One of the prizes of my divorce, when finally complete, was going to be the ability to throw myself into some unexplored desire that I had always wanted to do, but was restrained from participating by the chains of holy matrimony. Writing was one avenue being actively explored, but there were others, as well. Dealing drugs or starting a prostitution ring were possibilities, but they might require an expertise that I did not hold. The world was finally open; so nothing was going to be ruled out until given the proper attention.
As I diligently went through my spreadsheet, adding, subtracting, dividing, formatting, I got a call from the front desk that the police were in the front lobby. They wanted to talk to me if I had a few minutes. There are a few moments in life when you suddenly understand where certain saying originated. You feel the emotion yourself. “Shitting oneself,” was now added to my list as I felt like somebody had come by with a prized Electrolux vacuum cleaner, stuck the end of the hose into my mouth, taped it down, and sucked every drop of air out of me, instantly.
After I failed to respond, the question was repeated, and I garbled out a “sure thing, I will be right down.” Bracing myself with both hands I pushed myself up. Being on death row gives one time to reflect and prepare for the long walk down the row of cells containing fellow prisoners who can all relate to what you are going through. You have the mental ability to say, “Yes, I know what day they are coming to get me.” I know what hour they will push the button and zap the life out of me, snuffing my existence on this planet.
I wonder what the responses would be if you said to each inmate, “You are slotted to be executed, and that will not change. We will surprise you with the exact time and date and leave you here, wondering when it might occur.”
How many inmates would mentally fall apart with the ticking of each second wondering if today would be the day or would it be the next or the next? How could you live knowing your life was going to end, knowing how it was going to happen, but knowing someone was insanely playing with your emotions?
I made the walk down the long hallway to the elevator and felt as if I were one of those inmates who had just been told “today is your day, buddy. See you in hell,” only to hear someone laugh as they pushed my button. I imagined my body spastically fried to a crisp like a chicken leg left to long in heated oil. I stumbled into the bathroom next to the elevator door and made a quick trip to the toilet where I did end up losing all my lunch and something extra I didn’t recognize. I knew my time was limited, so I quickly rinsed out my mouth throwing water across my face and headed downstairs.
I started wondering on the way down, why? Why at work? Why couldn’t they have come to my home and talked with me there? Why would they come to me here and embarrass me in front of everyone I knew, jeopardizing my reputation? As I pondered the questions, the answers eluded me like a little toy crane in one of those video game arcades that searches for the toy over and over again. It never seems to have the capacity to grasp those damn stuffed animals with those flimsy tentacles. My kids always demanded to play those games, but I have never once seen anyone actually win anything from them.
As I stepped out of the elevator, it dawned on me instantaneously like an epidural injection as it quickly relieves the pain and suffering of the first childbirth. They wanted to catch me off guard. They preferred to have me unnerved and rattled in the hopes that I would let something slip if I were, indeed, the person they were searching for. This was a little juvenile police game that was being played from the “How to be a Detective for Dummies” workbook that must be standard issue in all academies for police training.
As I stepped from the elevator, the anger rose up in me, threatening to explode, but gave me renewed energy and focused my attention on the issue at hand. The adrenaline flow felt like an intake of speed. The color came back into my chalky face. I, once again, used the anger that had guided me on my past adventures and felt invincible sauntering over to the two waiting detectives.
They showed me their badges and suggested that we find a place to talk, assuming that I had a few minutes for them. They assured me the entire process would only take a small amount of time and was a formality. They simply needed to follow up on all leads and were here in regards to the disappearance of Hannah Thomas and my recent relationship with her. I admitted knowing her briefly over the past few weeks, expressing my hopefulness that she was okay. I walked them through our cumbersome ineffective security screening to the second floor conference rooms that were frequently used for unexpected meetings.
We closed the door behind us, and they began the scope of apparently routine questions about my relationship with Hannah. How long I had known her, what was the definition of our association (friendship/romantic) and how many times I had recently seen her? I answered everything truthfully and casually, stating that it was the beginning of a friendship. We held the possibilities of moving into a closer intimate form for companionship, but it was far too early to tell what the true outcome might hold.
They began asking me about my whereabouts over the two to three days that marked the disappearance of Hannah. Upon hearing that I was at my house in Twain Harte during said time period, they asked if there were people that could vouch for my activities. I had seen my local real estate agents that weekend as I always stopped in to say hello on most visits. I had also seen a past work associate at the grocery store and both could vouch for seeing me. The time period they were covering was rather large, and I had been alone in my house most of the weekend so there was nobody who could attest to every minute. The people I had mentioned would place me in said location over that given period.
We spent about an hour, and I began to see the pattern of questions being asked in different ways, but with the same desired goal or outcome. I sensed that this was page two of the “Detectives for Dummies” handbook as they were looking for any inconsistencies in my responses. As you grow up, your parents continue to tell you how much easier it is to tell the truth—telling a lie only leads to more lies. The underlying philosophy is you have to remember a lie, but the truth is simply the truth. It is what occurred and your mind knows this and naturally navigates toward this in reflection.
