Confessions of One Mad-Hatter

The pitch-black darkness of the less starry eve has eroded all traces of conspicuousness; transmutating fleshly elements into a single compound of malignant strength, aided by invisibility and slight hissing; grey silhouette transgressing underneath fences like a mythical serpentine crawling into some secluded rustic meadow, hoping for the one final catch. Lights out; back door open; a kitchen knife; a gruesome murder.

Yes, I took them all. One by one. Whole family screaming.

Spare me the narration please, I will not tell you a tale of picturesque slaughter. It is not of my intention to blabber the chronology of things nor provide satisfying words vis-a-vis to the question of why, but in the stead grant me the indulgence in hearing while I invest words to my chaos, of whether remorse has taken me over, or have I become a different man, or even evolved into a benevolent something; a marvelous flying creature perhaps.

Truly, silence can sometimes be poisonous if unspoken.

There is this one distinct itch that defines a life. A singular innate response to a specific outward stimuli, like the itch suffered to by a surgeon who is forever animated by a dreamy vision that someday cutting meat to death is an experience more real than any academic simulation made by a lousy medical pedant.

Are you familiar with the ‘Soldier’s itch?’ A morbid fantasy lurking somewhere within the misty hearts of the vanguards of peace, wherein all self-imposed restraints when unleashed can readily satisfy the boredom of a troubled soul by simply pulling the trigger point blank.

How about the so-called the ‘Thief’s itch?’ whereas these larcenous homunculus, especially the educated type, finds sexual satisfaction when doing the act of actual stealing rather than from that of copulating.

Finally, the itch that overrides all encrypted moral codes, the everlasting itch of a natural born predator. My itch.

Do I stand high above from an ordinary culprit of misgivings? Is the cold-blooded murderer different from the blatant plunderer?

I beg not to differ. People like me, the morally decrepit, are freak accidents of nature. Whether other strains of malevolent men and women are performing different condemnable shortcomings, we share almost similar inkling– the urge to disturb the foundations of a civilized society.

Just let me grab a moment of your peace, see what lies beyond the window. Outside you’ll witness how the public coffers are shamelessly pillaged; women and children are thrown into dark alleys in the service of subhuman mercantilism and senseless road rage massacre. Again I emphasize, we are one and the same.

It is futile to deconstruct the handiwork of nature. I was wired in a manner that finds no equal amongst the populace. The molecules that binds the very fabric of my being is but a loyal servant–subservient to the natural order of my biological make.

To paraphrase the great and all-powerful Vladimir Nabokov, my sin is my soul. The killer kills as much as the thief steals.

Ploughing instead of doing insidious undertaking elsewhere is unnatural to our malignant genes.

I refuse to mourn for my victims. I can not mourn for nature.

But society is not wanting, it has to survive and must impose on us the hardest and fatal blow.

About the Author: Jasonjes Monteclar is a practicing broadcaster/commentator in one of the respected radio stations in Cebu City. He is a former professor in Social Sciences and loves to dip into books from Plato, Sartre, Kant and Nietzsche. He has extensive knowledge concerning one or more of the fields of ethics, aesthetics, epistemology, logic, metaphysics, as well as social philosophy and political philosophy.