![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Title: Lies
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An essay Aaron might have written, if he felt inclined to go to jail.
Date: 2000
AU: Sociopathic Besties
Notes: Sociopathy ahoy.
WARNING for general sociopathy.
Here are the two most important things you need to know about me: that I do not love my father, and that I do respect him.
To be perfectly honest, I'm a bit suspicious of love as a concept. Human beings are on the whole fundamentally selfish creatures, focused only on their own survival and well-being. To imagine that they are capable of putting their own self-interest aside and elevating someone else's happiness to paramount importance in their life seems naïve, to say the least. I say that I do not love my father because I do not believe that love as it is commonly described exists.
I haven't told him this, of course. That would be unnecessary and more than a little bit foolish. My father is not a stupid man, and I'm certain that telling him any of this would give away far more than anyone should know.
There are of course other things my father doesn't know about me. I am an excellent thief, a proficient manipulator and actor. I can be extremely compulsive, although I've gotten much better at self-control as I've gotten older. I regret nothing, not one single thing I have ever done, because regret implies a feeling of guilt, and I have never felt guilty in my life. These are all things I know about myself, that no one else does or ever will.
If you, my hypothetical reader, have been paying any attention at all, you will have guessed by now that I am what is commonly known as a sociopath.
Sociopathy is a constructed word, from the Latin socius, meaning a fellow, companion or comrade, and the Greek suffix pathy, meaning suffering or feeling. Generally one does not combine words from different languages-- psychopathy, the word from which sociopathy takes its form, is entirely Greek in origin-- but it's fairly safe to say that the gentleman who first defined sociopathy did not have the slightest clue what he was talking about. From what little research I've done on the subject, he seemed to believe that all sociopaths were violent, cartoonish villains.
I am violent, and I am a villain, but I am not cartoonish, thank you.
At any rate, "sociopath" is, like most common knowledge, the wrong word. Technically I have antisocial personality disorder. Or perhaps I don't. Perhaps I have dissocial personality disorder. Or perhaps I have neither and I'm just an amoral son of a bitch.
Incidentally, I dislike the term "son of a bitch." It seems to me to insult my mother more than me, and I'm very fond of my mother.
I prefer the term "sociopath," anyway. It's incorrect, but it sounds so much more interesting.
So. I am a sociopath. I am also a serial killer, although not a very prolific one. What I'm not is stupid. You'll never see me in court or heading off to jail for my crimes. It really infuriates me, how many of my ilk get caught because they just can't think for a second. They kill their wives or their family members or the guy who stole their promotion at work. They leave fingerprints or snatches of clothing or, God help me, DNA at the scene. They have definite patterns and types of victims and means of killing. It's so predictable. I'm frankly surprised the police don't catch those idiots sooner.
Arrogance. It's all arrogance, thinking they're smarter than everyone else. Yes, I am aware of how that sounds, but the plain fact of the matter is I am smarter than everyone else, because I actually think about what I'm doing and exercise a modicum of self-control.
It's so simple. It's so easy. All it takes is a moment's thought and care, and yet they can't even do that much. It really disgusts me, how easily they're caught. They deserve everything they get, in jail.
Most people are like that, actually. Heedless, selfish, stupid animals, thinking only of the next moment and the pleasures of an hour. They're like babies, screaming for their next meal, never thinking that Mother might have better things to do than cater to a wailing brat. I'm not advocating child abuse, I should say; babies have the excuse of being helpless. Adults do not, and they disgust me just as much, because they should know better.
Those are the people I kill. The adults who know better, who use other people, who waste their lives on stupid games and petty pursuits, even while they smugly congratulate themselves on their sagacity and philanthropy. I sometimes amuse myself by imagining how much better the world is, now that I've cleared out a bit of the scum, although of course there's endless numbers of them left. Enough to satisfy me and a million others like me. Of course it isn't really about making the world a better place-- that's far too altruistic, and I don't believe in altruism any more than I believe in love-- but it makes a comfortable lie.
I am by far not the only one who tells such lies to themselves, incidentally. You, my hypothetical reader, tell yourself exactly the same lie every day. The difference is that I know it's a lie, and in some ways I revel in it.
Which brings me, in a very roundabout way, back to my father.
You, being like the great stupid mass of people who go about their lives never once thinking that other people matter, have doubtless not noticed, but I have very carefully used the words "most" and "many" when talking about people. My father would have noticed, because my father is not like you. My father is a good man. My father is the reason I am who I am.
He would doubtless be horrified to know this. I have been very careful to ensure that my father will never learn the truth about me. He is one of the very few people I actually respect and care for, in my own particular way. He taught me that not all people are like the selfish fools who overrun the world. Some people genuinely care. Some people tell themselves the twin lies of altruism and love, and believe in them enough that they become true. Those people are good people, the truly innocent, and I would no more hurt one of them then I would smash a stained-glass window, or destroy a priceless painting.
My father also taught me that there are people who are helpless. They may be just as selfish and just as stupid as the others, but they have no power. Power makes all this difference, you see. Those who have it and misuse it deserve to have it, and their lives, taken away. Those who don't have it, well, what greater use of power is there than to let them go?
Not that my father put it precisely like that. Neither did he mean for me to understand that. But that is nevertheless what I learned.
To conclude: my father is a good man, and I do not say that often. I do not love him, because there is no such thing as love. But I do respect him, and I would never hurt him, or those he thinks he loves, because there is such a thing as caring even if there is no love. I may be a sociopath, but I am not heartless. If I have anything to say about it, my father will live the life he deserves-- calm, unruffled, pleasant, and untroubled by anything that might hurt him, or those he cares for.
You, on the other hand, my hypothetical reader...