I simply told the truth to every answer. They did not ask me if I abducted and killed Hannah or if I had tortured her in any way. I would have lied to both of those answers, but my location and activities were easy to recall. Keeping with the truth and only adding in or changing what you absolutely must is a key to survival, I decided. Let them think what they will of me and what I choose to do in my personal time, but don’t cover up meaningless embarrassing facts as it overly complicates things. Lay all the cards on the table only holding back the one or two that are hidden up your sleeve. You’re not supposed to have those anyway.
My energy level fueled by my anger and adrenaline lasted for the hour-long questioning. The two detectives then left their hopes of finding a culprit behind as I escorted them both to the door. I offered them my help if they needed to contact me again and asked them to keep me informed of Hannah’s status. I was now very worried. I watched as they walked to the parking lot and then turned to head back to my office once they had made it a comfortable distance.
Having three kids, I have had on more occasions witnessed them inject themselves with soda, candy, cake and any form of sugar they were able to stuff into their mouths as quickly as possible. I find it humorous how kids never understand why adults don’t eat cookies at every meal once they grow up and can make decisions for themselves.
I have also witnessed the free-fall crash that occurs after the sugar has run its course and inevitably loses its toxic energizing ability. You see your child plummet down the abyss of emotional reasonability. Birthday parties are the perfect example and why almost all of them last three to four hours. Stuff them with as much artificial toxins as possible. Then, send them home so the parents can go through the detoxification process of returning them to normal stability.
As soon as I walked back through
security my energetic rush lost its power, just like sugar being drained from my veins. It was all I could do to make it back to my floor, hobble to the bathroom door, and once in the stall continue the purging process of anything still residing in my stomach or anywhere close.
I was sweating buckets and felt like I had just taken a shower with my clothes on. They were now clinging to my skin. My hair was soaking wet, and the only part of my body that seemed dry was my mouth from the constant flow of heaving. I knew the right thing to do was to return to my desk and gather my senses, but I also knew that I was incapable. I needed to find a way to exit the building, get to my car, and get out immediately.
I stayed holed up in the toilet stall, making noise and commotion for about 30 minutes. Finally, once my need to heave uncontrollably had subsided, I splashed huge fistfuls of water from the sink on my face. I then made the long walk back to my office for my laptop and my belongings so I could head home.
I passed two coworkers as I made my way down the never-ending pathway, both of whom commented on my looks and asked me if I were okay or needed help. I stated that I was fine but had just received some bad news. It had affected me harder than anticipated. I was going to leave for the day. Luckily, they were the only two I had to interact with, but unfortunately they were also the two defined gossips of the department. I was sure before I had even made it to my car there would be rumors flying.
Does every office have those one or two individuals who seem to know everything that happens before it is announced, and have the inside scoop on all activities? Isn’t it odd how much time in company politics is spent on the gathering of knowledge in the background through non-official channels? Whispers happen in the hallway and hushed conversations occur in the cubes. Everyone talks about who Sally is sleeping with or that Bob might finally be fired or that Betty in receiving is having a baby, but she is not married or is married but it is not her husband’s.
Even with the invention of the Internet and online gaming, which have to be two huge productivity sucks from the corporate bottom line, I still think that the tried-and-true gossiping has to remain crowned in the top tier of corporate distractions. Everyone is involved at some level. Even those of us who try to abstain get sucked into conversations at times that in retrospect should have been avoided. We are all human, and as such, our curiosity can be piqued and must be appeased.
So with this I left the office. It was Tuesday afternoon, and I knew that I could not stay for the day. At this point, I had no idea when I would return. I called from my cell phone on the way out, leaving a message for my boss, stating that I felt ill and had to leave early. I would call him tomorrow morning and give him a status update on what I thought tomorrow looked like. My voice was hoarse and cracking from the recent regurgitation and helped my cause. With the story most likely being spread, I was sure that everyone would have me in handcuffs before the night was over.
I made it home in one piece, went straight to the liquor cabinet, and began to drown myself in scotch as quickly as possible. My kids were coming over for the night, and I luckily remembered that two drinks into my quick gulping. I called the au pair, stating that I was sick and would not be able to see them until tomorrow evening. She said she would inform my ex-wife. I was sure to get berated as my ex-wife liked her evenings out and would be pissed to have her social life disrupted.
I no longer cared about anything. I just needed to escape and alcohol was the vice of choice as I now downed my third glass of scotch. With my empty stomach and the quick intake, I was flat out drunk in less than 30 minutes of stepping through my front door which I now noticed was still open. I laughed at that and slowly stumbled over to close and lock it. Immediately, I tripped backward and fell to the floor hitting my head on the foyer table. I would spend the night there, waking up around 4 a.m. in the morning with a headache. I was left to deal with my fragile, now broken mental state. It was on the verge of irretrievably leaving me forever.
