There was a time I didn’t understand myself; the things I did or the reasons I did them. Life moved forward in a series of random events connected by a vague attachment to my timeline. There were fuzzy recollections of events that may or may not have taken place. Memories on the tip of my tongue that didn’t seem real. The few that were remembered were the ones I didn’t want to know at all. Attempts to bury them under a self induced amnesia failed.

Have you ever woken up so heavily immersed in a dream that it took a few minutes to differentiate between the fantasy world and reality? Which one was real, the world that now surrounded you or the one visited when your eyes were closed?

Often I would sit up in bed and look around, trying to understand what happened. My sweat soaked pillow offered no explanation for the blood stains on my clothing. If it was all a dream then where did the blood come from and whose was it?

I am no longer disconnected from the realities of my existence. I don’t have all the answers but do any of us? The mixture of faces that fill my head are familiar in one specific way. All of them shared the same fate. With a final gasp of air and the same deadening look of surprise, each asked an identical question without uttering a word.

“Why me?”

The answer is as simplistic as it is complicated. It explains everything and nothing at the same time.

“Because you had the misfortune of crossing my path.”

It is an explanation I’ve never voiced. My silence isn’t borne from a vindictive layer of cruelty. I possess the same question as they do, only for a different reason. Although it’s taken a lot of introspection before some semblance of understanding came about, every resolved issue has brought more unanswered questions.

Why do I do the things that I do? Why don’t I have enough self control to stop myself?

The funny thing is that when it comes to self control, I have an abundance of it. I choose not to pull back the reins of my depravity. My actions aren’t dictated solely out of necessity but also from a deep rooted desire. I don’t just need to do these things, I want to. Once my mind is locked onto a specific course of action, I pursue it with maniacal vim and vigor. No one denies me from an established goal. If you happen to get in the way, then how can I be blamed for your ignorance?

The laws of the land only exist as proof that the politicians have done something in their elected capacity. I prefer to think of rules as a guide, not a mandate. The only lesson in morality that I live by; it’s only illegal if you get caught. Hunting while incarcerated would be far less fulfilling as the selection of potential targets is far more limited. Variety is the spice of life.

After two decades, I have yet to be suspected, much less questioned, about anyone who has been reported missing. I keep to myself and make certain to stay under the radar of the numerous investigations that are underway. Prosecution is more difficult when speculation outweighs evidence. People wander off for a variety of reasons and disappear everyday. Every single day, without exception. Gone without a trace.

When a person stalks his prey, time often feels like it’s been suspended. Each second that ticks by feels like a minute, every minute an hour, and so on. Part of you wants to end the charade, to plan a different approach. Nagging thoughts of hope are the subterfuge that keeps one from leaving his vigil.

Sometimes the desired goal is never attained. Only fools blame everyone except themselves. There is something to be learned from every situation, more when a plan is unsuccessful. Better to evolve from one’s failures than make the same mistake a second time. Mistakes are the enemy. The underlying motivation and reasoning of a hunt are immaterial. The mandate remains the same. A quest for perfection.

The continuation of my freedom is proof that I’m at the top of my game, though nothing can be taken for granted. Errors in judgement often lead to intractable results. Second chances don’t come around very often, far less for those careless enough to believe they have nothing left to learn. I guess that makes me a professional student.

The search for knowledge led me to the only suitable explanation found for being the way that I am. My father. I would be remiss if I didn’t credit him for teaching me how best to use my intelligence to accomplish the goals set before me. He is the exact same way. We share a glimmer in our eyes that’s as distrustful as the smile on our lips. Our murderous traits only show themselves when the beast within tells us it’s time to hunt.

Regardless of our shared gaze of disconnected morality, I prefer to think of myself as a better version of my father. Sociopath extraordinaire. Sometimes, though, I wonder if that’s an accurate description of my life. Maybe that’s not the case at all. Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe your eyes are no different than mine. Maybe I am just like you.