, but have them off themselves due to extreme stress from being an asshole that you gleefully point out. Just a thought!
OMG, I never thought Randal would read this. See, that's the kind of trouble you can get into when you're in the grip of bipolar disorder. Sorry Randal. I like you so much and don't want to think ill of me. Plotting a murder, even if it is fictional, isn't really very nice. Really everyone, it's a story we're talking about. Nothing to worry about, keep moving. Nothing to see.
Sssshhh, Randal. I'm using that ploy.
Perhaps being unable to perform the deed, you leave them tied up and helpless, only for them to choke on their own vomit.....or you can't kill them in the end and let them go, only for them to kill themselves in a fit of remorse for what they did to you....
You then feel like a murderer - without actually being a murderer.
my former publisher, Q Press, was iffy about publishing my forthcoming poetry book because poem 2 was about me killing an exboyfriend.
Once that youve decided on a killing
First you make a stone of your heart
And if you find that your hands are still willing
Then you can turn a murder into art
THE POLICE
Aw, kill him already. He deserves it.
When I first clicked on this comment portion, I wsa going to give you some helpful hints in the murder department but then I thought better of it. You women are crazy enough. LOL
` Hi, just came by way of Weird Morgy's blog! Who would you seek revenge on, anyway?
` There's a lot of people in my life. Maybe you'd like to break their ankles for me?
` Most notably is the guy who tortured me and laughed and told me he didn't believe I was in pain.
` Later in the ER, a two-timing doctor did a bunch of things behind my back and sent me to a mental hospital while I was still severely bleeding.
` I didn't stop bleeding through my stitches for a week, and I was highly drugged with sedatives because I was having flashbacks of all the cutting and picking into bone and kept telling them what was going on.
` Yes, I was locked up with the schizophrenics who believed that 'They' were after them and nobody would believe a thing I said.
` Too sedated to walk, I almost starved and was forced to pee on myself until I was too dehydrated to pee anymore. Finally, I was still enough that they stopped shooting me with sedatives.
` At last, my arms and legs would work again and I was finally able to go into the bathroom to wash the piss and blood off me using their wonderful ice cold water from the 'hot' faucet.
` There wasn't even a divider between the shower and the floor, either, just a concrete floor and a drain with ice-cold water.
` The 'inmates' were crazy and sometimes scary, and the 'guards' as I called them forced me to take antipsychotics, which gave me permanent brain damage - and caused me to lose control of most of my thoughts and actions.
` You don't want to know.
` It was basically a huge snowball effect and I didn't get out until my mother was able to get an appointment with my 'silent watcher no-talky MD' two weeks later and tell her what had really happened. I was discharged the next day.
` That's the story in a nutshell. One of the reasons I was thrown in a mental hospital is because my father is not only bipolar, he is delusional, paranoid and has little connection to reality or sense, and, well... I'm his genetic offspring.
` He was quite abusive to me (and my half-brother James), and I was terrified all the time. I would be punished for doing something wrong even when it was physically impossible for me to have supposedly done what he would blame me for.
` Not only this, but he always would assure me that I would grow into a drug-addicted, sex-addicted, fearful, house-bound nutcase who could never get married or have friends and would need to live in a mental hospital.
` You know, because I never knew what he was talking about when he blamed me or my mother for imaginary things? (He told me my mom was a witch and cast evil spells on him.)
` He would do this to me every day and there was no way to avoid it. He would also use my existing pain in order to shame me; i.e. refusing to walk on a broken leg or better yet, turning the car around when I took my sandal off in the backseat because it was cutting into my blue, football-sized foot, and declaring that I'd ruined the evening.
` Constant threatening and shaming like this was one of the few reasons I never could become entirely serious about killing myself, though I still wanted to kill myself before he managed to as he'd always threaten.
` I don't get what it was with him and suicide. It was okay if he did it, and it was okay if I "helped him die" (and then put his teeth into the mouth of a smiling bust of himself) which he would ask me to do when he was drunk, but it wasn't okay if he found out that I felt suicidal.
` Of course, not doing any normal thing such as going to school and meeting normal kids whose lives I could compare mine with, I had no idea that I was living in unbearable misery. I just thought that parents yell at their kids because they love them and that I had a very loving family.
` That's because I didn't understand there was any difference between love - where you do something for someone because you want to - and fear - where you do something because you are afraid you will be further if you don't.
` Around the time that my half-brother fled from home, my dad would tell me that I was "as stupid as a horse" because I would not allow myself to be broken.
` I believe that I'm smarter than a horse. While I had been broken at the time, and while I had been broken when I was eighteen and he stole all I had ever written or otherwise created, I've finally learned that I'm much smarter than a horse.
` I'm the one in control now. I have friends, I go to college, I have a job as a "wait-staff", I act in movies, and I make art!
` He cannot touch me and does not even know where I live. He doesn't know where my mother lives (nor that she lives in a sailboat) and I feel good about life. I live with my successful boyfriend, two beautiful cats and a part-time gangsta rapper roommate who's also a fantastic chef.
` I've spent almost all my life in pain, and now look what I got after a few years of hard work! The pain's gone! (Now to convince my sense of touch - which is extremely dull from the psycho-drugs and thoughts about scalpels and dental picks and treachery.) Kinda dampens my love life....
` Of course, the only revenge I shall seek is making their wrongdoings as part of... a good story. (Right on, Harry!)
` And that's my survival story!
S E E I here bye offer you the opportunity to submit a story to our little writing club. Come on over, lets talk murder, or other heinous acts. It's just us girls, talking quietly amongst ourselves. About a little righteous murder.
And Madame Z, there's more writing going on in you comments of a murderous nature that I'll bet your doing. Get with the program. I hate nags and hate nagging, but what the hell?
Or you could have them die in circumstances unplanned, like getting hit by a car, or a bus or falling off a cliff... I have faith in your abilities you are very creative!
` Eh, I say, just dip the bastards in bronze - all of 'em - and be done with it.
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