Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 1

Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman.

by Edward Lee and Elizabeth Stefan.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Though in debt to many, the authors would like to particularly thank the following: Tony Arismendi, Police Chief Lawrence Donahoe, Officer Bob Elliot, Steve Emmett, Dr. Ronald T. Greene, Jr., Eugene Kaili, R.K., Dr. Harold Lerhman, Tim McGinnis, John Pelan, Officer Ed Snyd.i.c.ker, and March 19, 1983.

DEDICATION:.

For LS - for chances taken and opportunities missed.

And for Matt Schwartz.

Chapter 1.

(I).

An image flashed. The cat clock.

ticktickticktick And unbidden words in her head: It's Sleepytime, Kathy.

She frowned then, blinked it all away, and went to light her hourly cigarette...

The thought came with no volition at all. It never did. The mail's here, mail's here, Kathleen Shade thought. Every day she seemed to sense the approach of the squat, c.u.mbersome white vehicle. Was it premonition? Kathleen Shade thought. Every day she seemed to sense the approach of the squat, c.u.mbersome white vehicle. Was it premonition? By the p.r.i.c.kling of my thumbs, By the p.r.i.c.kling of my thumbs, she thought, quoting Shakespeare. Ordinarily, she might've laughed, but she never laughed about the mail. The mail provided her only turnstile to the outside terra incognito that was the world. she thought, quoting Shakespeare. Ordinarily, she might've laughed, but she never laughed about the mail. The mail provided her only turnstile to the outside terra incognito that was the world.

The world felt removed from her. It honed her oneness, erecting her into s.h.i.+ning, crumbly dark. The mail truck, and its singular sound-the way its brakes squealed, the rumble of its m.u.f.fler-called to her much in a way like l.u.s.t. The honest urge to touch oneself, for the pleasant yet ersatz sensation. Never to climax. Just for the feeling.

The urge had eluded her these days. Odd comparison, she considered. The mail, and precursory masturbation...

She'd been working on her "Verdict" column.

Dear Kathleen:My boyfriend, with whom I've been living for three years, recently suggested that we "swap." It was at a work party. I didn't know what he meant until a friend explained. He wanted us to switch s.e.xual partners with my boss and his wife! When I refused, he (my boyfriend) took me aside and told me it would be good for my career! Can you believe it? I really love my boyfriend, but this suggestion leaves me shocked. What should I do?

Kathleen typed her response:

Dear Shocked:Any man who needs to "swap" simply offers more proof of his own male s.e.xual defectivity. Not only does he insult your love for him, he offends himself by verifying his lack of real domestic priority. And in his further coercion, i.e. his suggestion that trading partners would enhance your career status, he commits an even less forgivable slight-the traditional male twofaced rationalization: the pursuit of his own kinky pleasure as an excuse. Your boyfriend, therefore, demonstrates his utter unworthiness. He is selfish, immature, and prevaricating.Dump him.

There. Short and sweet. Kathleen's "Verdict" column had become a hit. She'd merely applied, citing her sociology degree and a few published writing samples. "We like your edge," the senior editor had told her. Besides, teaching had bored her. Though the $600 per month she made from '90s Woman '90s Woman didn't pay all the bills, it made her feel she was doing something. It also made her feel... What? didn't pay all the bills, it made her feel she was doing something. It also made her feel... What?

Connected to something.

A moment later she turned to the next letter (she received several dozen per week) and the thought rang: The mail. The mail. She could even be napping, and would wake to realize the mail had arrived. One man she'd dated years ago had told her, "All women are psychic." She could even be napping, and would wake to realize the mail had arrived. One man she'd dated years ago had told her, "All women are psychic." I guess that's how I knew you were an a.s.s before we even met, I guess that's how I knew you were an a.s.s before we even met, she thought now. When she'd caught him sleeping around, he'd claimed, "You gave me no choice!" she thought now. When she'd caught him sleeping around, he'd claimed, "You gave me no choice!"

She severed the memory. The mail, the mail, The mail, the mail, she thought. In cutoff jeans, an old white Bud Burma men's longsleeve s.h.i.+rt, and barefoot, she went to retrieve the allimportant mail. No check this week; G.o.d knew she could use the money. Her father always came through, at least. she thought. In cutoff jeans, an old white Bud Burma men's longsleeve s.h.i.+rt, and barefoot, she went to retrieve the allimportant mail. No check this week; G.o.d knew she could use the money. Her father always came through, at least. Because he loves me? Or because of guilt? Because he loves me? Or because of guilt? It scarcely mattered now. "I'm very proud of you," he'd said when she'd been given "Verdict." "Your mother would be too." It scarcely mattered now. "I'm very proud of you," he'd said when she'd been given "Verdict." "Your mother would be too." What about Uncle Sammy? What about Uncle Sammy? she'd wanted to ask. she'd wanted to ask. Do you think he'd be proud of me? Should I send him the magazine in prison? Do you think he'd be proud of me? Should I send him the magazine in prison?

