Falling for a Psycho

Chapter Twelve

Twelve: Marilyn’s P.O.V

Straitjackets and padded cells add to my insanity. Imagine being locked in a tiny, white room by yourself all day, every day. Now imagine not being able to move your arms. At all. Or walk. It gets unimaginably irritating when your leg or your nose starts to itch. Being there could cause insanity by itself.

I am let out once every day at seven in the morning to go pee, and even that isn’t private at all. I have a prison guard, usually a male, staring at me while I go to the bathrooms. I shower once a week, and I am chained up so I can’t go anywhere. The guards have to bathe me, since they’re tough enough to handle me. Being so lonely all the time causes me to want to kill the first person I see. The guards are too big. Either that, or I’m too small. I am only four foot eleven and at a whopping 110 pounds.

I am put back in my cell and fed a breakfast of food that isn’t even edible. I am fed it. I don’t eat it myself because the people running this hellhole don’t want me to be able to use a fork to mutilate a guard. They’re smart people, because I would do exactly that. I go pee at noon, and at nine at night. I eat dinner, sometimes, if it’s edible. If I want to eat it, I will.

What I do during the remaining hours of the day depends on the day. Sometimes, I sleep. Sometimes, I’ll curse at and threaten the guards just because I have nothing better to do. I’ll count the padding squares on the wall, and sometimes, I just sit there. I just stare at the wall. I try to get out of my straitjacket  sometimes, and I have done it before. I’ve struggled so much with one that the fabric gave way and snapped and I’ve also cut one with my toenail so I could get out of it. I am locked up. I have nothing better to do.

I’ll plot stuff, like a killing spree or even suicide, which is something I usually don’t want to do. I still have that pathological need to kill. I have those aching urges. I’ll talk to myself, and think about stuff, and sometimes, the voice will talk to me, although it seems that even the voice, my only friend, has stopped caring about me. No one cares about me. Everyone just thinks that I’m a psychopathic, homicidal twisted little girl, and that is what I am, although I am 17. No one thinks I actually have feelings. Just because I lack empathy and am very fucked up, I still have feelings. I still feel bad for what I did when I killed my parents. I mean, I don’t feel bad, but I wish I felt bad. That made no sense whatsoever. Let me explain. I do not regret killing my parents. I never will. I take pride in it. However, I do know that it’s wrong, and that I’m not supposed to feel that way about what I did. I wish I could feel bad about it, and I wish I could regret it, but I can’t because I lack the ability to. I was born without the ability to feel empathy and to love. I know perfectly well what I did, and I do know that it was a horrible thing to do, but I can’t regret it no matter how much I want to. I wish I wasn’t psychopathic. I wish I was just a normal girl with a normal life. I will never be normal and I’ve accepted that. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never fall in love. I will never get married. I will never have children. First of all, no one loves a psychopath who tortured animals for years and killed her parents. Second, if by chance I somehow found someone who didn’t care about the fact that I’m twisted and malicious and loved me, which would never happen, I couldn’t have kids. Would you want to be the child of a psychopath? I’d become one of those mothers with Munchausen syndrome by proxy, and make my child sick on purpose. I’d kill my own child. Even if I didn’t kill them, I would have child protection services knocking at my door because I abuse my own children. I wouldn’t want to do that, but I would do it because it’s what I’m psychologically programmed to do. I’m violent and mean and cold because I lack empathy.  I just can’t do that. I can’t. I would never produce offspring, because there is a fifty percent chance that the child would be a psychopath just like me. I can’t put another psychopath on this earth. I am a very messed up person, and there doesn’t need to be anymore messed up people like me.

Besides, it’s impossible for me to ever be loved. Not even my brother loves me, and I spared him. It’s not like I don’t make an effort. He’s almost ten now, and I send him letters when I can. When I’m being tested, I can write and I write letters to Timmy and send them, but I haven’t ever gotten a reply back. He’s still scared of me, and he has a right to feel that way. I’m messed up, and I killed my parents. Timmy will be forever known as Timothy Bender, Marilyn Bender’s little brother. He’ll be known as the sibling of the psycho. He knows well that I am very messed up and am a cruel girl. He knew that I killed my parents. He witnessed part of it. I’m sure of it.

There are no boys ever who would talk to me. No girls would ever talk to me. No one would ever want to talk to me. I would be fully willing to become a lesbian because all I want to do is be loved by someone. Hell, I would date a transvestite. I just want to be loved. I want someone to love me, despite the fact that I’m a psychopathic, cannibalistic killer. No one would love someone who can’t love in return.