Too Much to Handle
The definition of insane, according to Dictionary.com is “not sane; not of sound mind; mentally deranged.” I think it is safe to say at this point that I was definitely not of sound mind and deranged, demented, and distraught. It is one thing to be psychotic and lose the line between black and white or to even know what the line is and knowingly cross it with disregard. It is another thing to lose the ability to function in society. To keep up the pretense of being normal while harboring activities is an art.
In order to be a successful serial killer, one must understand how to deal with the normal daily functions of life and project the pretense of normalcy. “Normal” being defined as acceptable practices that are allowed in standard society, I would assume. While this might sound easy, the oddity in this situation is the self-inflicted stress caused by our mental capacity to understand the difference between right and wrong. Knowing that I have crossed the line and the guilt associated with those activities is the issue.
Guilt is the wire that keeps humanity intact and allows us to interact within the guidelines that have been preordained as acceptable. God gave us a conscience to ensure that we did not disregard the fabric of social interaction. Imagine a world where nobody felt guilt and remorse was undefined. We would all act on our whims and fleeting desires, caring nothing about the consequences.
Billions of dollars are funneled into the very religious factions that prey on our guilty consciousness over things that we have done or even things that we think of doing. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife is a great example. Shit, even if you don’t sleep with your neighbor’s wife, just thinking about her large naked breasts is defined as a sin. You should feel guilty about doing so. It eludes me as to the gray area of when this became a true sin and when the leeches of society simply saw a way to make money on our fragile coexisting lives and thwarted that for profit.
As I lay on my hardwood floor, slowly stirring out of deep sleep, I rubbed my head and felt the large bump from the fall of the night before. I struggled with my own guilt over what I had done and what that meant to who I was, and what I was becoming. I tried to define the wording and understanding of what it was that I had wanted to accomplish and if these activities were truly making me whole.
I think that guilt was not an appropriate label for my feelings and thoughts as I did not feel remorse for my acts. I felt that what I had done was the essence of who I now was. I was no worse than the man who reads your meters and sends the information to your gas company, creating a bill that self-generates and is, then, mailed to you for payment. I had my role in life that fulfilled who I was meant to be.
My feelings were more stress, defined from the possibilities of being caught. I did not feel guilty for my actions, but instead simply felt stress from the fear of the ramifications if my actions were exposed to the world at large. Unlike the meter-reading gas occupation, which is accepted by society as normal, my actions were not socially correct. I had no desire to go to trial, or God forbid, go to jail. I am not a large man and would not function well in the type of prison to which I would be sent. Wasn’t Jeffrey Dahmer killed in jail? If you are labeled a killer, you are then housed with other killers. While I enjoyed being on the giving side of this activity, I did not want to fathom the thoughts of what might happen to me in a maximum-security prison.
I felt that I needed to find out how to deal with my stress and develop good stress-coping exercises. My anxiety level was only going to increase, and drinking might temporally relieve the pressure, but it was not a positive way to deal with issues. Counseling seemed like a great idea. Wasn’t the show The Sopranos made with just that very core thought as the theme? This was a show about a mobster who couldn’t deal with his actions and needed to work through his guilty, stressful thoughts.
I was not charting new ground, but I needed to deal with this quickly. My mental strength was taxed by work, divorce, kids, murders, police, friends, and affairs. It was too much to handle and more than any one person should have t
o cope with.
So it was with this newfound direction that I pulled myself up from the floor, which I had so uncomfortably slept on, showered, and attempted the daily grind of going back to work. The holidays were approaching, and I would have some time to take off and gather my thoughts. I needed to try and focus through the next few days and make the appearance of being a good corporate citizen.
As always, the shower helped me gain my composure as the warm water washed away my anxiety and let the air back into my deflated nerves. I gathered my belongings in my backpack; and as I had now started to ride my bike to work, I prepared for the energetic boost that always came with my 45 minute ride. I had decided to focus on getting into shape and did pushups and sit-ups in the morning, attempting to do 250 of the former and 300 of the latter. The only thing I found that subdued my stress-filled life was a nice warm shower and the isolation that came with putting on my headphones and riding recklessly through traffic. The self-absorption of listening to music while pedaling through automobiles is therapeutic in nature. You lose yourself and forget about the outside world for a while, as you pedal in rhythm to the latest pop tune. There is nothing like the beat of a Katie Perry or Amy Winehouse song as you weave through cars while thinking about a girl who has just kissed a girl, and how she feels oh, so good at doing something so taboo.
In just a few short weeks, it had achieved a portion of its designated goal. I was continually complimented on how good I looked, and everyone asked me if I had lost weight. At the ripe age of 41, I was now starting to feel physically better than I had in the last 20 years. My only issue was the mental instability that my stress was weaving throughout my mind.
Duncan's Diary Page 22