Falling for a Psycho

Chapter Eleven

Eleven: Marilyn’s P.O.V

I felt no anxiety, no nervousness as I sauntered into my parent’s bedroom. I was as calm as could be.

My father, who slept on his stomach on the left side of the bed, was the first to go. I stabbed him in the base of the spine, slicing the lumbar nerves so he was paralyzed and couldn’t run away, as I finished him off with a total of 47 stab wounds. My mother had woken up obviously from the screaming, and saw me, so I was more careful in how many times I stabbed her so she absolutely wouldn’t survive. Stabbing a squirming, screaming person is not the easiest task in the world. It took 31 stab wounds to kill her.

When I was done, precisely an hour later, I was covered in blood, sweat dripping down my forehead. I held the murder weapon in my left hand, my dominant hand.

Timmy, who had heard the screaming, found out how to unlock the door and was standing in front of me, in the doorway. I was unsure how much he had seen.

“Go to your room, Timmy,” I ordered, wiping my hands off on my shirt which proved to do absolutely nothing and just made them dirtier.

“But…” Timmy hesitated.

“Go now!” I screamed. Timmy listened, fleeing to his room. I would comfort him later.

I dragged the bodies down two flights of stairs, to the basement, leaving a bloody trail on the white carpet. At my size and stature, dragging the body of my father, who weighed just over 200 pounds down the stairs was difficult. The blood was slippery and covering me which made it hard to keep a firm grasp, so I gave up and shoved the body down. My mother’s body wasn’t as difficult, since she weighed 130 pounds. I was only 87 pounds at the time, and that took a lot of effort.

When I finished the dirty work, I cleaned myself off, taking a shower and watching the crimson blood swirl down the shower drain.

I later comforted Timmy, telling him that mommy and daddy had to go away for a while. He was cowering under the bed, and I pulled him into a hug. He was hesitant to be hugged by me. I was positive that he had seen what was going on. I didn’t love him. Oh no. I can’t love. I liked him and felt that he wasn’t a threat to me, so I let him live. He was too small, only being four, and could be deceived and lied to easily.

I felt absolutely no remorse in killing my parents. Absolutely none. I was actually proud of what I had done. It was easy. That’s what makes me a psychopath. I lack the ability to be empathetic. It’s the dictionary definition. I can’t help it. It’s a neurological disorder I was born with. I can’t control it.

Following the murder, I didn’t go anywhere. I stayed in the house where the scent of death still lingered. It was sickening, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I had cleaned up the bloodstains to the best of my ability. Timmy hid out in his room, doing God knows what, apparently scared of me. I had neglected the fact that we both had to eat. We were out of food, and I couldn’t go to the store because I had no way to get there.

I walked downstairs, turning on the basement light. The scent of death and decomposition was unsettling and nauseating. I had gotten used to it, but Timmy didn’t.

Rigor mortis had settled in. Rigor mortis is when a chemical change in the muscles of the human body causes the limbs to stiffen. It’s the beginning of decomposition.

Cannibalism had crossed my mind before. I had read about a south American tribe that practiced cannibalism.

My hunger was getting to me, blurring my thoughts and making me want to become a cannibal. So, I did it. I ate human flesh, and it wasn’t bad if you plug your nose. The olfactory system coincides with the system that allows taste, and blocking that off didn’t make it taste as bad. It satisfied the hunger. Not cooking it, however, wasn’t my best idea. Bacteria was teeming the bodies, and it did make me sick. When I was arrested, I was horribly sick, and that’s what gave it away to the police that I had something to do with the murders.

I was arrested on the fourth of July, around six at night. The neighbor who was a little too nosy for her own good spotted me through the basement window. She called the police, and I was arrested.

I vomited all over the backseat of the police car, and was taken to the hospital where I was treated and found out to be cannibalistic. It’s not like I enjoyed the cannibalism. It’s disgusting. I just tell people I enjoy it so they’ll be afraid of me.

Timmy was sent to live with my grandparents, who had told me to my face in the hospital that I was a insane psycho messed up child and that they wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. I was fine with it because for one thing, I was sicker than a dog, and two, I knew what I was.

I was put on trial right after I was discharged from the hospital. The trial was broadcasted live on television. Because of the atrocity of the crime, I was tried as an adult, and if I was convicted, I would be sent to an adult prison. I had not told the jury exactly what I had done, but I confessed and pled guilty. I knew I did it and there was no use in lying. What the jury didn’t know was that I was very mentally ill, and that was the reason I had done what I had done.

I was convicted of the murders of my parents on December 17th, 2005 and sentenced to life in a federal prison with no chance of parole.

A young girl at my age isn’t supposed to be in an adult prison. Being a female, I was put in a women’s prison. People may say that women can’t be pedophiles and rapists, but believe me, they can. I was the youngest convict ever to reside at that prison, and since I was only 12, I was weak. So weak that I was raped five times consecutively.

I had never felt more vulnerable in my life than at the time of the rapes. I felt helpless, and that was the only time I had ever cried. If the rapes did teach me something, they taught me that the only way you will not get hurt or harmed was to become a bitch, and fight. Before I was incarcerated, I was shy and didn’t talk to anyone other than myself. After I had been raped five times by the other inmates, I became mean, violent and cruel. I had become more cold-hearted than I was before. I figured it was the only way to keep me safe. I fought back.

I made a plan to escape, and executed the plan on September 14th, 2006. I found a section in the gate at the end of my cellblock that I could fit through. The bars were apart just enough that if I held my breath and made myself smaller, I could fit through them. I ran as fast as I could ending up killing four guards by strangling them with my bare hands. I ran out of the prison gates, climbing the tall, barbed wire topped fences, and struggled through the pain to freedom.

My newfound freedom was shortened when the police found me bleeding on the side of the road from severe cuts obtained by the barbed wire. I was re-arrested, but this time, I was taken to a mental ward at a hospital. They tested me neurologically, doing MRI’s as well as psychological tests, and the doctors found all of my mental illnesses.

I confessed to the murders, describing them in full detail to the psychologist. While I was tested, I was staying at the mental hospital. I became too much of a handful and safety hazard to the doctors so they sent me to Nevada Institute for the Juvenile Criminally Insane, where I was fitted with a straitjacket, had shackles placed on my ankles so I couldn’t run away, and thrown into a blindingly white padded cell, finally locked up in a place where I belonged. An insane asylum, also known as my personal hell.