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Log #23: Eunice, Louisiana 2:43 PM

Dear Self:

I have a pretty good feeling that I should have a psychiatrist. But even if you take those tests, it never proves anything other than you truly are a psychopath. Or sociopath. There is a subtle difference.

I would be a psychiatrist's morbid dream come true. I'm pretty textbook: loner, taunted, dysfunctional family. But, you see, Self, the last part I don't really get. My family functions. Or better yet, they did function. Just differently. So who is there to call someone "dysfunctional"?

I still find myself to this day wondering what they feel. I wonder if it's how those fancy authors describe it. Cold, searing metal breaking skin and muscle, sending sensations of feeling to the brain. Warning. Too late. Perhaps then everything but that simple, blinding pain is unfelt. Do they feel the scrape of cement against their knees as they buckle beneath their weight? Can they tell what kind of weather there is? Does the stagnant humidity still envelop them, or is it simply nothing. Nothing but cold and pain. Does the feeling of their own lifeblood drifting away terrify... or excite? Do they become lethargic and accepting, looking for that light at the end of the tunnel, as the red, warm liquid seeps through their fingers? Do they see the stain of their own blood against the dark pavement? Do they know tomorrow they will be just a statistic, a chalkline, mopped away by the janitor of the nearby cafe? At that point, would they really care who did this to them, or would they try to focus on me, only to realize they must truly be near death. Does everyone die with that strange baffled look on their face?

Maybe, someday, I will find someone who will accept the fact that an eleven year old is indeed capable of murder.