She opened the front door and peered out. Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. had a smell no matter where you lived. It wafted up the open stairwell. The hall stood empty. I haven't had s.e.x in a year, I haven't had s.e.x in a year, she thought. But why think that? And why now? s.e.x often made her feel totally alone; it made her feel unwanted, which never made sense to her. What more proof did she need of being wanted than an erect p.e.n.i.s? She sometimes smirked when she saw lovers holding hands in Georgetown Park, or couples kissing in public. Her neighbors infuriated her, their pa.s.sion raging through the wall. Mr. and Mrs. Bedsprings. she thought. But why think that? And why now? s.e.x often made her feel totally alone; it made her feel unwanted, which never made sense to her. What more proof did she need of being wanted than an erect p.e.n.i.s? She sometimes smirked when she saw lovers holding hands in Georgetown Park, or couples kissing in public. Her neighbors infuriated her, their pa.s.sion raging through the wall. Mr. and Mrs. Bedsprings. Stop f.u.c.king! Stop f.u.c.king! she yearned to yell at the wall every night. she yearned to yell at the wall every night.

The mail. Why did it seem so important today? It whispered false promises to her, as Uncle Sammy had, and many of the men she'd made love to. "I ascend to the blinding light," she whispered, descending the apartment steps. A boot lifted away in the sunlit entrance-the mailman. Before the glare, and the heat s.h.i.+ning off cars, it looked like a foot stepping into h.e.l.l.

The August humidity made her feel pallid and dry. She got her mail out of the gray row of boxes, and went back up. As she climbed, she felt the sensation of descending. Since turning 30-three years ago-she felt choked in a web of opposites: she felt chilled in the heat, she felt bright in utter darkness. I'm weird I'm weird, she thought.

She did weird things sometimes, like eating only peanut b.u.t.ter for days, or looking at the Spiegel catalogue upsidedown to see how funny the faces became. She rarely wore clothes in the apartment. Nakedness offered up a reality to her, an encompa.s.sing one. She watched TV naked. She read, cleaned, ate, did laundry-she even wrote her column-naked. Why wear clothes inside? Why wear clothes inside? she reasoned. she reasoned. No one can see. No one can see.

Who'd want to see, Fattie? a darker voice inquired. She insisted she was fat, though she really wasn't. She could stand to drop 10 pounds (maybe 15 would be better) but she wasn't really fat. According to the woman shrink on the radio at night, Kathleen had acquired a "negative selfconcept continuum." She had a bad image of herself. It was all childhood, according to the woman shrink. Constancyhypothesis from WombExit. Reactivity to genderrealization. Connateimpressions during the formative years. Uncle Sammy probably had a lot to do with it, too. a darker voice inquired. She insisted she was fat, though she really wasn't. She could stand to drop 10 pounds (maybe 15 would be better) but she wasn't really fat. According to the woman shrink on the radio at night, Kathleen had acquired a "negative selfconcept continuum." She had a bad image of herself. It was all childhood, according to the woman shrink. Constancyhypothesis from WombExit. Reactivity to genderrealization. Connateimpressions during the formative years. Uncle Sammy probably had a lot to do with it, too.

She wore her selfperceptions like a winter jacket, which wrapped her in contradictions. I'm an unsocialized sociologist. I'm an unsocialized sociologist. Frequently she felt phony. "Verdict" required her to apply deft sociological interpretations, as well as solutions, to the loverelated quandaries of her readers. The column thrust her forward as an expert on love, when she'd never really been in love at all. She'd loved men, she supposed, but that wasn't the same. Frequently she felt phony. "Verdict" required her to apply deft sociological interpretations, as well as solutions, to the loverelated quandaries of her readers. The column thrust her forward as an expert on love, when she'd never really been in love at all. She'd loved men, she supposed, but that wasn't the same. If they only knew! If they only knew! she thought. G.o.d. Womanhood, which her column exalted, often felt like a curse to her personally. She didn't know what to do with it. She didn't really even know what it was... she thought. G.o.d. Womanhood, which her column exalted, often felt like a curse to her personally. She didn't know what to do with it. She didn't really even know what it was...

