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schizophrenia. In particular, he exhibits a delusional misidentification known as Capgras syndrome. He believes his wife was replaced by an impostor, or as he describes it, a clone—”
After seven years of intense study into the mind of the criminally insane, I have formed only one conclusion: serial offenders cannot be rehabilitated.
I do not believe rehabilitation is achievable, especially for the Bundys and Dahmers of the world. They are governed by their id—and the id is the ultimate monster.
“Why would I not want it to work?” I shrug as I ease back into the leather chair. “Because seeking the answer on how to fix the sick and deviant is boring. You’re really seeking to understand why you’re so drawn to it yourself.” My mouth twitches to hold back a smile. “Which is far more interesting.”
I’ve always liked puzzles.” “Puzzles,” she repeats, deep brown eyes narrowing. “And why is that?” Unbidden, a memory from my childhood flickers across my vision, and I tamp it back down into the dark recesses. “I like the mechanics of puzzles, the way each piece has a place, a purpose. The way it simply belongs.”
Every sinner was once a victim. Anyone who sets out to harm, has suffered some harm themselves.” I run my palms over my thighs, my gaze flicking to the gleaming metal of my cuffs. “It’s the yin and yang, dark and light feeding and devouring each other. An ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail in a vicious cycle.”
“None of us are powerless,” I say, a guttural edge bleeding into my tone. “Choice is the most powerful thing in this world. Everyone has a choice.”
We’re an inevitability—a certainty that no amount of chains and bars and guards will prevent.
There are many ways to hide scars, both physical and emotional. The physical scars are easy enough to conceal,
“I’m interested in the study of people, not in what they can do or be in relation to me,”
“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”
“The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. Your particular psychopathy, sadistic symphorophilia, is more complicated.
nothing stays the same. Change is the one constant you can depend on. Someone once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad, and this place is full of madness. The choice to adapt or not is what sets inmates apart. Those who acclimate to the system, and those who rebel and lose their shit.
With her, I don’t crave the abuse. I’ve enforced it for so long, it’s damn near impossible to stop—but she’s my answer. She’s my salvation.
There are doors our minds close to protect us, whether it’s blacked-out memories or denial—” her gaze doesn’t waver “—we’ve chained those doors shut for a reason. Once you break the locks, there’s no going back. You’ll be forced to accept a new reality, London, and that can be frightening.”
“I want to break you, so I can piece you back together.”
My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.
Be wary of people who compliment too soon, before they even know you—they’re lowering your defenses in preparation for the strike.
“Grayson, this is over.” I hold up my hands. The shackles around his ankles slow his advance, but don’t stop him. “It’s never over.” He positions himself between me and the door. “For this to be over, one of us has to die.”
“God, you’re a monster.” “I’m your monster.”
“You’re mine, London. We can dance this violent dance until we bleed each other dry, or we can surrender. Your choice, but I will have you.”
“I proclaim that Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
“Whoever said love sets you free clearly never fell for their therapist.”
“I want you more than freedom, London.”
We are our own gods, and our own devils. Capable of pure evil and great virtue. Each of us invents our own heavens, creates our own hells. We choose them every day.
Solitude reveals who we are. Isolation is not loneliness; it’s the absence of noise and distraction. It forces you to acknowledge your worth. If you must surround yourself with people, you invite distractions from the one person deserving of your time: you.
“We weren’t born the day we took our first breath,” he says, his lips tenderly pressing against my skin. “We were born the moment we stole it.”
