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normalcy
Kim Cooney
Copyright © 2011 Kimberley Paul
This book is purely fictional, and all persons appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-02-04
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all my loving and supportive family and friends.
To my husband who has been working very hard to provide me with the free time needed to write books, and probably sleeps with one eye open now…I love you YOBO!!
And to my sister Vicky, thanks for all your support, love, faith in me, and proof reading. Sorry about the nightmares, I love you Beevie!
Acknowledgements
Cover art provided by Rodney White, check out his artwork at http://www.zelmarr.deviantart.com/
Christine
What is normal? Is it visualizing torturing and killing a complete stranger when they pass by you on the street? Not for most of society, that is very abnormal to us. That is however very normal to Christine. Most of us could not even conjure up the thoughts that pass through Christine’s head on a daily basis as easily as happy thoughts pass through ours. As hard as she tries she cannot fathom the thought of how “our” thought processes work. It is very unusual for her to think that the same thing she thinks does not go through everyone elses head. I’d like to take you on a journey with me. It won’t be for the faint of heart for we will be going inside the mind of a deranged, demented, cold blooded serial killer.
Meet Christine;
As long as I can remember these thoughts have been with me all day, every day. When I was little I would look for things to destroy. It all started with dolls, and even though I had a less than fortunate life, I had quite a few of them. They were all different kinds and sizes and they were even different age ranges. It was kind of a buffet for me. I liked taking their body parts off and doing things with them. The heads were my favorites. I liked sticking sewing needles into the eyes and envisioning how bad that would really hurt, until I could hear the dolls screaming in my head. I fed off of those imaginary screams. They made me feel powerful and even at an early age I liked that feeling. I would tear the hair out in clumps, hit the body parts with hammers and boards, and stick things in the ears until I heard the screams echo through my head like thunder that shook my entire body. As I got older my need for this power got to be much stronger. I was at a point where it was getting harder to hear the imaginary screams of the dolls and I had convinced myself that I wasn’t doing anything to them at all. When I got to that point I started looking for living things like bugs. I liked catching beatles and tearing their legs off one by one. Although I didn’t hear them scream, but I could physically see the effect of my torture when they would flail around in circles and I liked to see the effects way better than imagining them. I would tear the wings off and lay them upside down on the hot concrete and watch them frantically try to flip themselves over. I would put a magnifying glass over them while they were upside down and watch them slowly fry to death. If I found a really big spider or something else dangerous , I would step on them very slowly because it was a rush feeling them crunch under my foot. It was almost as if I could feel the life leaving them and sending a jolt of electricity through my body from my feet up. I loved it and to me that was all very normal behavior. I believed everyone liked these things and just did them at different times to different things. I remember the first time I was playing with a friend and had the urge to torture something and I wanted to show her how I liked to do it. She cried and asked what was wrong with me and I couldn’t understand why she thought that. I figured bugs weren’t her thing so I told her I was happy to mess up something that she liked. She ran home crying and never talked to me again. Her mother called about an hour later but my mother was in one of her drug induced drunken phases. She just babbled some incomprehensible nonsense into the phone and slammed it down like she was mad at it.
Getting into my teen years, I started to crave more and began to focus on rodents and small animals. They bled a lot more than bugs and they squirmed more, almost as if frantically begging for their lives. My parents liked the mousetraps that trapped them but didn’t kill them, they said it was easier to dump them somewhere than to have to get rid of their stinky rotten dead bodies. I loved getting to the traps before them and checking for mice. When I found one alive in the box I would almost black out from the rush of excitement that surged through my entire body. I tingled everywhere and my crotch would become moist. One day while I was at the end of a mouse session my mother walked out and saw what I was doing. She instantly became enraged and began to beat me. She told me while beating me that this was not appropriate behavior for me, but I just thought she was whacked out of her mind from the drugs and drinking so I wrote off the whole experience to another one of mother’s rages.
You could say my home life was not very typical by today’s standards. My dad was gone a lot. We would see him maybe every other week or so for a few days and the whole time he was home he walked around the house in a drunken stupor. My dad was not abusive though, in fact he loved me very much. He told me often how much he loved me during our special time we would have in my room late at night. He showed me how good the love of a father could feel and in return I was a good little girl and did exactly as he told me to do. He even said I was better than mother at making him feel good like a man should feel. I was very proud and loved him very much.
My mother on the other hand was very mean to me. I got beaten for one reason or another almost on a daily basis. It happened so often that sometimes there was not even a reason at all. Lucky for me though mother was wasted a lot and every few days she would crash and not wake up for at least one whole day. I called those my days off just like daddy called his quiet time at home. I liked my days off because I was free to have my special time with the mice and other random things. Those random things, and my days off, sustained me through most of my teen years.
Daddy’s gone
I guess you could say I matured into the person I am today when Daddy died. I was 17 when it happened. I was waiting in my room one night in daddy’s favorite outfit anticipating my special time with him but he didn’t come home. I waited up all night and in the morning I went in to mother’s room to look for him. The bedroom was empty and so was everything else. I went toward the kitchen and I found mother sitting at the dining room table just staring at the wall with a blank look on her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears but she did not appear to be crying. In fact, she had half a smile on her face as the tears rolled down and collected in the corner of her mouth.
“Mother, where’s Daddy?” I asked
She turned her head toward me and her facial expression instantly changed into a look of rage. “You little whore!! You killed him!”
I felt my heart and my whole inside turn instantly