She closed and locked the door. She took the mail to the kitchen. AT&T bill, WG&E bill, MasterCard bill. A renewal notice for Cosmopolitan. Cosmopolitan. A renewal notice for A renewal notice for Allure. Allure. And the weekly carrier envelope from her editor. Readers sent their problems to "Verdict" care of the magazine, and the magazine sent them to her. Several dozen envelopes spilled out of the carrier, most of them the standard 4 1/8 x 9 1/2. And then there was one larger envelope- And the weekly carrier envelope from her editor. Readers sent their problems to "Verdict" care of the magazine, and the magazine sent them to her. Several dozen envelopes spilled out of the carrier, most of them the standard 4 1/8 x 9 1/2. And then there was one larger envelope- The cramp popped in her loins. s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t! she thought. Her period always arrived like a sniper shot. Menstruation p.i.s.sed her off; it didn't seem fair. If women have to bleed from their v.a.g.i.n.as, men should have to bleed from their p.e.n.i.ses. Blood trickled. It felt hot. Just as she would make tracks for the bathroom, though, she caught herself standing still, staring.

She was staring at the larger envelope.

It was 9 x 6, manila. Her name and the magazine's address had been typed neatly on a white adhesive label. Kathleen opened it, wincing at the steady cramp.

First, there was an index card on which had been typed:

DEAR MS. SHADE:.

YOU ARE A GREAT WOMAN. IN THE FUTURE I WILL BE SENDING YOU MY STORY. CONSIDER IT A PROPOSITION. IT IS A VERY IMPORTANT STORY.WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO MY STORY?.

Kathleen's frown turned her face up. There was no return address on the envelope. What story? What story? she wondered. she wondered.

Her fingers delved deeper.

Something else in here.

A thin foil packet wrapped in plastic. Unbidden, she thought of drugs. They wrapped drugs in foil, didn't they? Kathleen had never used drugs herself. Too scary. She'd never even smoked pot because she heard it increased appet.i.te. But she remembered from her college days, kids brought hash into the dorm wrapped in foil, and LSD tabs.

Curiosity throbbed with the cramp. She opened the packet on the kitchen counter, peeling away first the plastic, then the foil.

Initially it didn't seem to be what it undoubtedly was. It seemed flattened, like a twist of raw chicken skin. Kathleen could have sworn that her heart stopped for the full minute that ticked by before she called the police.

(II).

Flesh-gorgeous, s.h.i.+ning-sh.e.l.lacked in blood.

It's the image she craves.

It's the truth behind the image.

And The Cross.

She remembers the others, and sighs.

She remembers The Cross.

It's an antic.i.p.ation: to see the flesh s.h.i.+ning in blood.

The Amytal always keeps them out.

I hope you liked the back rub, she thinks. I give good back rubs, don't I?

His face looks childlike in this ponderous unconsciousness.

It's a wonder. His skull seems to glow beneath his face.

Skulls mean death, her mother says.

She Crazy Glues his eyes shut.

She daintily ruptures his eardrums with a Skeele 1.75 mm biopsy curette.

With lovely violet suture and an Ethicon FS3 radial needle, she sews his lips shut.

She likes that.

Questions kiss her, they lick her.

It's very erotic, these questions.

What do they think when they wake up?

What goes on in their minds?

They can't see, they can't hear. They can't speak. They can't even move.

But they can feel.

She always gives them a lot to feel.

Here he comes.

"You're back," she says.

She caresses his p.e.n.i.s.

"I give good back rubs, don't I?" she asks, not that he can hear the question, oh no, not with his eardrums punctured.

"I never lie. I told you I give good back rubs."

She imagines his horror: deaf, dumb, blind, immobile. This imagining arouses her, it lifts her smiling to her tiptoes, swells her perfect nipples, glows between her legs. Soon he's snapping his wrists and ankles against the Peerless Model 26 detention cuffs. It's a lovely, bracing sound, the sharp metallic snap snap snap! Lovelier still: the way his entire face lengthens to misshape, his eyes trying to open, his mouth trying to open, and the frantic swallowed sounds from his throat. "What are you thinking?" She rubs his flexing stomach. "What's going on in your mind?"

She works on him for a long, long time.

He keeps going out, and the hypodermic keeps bringing him back.

"Skulls mean death," she says matteroffactly.

Bruns serrated plaster shears. What they are, exactly, is a nineinchlong pair of angled stainlesssteel scissors, designed for cutting off plaster casts. The Miltex version costs $52.50 per pair, not that she had to buy them. "No plaster casts today," she says.

The shears open.

He's still alive.

The shears close.

"There."

His hips heave.

The buried scream rages in his throat.

"Did that feel good?"

To her left is The Box of Souls.

To her right is The Window.

In the Window she sees The Cross, all white in light.

She smiles.