Well, you had better watch your back, hadn't you?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An essay Aaron might have written, if he felt inclined to go to jail.
Date: 2000
AU: Sociopathic Besties
Notes: Sociopathy ahoy.
WARNING for general sociopathy.
Here are the two most important things you need to know about me: that I do not love my father, and that I do respect him.
To be perfectly honest, I'm a bit suspicious of love as a concept. Human beings are on the whole fundamentally selfish creatures, focused only on their own survival and well-being. To imagine that they are capable of putting their own self-interest aside and elevating someone else's happiness to paramount importance in their life seems naïve, to say the least. I say that I do not love my father because I do not believe that love as it is commonly described exists.
I haven't told him this, of course. That would be unnecessary and more than a little bit foolish. My father is not a stupid man, and I'm certain that telling him any of this would give away far more than anyone should know.
There are of course other things my father doesn't know about me. I am an excellent thief, a proficient manipulator and actor. I can be extremely compulsive, although I've gotten much better at self-control as I've gotten older. I regret nothing, not one single thing I have ever done, because regret implies a feeling of guilt, and I have never felt guilty in my life. These are all things I know about myself, that no one else does or ever will.
If you, my hypothetical reader, have been paying any attention at all, you will have guessed by now that I am what is commonly known as a sociopath.
Sociopathy is a constructed word, from the Latin socius, meaning a fellow, companion or comrade, and the Greek suffix pathy, meaning suffering or feeling. Generally one does not combine words from different languages-- psychopathy, the word from which sociopathy takes its form, is entirely Greek in origin-- but it's fairly safe to say that the gentleman who first defined sociopathy did not have the slightest clue what he was talking about. From what little research I've done on the subject, he seemed to believe that all sociopaths were violent, cartoonish villains.
I am violent, and I am a villain, but I am not cartoonish, thank you.
At any rate, "sociopath" is, like most common knowledge, the wrong word. Technically I have antisocial personality disorder. Or perhaps I don't. Perhaps I have dissocial personality disorder. Or perhaps I have neither and I'm just an amoral son of a bitch.
Incidentally, I dislike the term "son of a bitch." It seems to me to insult my mother more than me, and I'm very fond of my mother.
I prefer the term "sociopath," anyway. It's incorrect, but it sounds so much more interesting.
So. I am a sociopath. I am also a serial killer, although not a very prolific one. What I'm not is stupid. You'll never see me in court or heading off to jail for my crimes. It really infuriates me, how many of my ilk get caught because they just can't think for a second. They kill their wives or their family members or the guy who stole their promotion at work. They leave fingerprints or snatches of clothing or, God help me, DNA at the scene. They have definite patterns and types of victims and means of killing. It's so predictable. I'm frankly surprised the police don't catch those idiots sooner.
Arrogance. It's all arrogance, thinking they're smarter than everyone else. Yes, I am aware of how that sounds, but the plain fact of the matter is I am smarter than everyone else, because I actually think about what I'm doing and exercise a modicum of self-control.
It's so simple. It's so easy. All it takes is a moment's thought and care, and yet they can't even do that much. It really disgusts me, how easily they're caught. They deserve everything they get, in jail.
Most people are like that, actually. Heedless, selfish, stupid animals, thinking only of the next moment and the pleasures of an hour. They're like babies, screaming for their next meal, never thinking that Mother might have better things to do than cater to a wailing brat. I'm not advocating child abuse, I should say; babies have the excuse of being helpless. Adults do not, and they disgust me just as much, because they should know better.
Those are the people I kill. The adults who know better, who use other people, who waste their lives on stupid games and petty pursuits, even while they smugly congratulate themselves on their sagacity and philanthropy. I sometimes amuse myself by imagining how much better the world is, now that I've cleared out a bit of the scum, although of course there's endless numbers of them left. Enough to satisfy me and a million others like me. Of course it isn't really about making the world a better place-- that's far too altruistic, and I don't believe in altruism any more than I believe in love-- but it makes a comfortable lie.
I am by far not the only one who tells such lies to themselves, incidentally. You, my hypothetical reader, tell yourself exactly the same lie every day. The difference is that I know it's a lie, and in some ways I revel in it.
Which brings me, in a very roundabout way, back to my father.
You, being like the great stupid mass of people who go about their lives never once thinking that other people matter, have doubtless not noticed, but I have very carefully used the words "most" and "many" when talking about people. My father would have noticed, because my father is not like you. My father is a good man. My father is the reason I am who I am.
He would doubtless be horrified to know this. I have been very careful to ensure that my father will never learn the truth about me. He is one of the very few people I actually respect and care for, in my own particular way. He taught me that not all people are like the selfish fools who overrun the world. Some people genuinely care. Some people tell themselves the twin lies of altruism and love, and believe in them enough that they become true. Those people are good people, the truly innocent, and I would no more hurt one of them then I would smash a stained-glass window, or destroy a priceless painting.
My father also taught me that there are people who are helpless. They may be just as selfish and just as stupid as the others, but they have no power. Power makes all this difference, you see. Those who have it and misuse it deserve to have it, and their lives, taken away. Those who don't have it, well, what greater use of power is there than to let them go?
Not that my father put it precisely like that. Neither did he mean for me to understand that. But that is nevertheless what I learned.
To conclude: my father is a good man, and I do not say that often. I do not love him, because there is no such thing as love. But I do respect him, and I would never hurt him, or those he thinks he loves, because there is such a thing as caring even if there is no love. I may be a sociopath, but I am not heartless. If I have anything to say about it, my father will live the life he deserves-- calm, unruffled, pleasant, and untroubled by anything that might hurt him, or those he cares for.
You, on the other hand, my hypothetical reader...
Well, you had better watch your back, hadn't you?