Sociopath Community

Thank you Billy, I will do just that! Its hard for me to be even remotely honest about myself. After all these years of nonstop pity ploy and bs and blame. I lost myself...

But really by most standards I was very tame; it was only within a religious context that I was
though of as being a little recalcitrant. I still believed in the faith though. That was the problem.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t enjoy it. But I still believed.

The summer after graduation brought a few changes. Most notably I lost my best friend. Scott
had been killed in a car crash two days after our last test had been taken. The last exam was on a
Monday. On the Wednesday a party had been organized at the farm site of one of our classmates.
Sandy was her name. She was cute as a little chipmunk with a bewitching smile. She had started
off a little on the chunky side in elementary school but had worked hard to slim down over the
years. By grade 12 she had one of the best bodies in school. Scott had asked her out a few days
earlier and their first real date had been planned for that coming weekend.

By all accounts it was a fine party. It wasn’t the official graduation party held in august when the
diploma exams came back and we received our certificates. The official party meant dressing up
in a suit or sometimes a tuxedo for supper and dancing, to be followed by hopping on a school
bus to some unknown location in the bush to get absolutely shit-faced and, for those who hadn’t
already done so, lose their virginity. This was just an informal affair: football, baseball, a little
reflection on the last 12 years, and a little drink. Scott had made a special batch of wine for the
occasion and wished that he had made his usual mead. The wine was terrible so we diluted it
with beer.

I left the party about midnight and Scott left a few minutes after. Originally I had decided to stay
the night but for some reason changed my mind. Had I stayed I believe Scott would have stayed
as well and he would still be alive today. I don’t just believe he would have stayed, I know he
would have. He certainly wasn’t drunk that night but he did a head on with two guys who were.
Apparently they were on their way to crash our party. Scott had borrowed his mother’s
Volkswagen that night which didn’t really measure up to the three-quarter ton going the other
way. Two days later I was in the supermarket and I overheard an old couple talking about the
incident.
“It’s a shame what happened,” the old man said. “These young kids and their parties! He should
have known better than to drink and drive.”
I walked around to the other isle where they stood. “I realize you’re an old man,” I said, “but you
need to watch your fucking mouth.”
His nose crushed very easily beneath the palm of my hand. I hadn’t been in the habit of hitting
old men but in that case I think my actions were justified. I left him lying, sobbing to himself
next to the canned fish.

i like it

will you be trying to publish it

You dance divinely Xena! And dig the doo rag. SO YOU!

I actually enjoyed reading this. You write with honesty, whether this is fictional or not.

Why thank you. :D

I'm not even Puerto Rican.

Autobiography

I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to pack up and leave. I loaded up all my worldly
possessions and my dog into the orange Buick that Scott had willed to me, and moved to the city.
I had about three grand saved up from working odd jobs here and there during the summers and
if necessary I could live very cheaply on eggs and potatoes. I had an aunt who lived there as
well, and I could stay with her until I found a place of my own.

The city was actually a nice change. It was big and completely unassuming. I think it’s a lot
easier for people to move from the country to the city than the other way around. Fighting traffic
is certainly not fun but the city offers a sense of anonymity. It is possible to become completely
lost in a sea of people but it also has quiet, tree lined streets and parks to offer a sense of
naturalism. Unfortunately it’s not possible to just up and urinate whenever or wherever you
want, and I have never seen a wolf or a cougar or hunted from the living room window, but I
also had no desire to farm for a living either. Pacing up and down a field in a John Deere can be
a little on the boring side.

I found a basement apartment that easily fit into my budget. It was a little run down and it stunk
of cat piss but a little Lysol cleared that up right away. It was a one bedroom. The floor was
linoleum throughout, ungodly orange with several patches missing. The walls had been painted
several decades ago and the toilet was missing the bowl cover which made it easier to flush as
the handle was also broken. I liked it though. It was nice to live alone for a change. And I wasn’t
really alone because I had Missy. Leaving home is a truly remarkable stage in life that under no
circumstances should be postponed beyond the legal age of maturity. It’s as if life’s worries are
immediately cast aside. To be able to wander around the house in the buff is an experience and
privilege not to be taken lightly. The age old argument of parents is “if you live under my roof
you do as I say.” There is an obvious and immediate solution for that. Move.

I soon met my neighbour who lived across the hall. He was an interesting fellow. From all
outward appearances he didn’t belong in the city. He was probably about 65-70 years of age I
would guess, but the guy was ripped like a boxer. He was thin and lean like he was raised by
wolves. He was looking a little weathered by the deep lines in his face but I certainly wouldn’t
have wanted to pick a fight with him. I met him the second day in my new apartment. This
apartment complex wasn’t the typical fancy big city board walk style condo building. This was
in the older part of town. It had the run –down feeling as if the owner hadn’t visited in 20 years
or more likely even forgot that he owed it. Chunks of plaster were lying all around the building
that had fallen off gracefully over time exposing the red brick. There were only 2 apartments per
floor and we shared the basement level. I walked past his door on the way to mine. He had his
door open partway.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” he said.
“Fine thanks.” I answered. I wasn’t really in the mood to make new friends but I didn’t want to
be impolite.
“Feel like coming in for a beer?” he asked.
Well far be it from me to turn down neighbourly hospitality. To say no to a free beer has to be
some sort of crime. I entered his apartment. It was the same layout as mine but whereas my
entire furniture consisted of an orange futon and a plush, cream-coloured chair my aunt had
given me, this place was packed to the brim with everything. Every single wall was covered with
shelves. One wall was completely dedicated to books, one for movies, and another had the most
extensive collection of rifles since James Bond joined MI 6. Sitting in the corner in an antique
looking Victorian chair sat my neighbour knitting.

