Unchained Melody

Today is a new day. Today I will be strong. Today I will not kill. 

I was up late again last night. I can’t stop the thoughts that make me race at night. It forces me to sleep so late into the day that my parents worry that I am depressed. I look into the bathroom mirror at the ‘other me’ staring back.

“Who is that?”, I say as I reach out to touch them. I want to lash out at the reflection but remind myself, that it is just a reflection.

I repeat my mantra, ‘Today is a new day. Today I will be strong. Today I will not kill’. 

I puff up my chest and glare at the other me in the mirror. I am in control. As I walk out of the bathroom, I fearfully glance back at the reflection to make sure it is not following me.

Thanks to my self-improvement work, most days I win. But sometimes, the reflection overtakes me, and the day ends with that deadly melody. The blood almost has a rhythm as it pumps out of the body and the screams always hit the perfect pitch. Sometimes I sing along. The first feeling is of exhilaration and then eventually defeat and humiliation.  But each morning I wake with a slight hope for the new day and with the posturing of strength in that bathroom mirror.

I always felt and looked a little different from my family. I was born an orphan -scratch that- no one is born an orphan. I was born to a mother that is only hinted at in my memory. I sometimes see flashes of her and my old life. I know we were homeless and lived off the streets, that much my family has told me. I know she must have loved me at some point and protected me out of more than just instinct. In my mind, I see her silky long dark hair. I remember how I would hide my face in it when I cuddled next to her and away from the scent of forgotten people. The familiar music of the street. I also remember the constant need to be on alert. Always rushing away and hiding from those who would hurt us. The need to attack them before they hurt us. Blurs of trauma. I remember her there one minute and gone the next.

My family rescued me from that neglect and ultimate abandonment. It is their badge of honor, and they tell anyone they meet about the adoption.  How they took one look at me and knew I would fill their empty house with song and laughter.  How the struggle would be worth it. I think it is their way of letting people know that I behave the way I do because of where I came from and not their parenting skills. They want to remind everyone that they are good people and do not know why I act out so violently. I have brought something dark into their once simple and lonely life and they do not understand why.

They are right in their thinking. It’s not their fault. I come by this psychopathy honestly. I think back on those days and what my mother and I did to survive. I know this is where I get it from. From HER. She trained me well. I no longer need it to survive but cannot erase it from my DNA. I share her compulsion of waiting, watching, pouncing when they do not see it coming, and finally killing. 

I still remember the first time I let the feeling take me. My family and I were out in our backyard lazing in the sun. The heat on my back was making me sleepy but I thought I heard a gentle rustle from the tiny creek that ran through the bottom of our yard. As my family dozed, I wandered down and followed the creek for a bit.  And then I saw her. She was truly nature’s beauty as she blended in with the harmony of the stream and the shimmering light that danced through the trees.  She too had wandered away from her group and I could hear their chatter just out of sight. They probably didn’t even notice she was gone. She was just about to grab a quick drink from the river and then the hunger hit me. Deliciously. Then, as quickly as the violent thoughts came flying into my brain, she too flew back to the safety of her friends. I waited too long. I would not make that mistake again. I needed to remember what my mother taught me. I would follow in her footsteps. That was back when I had no conflict with my desires. No one had told me it was wrong. My mother made it seem like it was so natural.

After that misstep I landed back on my feet and my skills came back to me like the forgotten tune of a favorite lullaby.  I would find quiet spots that I could hide and wait for them to come to me. My reflexes became faster, and it was easier to catch them off guard.  It wasn’t until the third or fourth victim that I thought to show my family the trophies. I hear that most serial killers have trophies. I was proud of my work and in my deluded mind I thought my family would be proud of me as well. To the horror of my parents, I left them out to be found. I wanted them to see how clever I was. 

That was when my parents took me to a doctor. One that pretends to be your friend as another one comes up behind you with the needle. The doctor won’t even see me anymore. Not after the incident at our last appointment. I tried to tell them to leave me alone and they wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t take one more test. So now my parents feel they are on their own and work to distract me with gifts and attention. I want for nothing, but it does not fill the void. They see it in my eyes. They see it as I pace the room. Sometimes, I think they are afraid of me.

So, they try to keep me away from the temptation. Closing the blinds, keeping me hostage in my own house. They love me and try to protect me from those that would judge me. They tell no one. Sometimes I go so long between kills they think I am better. They think that they have tamed my monstrous thoughts. Even I start to think I can become a better person. Someone they would be proud of.

I am often drawn to a necklace my adoptive mother sometimes wears. I like to touch it while it dangles from her neck. It is beautiful gold chain that falls almost to her breast. The chain is delicate in contrast to the heavy golden bullet it supports. She thinks it is fashionable in its contrast.  However, I think you can make a bullet into a necklace, but it is still a bullet. It is still deadly given the chance. I sometimes sneak into her room to play with it.

Alas, the night has come again. The small breeze from the open bathroom window brushes past me as I put my face to the screen. It was too hot for them to close it completely. Stepping back, I see my reflection in the mirror.

Slowly, my mantra begins,” Tonight I will be strong….”.

But a tantalizing glint snaps my head around. Mother’s necklace lays half dangling off the counter. I reach for the bullet. And quickly knock it to the floor. No. Not tonight. 

“Tonight, I will be strong. Tonight, I will not…”, but the song of the crickets pulls me.  

I am who I am. I am what my mother made me. I grab the bullet from the floor and wrestle it off its chain. It is time to be who we were meant to be. As I jump from the window onto the lawn, I see the light of my parent’s room turn on. I race from the yard as I hear them say “Melody, get your furry little butt back here and what have you done to my necklace?”. There is no going back now as I see the glow of the eyes of my people in the forest and my tail bops to the beat of my own drum.