This prologue is part of a novel I am writing. At first, I thought to write a novella but as I began writing, I realized I had an entire story at the ready. I hope to have it completed by August 2015.
The walls are thick and stained white, and there is no sense of clean or pure about me. My fingers feel funny as I place them before my eyes and blindly walk around the 10 x 10 cell. I know the room well. I can go blind tomorrow and I wouldn’t miss my sight. Sometimes I pray for darkness, the deeper the darkness the better.
I’m tired of walking the easy twenty steps that take me from the toilet and back again. I have no interest in this form of exercise. I open my eyes and take in the stainless steel mirror above the stainless steel sink. I finger walk to the stainless steel toilet which sits alone on a cement floor of dingy gray dirt. It has no cover.
How many feet have entered this cell? I wonder. How many have left their stink in this toilet, in this soiled, fetid air? There is no sunlight coming in from the filthy rectangular window high above my head. I can taste the smell of feces when I lick my parched lips.
This is my resting place, the place where I will grow old and die. Some will say, “He deserves more than life in prison after the crimes he has committed.” Others will take pity on me and perhaps remark, “Look at his history. He is a tortured soul who knew no more than to continue the torture of his abusers toward the victims of his future.”
My sickness, I call it a sickness because I cannot let myself believe that what I did is part of my personality, began many years ago. Sitting here with just the ticking of thoughts sliding through my head, I think of how and why I became a murder, a serial killer, a “sicko.” I wonder about all the “if only” in my life, but I guess there is no solace, no justification for the crimes I have committed. My true offense is having been born. That’s my first “if only.”
“Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” I can’t answer that question. I don't think I was born a murderer, yet I have murdered many. At first, the murders were a night dream, then a daydream fantasy, and then killing became an obsession, possessing me, turning my very existence into a nightmare of feverish torment. The dreams had a life of their own, apart from me. I was the carrier. I dragged the cement block of my obsession wherever I went. It was my deep dark secret shadow, and when the desire arose from the pit of my very being, it wanted to be satisfied. It left no room for question. I merely followed its request, obeyed the order.
I have tried on many occasions to explain the reason for my murderous needs, but my interviewers, the doctors, psychiatrists, and lawyers, don’t understand. They leave my prison cell just as baffled as when they walked in.
I have given up excusing my sins. I know guilt, and I’m as guilty as they come. I’m beyond guilty. Satan took hold of me when I was eighteen and from then on I became his apprentice. In my opinion, I had begun my training, my apprenticeship with Eddie. He knew Satan very well, I’m sure. He introduced me to him when I was five years old. From then on we were quite a team, Eddie, me and the devil of Dante’s Inferno.Stay tuned for next week's installment of, “Mia Colpa, Mia Colpa, Mia Grandissima Colpa.”
© Natala Orobello