“Beer’s in the fridge” he said. “Help yourself. I’m just in the middle of a knit one pearl two
section and I don’t want to lose my place.”
I went to his fridge. About half of it was dedicated to beer. “Can I bring you one as well?”

Interested to read more of this. You say it's autobiographical?

Not entirely. There is more much later, but is disjointed. Masks will do that.

“No not for me,” he said. “I quit drinking 20 years ago. I think that there’s a limit to how much
booze you can handle in a lifetime and I’ve reached my limit. Besides I just used to get a little
too crazy with it. It’s not that I wanted to quit-I had to quit. When I say crazy I mean I was
getting into lots of trouble. You couldn’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays. You can
pass me a Pepsi though. I just keep the beer for company. My name’s Leigh by the way.”
“Jody,” I said, and I sat in a chair across from him. “I see you’re knitting,” I said, pointing out
the obvious.
“I came back from the war a little banged up. I started knitting when I was in the hospital. Here
take a look.” He rolled up his pant leg exposing a sock. “See these. These don’t slide down your
leg like the cheap crap you buy in the stores. Plus these are a lot warmer. I also quit smoking
then so this helped keep my mind off the edge.”
He tossed over a few more samples of his handy work. I didn’t know a whole lot about knitting
but this man put even my mother to shame.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries and talked briefly about where we hailed from. Turns out
he was a retired fisherman from Newfoundland. He had been out west for many years and I
could not pick out any discernable accent. He noticed that I kept staring at his vast collection of
firearms.
“You must know your way around these,” he said. Actually I was an excellent shot having had a
22 since I was ten years of age.
“Well I hunt every now and then,” I said.

“Then let’s go take a few practice shots some time,’ he suggested. “It’ll be a good chance to get
out of the house for a while. It seems like I’ve been cooped up a little too much lately. Any time
you feel like watching a movie or something you’re welcome to as well.”
I didn’t finish all of his beer, but that afternoon I gave it my best shot. Luckily he had a few
steaks in his fridge as well to devour.
After a month or so and feeling settled in, I decided that it would be best to finally start attending
meetings again. The next Sunday I showed up at the hall to let the Lord know that I was still
around. I deliberately showed up late to avoid the rush of people introducing themselves.
Whenever fresh blood arrived most people assumed they were just other witnesses from
elsewhere on vacation, but they were still always on the lookout for someone having read a
particular article in the Watchtower and be motivated enough on his own to seek out the truth.
The members would fall over themselves hoping to be the one to start a bible study with them.
This not only meant the privilege of helping another gain everlasting life but also it meant you
could count time without having to go from door to door preaching. In fact heads of the
household could also count time for studying with their children. Every little bit helped in getting
those all-important 10 hours per month .

I entered and found a seat near the back just as the opening song was beginning. It was a
heartwarming rendition of ‘From House to House’. I found a seat near the back. This congregation was different in that they had, instead of recorded music, an actual flesh and blood
piano player. He played exceptionally well. He was a former concert pianist from Germany. He
might have been an old Nazi for all I knew but he was really good, especially for a man as old as
he was. He added his own trills and runs frequently throughout the piece. He turned what was a
very boring song into... well into something not quite so boring. How exciting can a song about
going from door to door looking for lost sheep really be? In countless talks we endured on the
influence of Satan in modern music you would think that their religious music from God would
have been a little better. It was trite in most every sense. Satan may be an evil bastard but he
sure made some good music. I’ll take Cinderella or Guns and Roses any day. Even some
religious songs were Ok. ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ was ok; ‘Kum Ba Ya My Lord’ had a nice
rhythm. We didn’t sing those. I think the best song they ever had used the same tune as a
Christmas carol, but a few years ago a new songbook came out and that song was dropped from
the repertoire. This piano player may have been making the best out of what he had, but I saw
no reason to change my usual habit of singing the wrong verse. It was juvenile but at least I got a
kick out of it, and a few stares.

I did a quick look around to check out the local scenery. It was just for curiosity mind you,
because in order to get any action I would have had to marry them and then, assuming they paid
attention to the finer teachings, oral sex would still be of limits. I may have still been a virgin but
it was safe to take an educated guess that the sexual experience would be at least significantly
enhanced by a few oral endeavors. I had yet to see a real naked woman even. I saw lots of
pornography though. In the woods behind our school there was an old stash of Playboys and
Hustlers: dozens and dozens of them that had probably been there forever. Their pages were
stuck together from melting snow so we would carefully peel the pages apart to get a glimpse of
their luscious bodies.

That bit of woods behind the school was very popular. It was technically off school property so
it was kind of a lawless nether-region. During the summers the cool thing to do during the lunch
hour was to go to the river and try and hop across on the rocks without falling in. It was also the
designated area for all school fights. I had been in many fights in elementary school but it high
school there was just the one. I don’t remember the exact circumstances of why we fought but I
remember him being a bully and I wanted to teach him a lesson. I would have preferred not to
fight him as he was much bigger than I was and more developed, as only someone who had
failed a couple years could be. I was scared shitless but I managed to come out ok. I didn’t
resoundingly kick his ass or anything but I did ok. I got a bloody nose out of the deal but I
managed to give him a black eye in return.

Nope.

Add this to my list of "crimes" Copyrighted material that was obviously not wanted to be read by others.