I’m the demonslayer. Come and get me.
The thing about boxes,” I said, “is that you can open them up. Even though they’re completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you’re saying all of these stupid, boring things, I’m imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you’ve got in there.
We need guilt the same way we need pain – because it reminds us what happened, and it helps us not to do it again.
Could I stop myself? Once I tore that wall down, could I rebuild it? Did.
It was a simple plan, but he was a simple man, and sometimes simple was good.
Kira liked it, in a way. Nobody told nature what to do.
No matter why you’re here, no matter why any of us are here, you’re never tied down to fate. You’re never locked in.
What did I do that I didn’t have to do? That was always the question. Figure out what we choose when we’re free to choose anytime and you’ll know who we really are. I saved Brooke, when I could have run. I chose to be hurt, when I could have chosen to never to hurt again. I was a killer. Cold-blooded and ruthless but I was a hero too. Or at least I was trying to be.
I wanted to do it again tonight. When I had Agent Harris unconscious in the bathroom – I wanted to hurt him and crush him and cut him until you couldn’t even tell who he was anymore, but I didn’t. Because I don’t let a broken brain tell me what to do. Because who you’re supposed to be has nothing to do with who you actually are.
If you could do me a favor and not tell anyone I, uh, threw myself at you, that would be very kind as well.
That was how the Son of Sam had ended his letter: “Let me haunt you with these words: I’ll be back! I’ll be back!
I’ve been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy,” I said. “Do you know what that means?” “It means you’re a freak,” he said. “It means that you’re about as important to me as a cardboard box,” I said. “You’re just a thing – a piece of garbage that no one’s thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?
Violence is passionate and real – the final moments as you struggle for your life, firing a gun or wrestling a mugger or screaming for help, your heart pumps loudly and your body tingles with energy; you are alert and awake and, for that brief moment, more alive and human than you’ve ever been before.
I was talking too much, and I knew I was talking too much, but I couldn’t stop. It was like my brain had been cut open, and every thought inside was spilling out on the floor.
Not murderers,” I said, “serial killers.” “That’s the difference between you and the rest of the world, John. We don’t see a difference.
That’s the problem with depression – it discourages its own treatment. It’s like a virus, almost, perfectly adapted against its only natural predator.
I can’t tell my dreams from my nightmares.
This was it. This was what I had never felt before – an emotional connection to another human being. I’d tried kindness, I’d tried love, I’d tried friendship. I’d tried talking and sharing and watching, and nothing had ever worked until now. Until fear. I felt her fear in every inch of my body like an electric hum, and I was alive for the first time. I needed more right then or the craving would eat me alive.
Antisocial personality disorder,” she said, her voice rising. “I looked it up. It’s a psychosis.” She turned away. “My son’s a psychotic.” “APD is primarily defined as a lack of empathy,” I said. I’d looked it up, too, a few months ago. Empathy is what allows people to interpret emotion, the same way ears interpret sound; without it you become emotionally deaf. “It means I don’t connect emotionally with other people. I wondered if he was going to pick that one.
Emotional connections made you do stupid things, I guess. Margaret.
I wondered, then, if I was doing all of this because I wanted to save the good guys, or if I just wanted to kill the bad guy. And I wondered if that made a difference.