Chapter 26
Luca Veste talks serial killers
PART ONE
Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
Isaac Asimov
We are taught from an early age to fear death, that unknowable force we are all moving towards, simply by existing. However, this aspect of human existence is not one discussed easily amongst those in western society. Death is not an easy topic to discuss openly, without the fear of perhaps upsetting or insulting. This one aspect that binds us all together, touches us all, irrespective of race, gender, or orientation; the one thing we all have in common, yet so often is considered a ‘dark’ subject. Talking about one’s own mortality is considered morbid and morose.
One truth remains. We all die. Every single living organism experiences death. Indeed, according to Dr Sigmund Freud, ‘It is the aim of all life.’ We live to die. Homo sapiens as a species have shown great technological advances over the past few centuries. Yet one thing we have not, and will arguably never achieve, is to create a way of dealing with death in a uniform manner as a population. We grieve differently, we die differently.
Death touches us all. Should we fear death, try to actively repel it, through attempts to prolong our lives? If technology moved to such a point that death could be avoided, endless life became a possibility, would we ever be able to really live?
Without being able to investigate death and the repercussions for the deceased, is it possible to study death in any meaningful way, without being able to experience it?
Taken from ‘Life, Death, and Grief’, published in Psychological Society Review, 2008, issue 72.
Experiment Two
She hadn’t been afraid of the dark.
Not before.
Not before it entered her life without her knowing, enveloping her like a second skin, becoming a part of her.
She hadn’t been claustrophobic, petrified the walls were closing in around her. Crushed to death without knowing they’d even moved. Not scared of things that crawled around her toes. Wasn’t afraid to sit alone in a darkened room and wonder if something was touching her face, or if it was just her imagination.
Nope. She wasn’t scared before.
She was now.
It took time to become afraid of those things, and time was all she had, stretching out in front of her without end.
She blamed herself. Blamed her friends. Blamed him. She shouldn’t be there, and someone was to blame for that.
Had to be.
She’d become a responsible adult. The right thing, supposedly. Gone were the days she’d spent going into town, two, sometimes three times a week. Karaoke on a Friday, pulling on a Saturday – if there were any decent lads out – quiet one on a Sunday. Now she was always the first one to leave, early on in the night, when everyone else was just getting started.
She didn’t like the feeling of being drunk. That loss of control, of sensibility. She’d been hungover so many times. She’d decided it wasn’t what responsible adults did. Her mum had drummed that into her one night, holding back her hair as two bottles of white wine and god knows how many vodka and lemonades decided they wanted
