You know, it was there for as long as I could remember. As a kid I’d be sitting around, coloring or doing math or something. And then, bam, it rears its head and this heat just bubbles up. And this heat, it, it kind of morphs into something human, you know? And it’s like this lava inside me, that leaks into my arms, and my fingertips, and the red settles and glows from my nails and leaks from the ends of my hairs and the real me, my actual self just drowns.
When I was younger, the heat would make me do stupid things, not, like, you know, horrible. But pretty bad. I remember back when I was maybe in kindergarten, probably five or six years old. And that was one of the first times the heat ran through me, from my stomach, through my guts and pouring out my pupils. Did you know that pupils are actually holes in your head? Intense.
So I feel this heat, and it’s taking over, like I’m the hulk, but I sure as hell don’t feel like a super hero. And just as quickly as it began, I felt it pour out of ever pore in me. Splattering on the floor. And I feel the teacher shove me away. And I feel cold as hell. And I’m wondering what it did wrong and I see scissors in my hand. And this girl, named something with an A is right under me screaming.
And no, I didn’t mortally wound the kid. I cut her hair. I cut it till she had bald patches. There was some sort of blood from a nick or two here and there. But I didn’t kill her, or, well, it didn’t kill her. The heat I mean. And I remember being dragged by my parents to the principal’s office. And I remember something about warnings and expulsions and suspensions and misbehavior. And I felt looted, ‘cause I didn’t do s***. And I knew it. I didn’t put the scissors there and I didn’t play barber with A-something. That wasn’t me. And so I don’t regret it.
I guess that’s one good thing the heat’s done. It’s like it takes all the memories of those apparent seven murders and five assaults and it stows them away so I’d know I shouldn’t be the one remembering any of it. Because I didn’t do it.
And I see you all giving me disappointed looks. Like I wanted this murder trial and I wanted to kill those woman. Like I saw myself stabbing them and doing those bad things but it wasn’t me. Once it starts pouring into my hands and out my eyes it’s not me from there on end. So you’re asking me now if I feel bad for the crimes I’ve committed, and If I deserve everything I’m getting. And you know my answer. I didn’t do s***. I didn’t hurt them, and I couldn’t have hurt them. And so I don’t regret it.
I don’t regret it.