My skin was hot with anger. My palms burned against the bone saw. Even as Bach was pouring out of the speakers, I couldn't calm. My heart pounded, squeezing more and more blood with each beat- flooding my aorta, engorging my carotids, and making my head throb somewhere within the temporal lobes of my brain. My respiration was eighteen per minute and climbing. I could feel the dizzying undertow of oxygen sucking me deeper and deeper inside of myself. My vision began to blur, partly from surging blood pressure, partly from hyperventilating. At that moment of desperately trying to regain control, I would have given anything to put down the monster inside.
The desire to hurt someone physically always begins this way, and I always believe I can control it, or wait it out, or even force it into submission. Psychopathy is a cunning thing. Even as I drove away from the mayhem I left at work today, I fooled myself into believing I was better at controlling myself than I am. That the good in me can overpower the dark impulses. Ha. Who am I kidding. There is so little good in me that darkness is all there is.
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