psychopath - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was the common sort of psychopath, in that world he was considered bland. He booked the assasin so long ago, a revenge served as cold as his heart. He planned the build up to her death, how he would be so friendly and help so much. He would be the guy everyone said was great. Then one day Assassin_Red would do what he'd been paid so much for, drip fed over time from many different bank accounts. The money was a broken and vanishing trail, and by his dark-web rating, her death would be slow and painful, the slower the better and on camera. He wanted to watch it live, so that he would know the exact moment her life force had left the world. Then he would keep it so encrypted that only he could savour it for the rest of his days. He had started to look forward to the act of mourning her and sharing the grief with their children, the martyr father, so aggrieved.
Long had Nate held his inner pain to be the fault of others, caused by others. Never once had he looked into the mirror of his own soul and asked what different choices he could make, not for his own sake, but for the sake of others. In each moment he made only choices for himself and surrendered to whatever fear came his way - as cowards do. Were he in war he'd be a traitor, crying, "What else could I have done?" Should his choice be a splinter in his own finger for all eternity or to burn the world, he would see it as no choice at all... "obviously" he would burn the world. That is why Grandmother always said the worst of traits is cowardice, for, over a lifetime, one born will all potential to be good and kind will be nothing but a source of rot in humanity.
It is no accident that it is the reptile, the snake, that symbolizes evil in our myths. For these creatures do not require love to raise their young like mammals do. As such they do not evolve an ability to feel love, only to survive. Likewise the psychopath does not feel love, they are an evolutionary throw-back to our reptilian brains, an accident of genetics. But if we do not take the threat of them seriously they will continue to dominate our world, driving us into a hellish dystopia. If we are going to beat them, we the 99%, we must recreate our systems so that “nice guys win,” not the most cut-throat and amoral. We must base all our systems on virtuous cycles or else hang our heads low and hand our children over to a system run by the very worst our species has to offer.
Psychopaths can run charities as shields for the activities they truly enjoy – causing others pain and emotional distress. They take a perverse pleasure in attaining positions of public trust and respect, they are charming and socially intelligent. They don't play by the same rule book as the rest of society and so they win with ease. No morals means no restraints. They are the wolves, but we don't have to be the sheep. We can be lions.
Everyone get's dehumanized, Henry, everyone. It can be for your race, gender, age, education, religion... so many reasons. But here's the rub, the real one: teaching us to dehumanize one another induces psychopathy into us. It takes normal folks and makes them not care if others live or die. We aren't born to be that way, we aren't. The creator gives us a soul of pure love so that we can hold on to truth and honour. We are supposed to fight back, stay noble, be kind, think critically and be brave. The only other option is to be complicit in psychopathy with our eyes open; if you do that, my love, not even I can save you. Being the angel of your better nature is your only true defence, there is no manual for this stuff, there can't be one. Psychopaths subvert written rules, yet the power of love is creative and flexible; that's how we win. That's how we were always going to win.
In every great thing we do, the psychopaths hide, wolves among the sheep. But that's okay, it is, because soon they'll just be wolves among lions and we will outnumber them, swamp them. Then they will pretend to be one of us, a good guy mislead. We will let them retreat but know they are psychopathic. They craved power, wealth, money and took it while others starved to death. Just like in Harry Potter, after the war, everyone claimed to be under the Imperious Curse - no deal psychos, no deal. We want genuine nice people in charge, ones who were sweet well natured children and well grounded in their humanity regardless of religious or spiritual affiliation. So make all the moves you want in your chessboard ball rooms, you'll be eating caviar to a broken and hollow hallelujah, none of which is for you.
Jayne ran a finger down the Browning 9mm with the same expression most women reserve for chocolate. The locker room door opened, in seconds she had her poker face locked in place and the weapon holstered, leaving swiftly for the briefing room. She gazed about at the other agents, not one of them had a suit as nice as hers, or shoes for that matter. Running one hand over her already perfect hair and pressing her lips together, she stood right behind the boss. She listened, ready to apply just the right level of flattery. The bust was going down at dusk, perfect. The possibility of a shoot out in the dark sent a shiver down her spine. Her face mirrored the grim expressions she saw, but her insides were on fire. If they ever took her badge she'd have to cross over to the other side. In the beginning she'd denied her own bloodlust but had been curious as to why her colleagues suffered after killing and she didn't. Now she knew. She was a psychopath, self diagnosed, and a perfect mimic.
Tinker had been expecting hell. He figured he'd earned it. He knew he shouldn't have killed all those girls, but each one had been so deliciously sweet. Making their blood run until their flesh was ghostly, cold, had filled him with such exquisite pleasure. He'd selected them just like others picked their favourite chocolate in a gift box. Now he awoke in his coffin, he could hear the sermon above - brief. He laughed and punched his hand up to let them know he was still alive but no sound came out and his limbs remained still. For the first time since he was almost stopped by the cops with a body in the trunk of his car he felt his heart beat against his ribs. The box rocked and descended into the hole, bumping the earthen sides. He screamed, over and over- still no sound. Tears fell silently down his dusty cold skin. Shovel after shovel of dirt splattered onto the box and he waited to suffocate. To die. But it never came. Hell for Tinker was to be eternally devoured by insects...
I know it's coming and my muscles tense as much as they can. The knowing doesn't soften the blow. The bat is as hard as it looked and my leg is no ball. I feel the bone split into an untold number of fragments as my mind becomes inoperable. The pain takes me not far away, but deep inside myself to some primitive place that knows how to cope with the kind of pain that precedes death. My vision is blotched with violent colours that move and merge without pattern or design. The wall of pain still cripples but Edward swims back into view. His face is just as you'd imagine it to be if he were waiting for a bus. Then he smiles in a small way before continuing his narration of my end, “Lee, it's just no fun if you don't see it coming.” Then the bat falls onto my other leg...
Watching Parker move about the room it's hard to believe we are even the same species. He's got the same shell alright, and totally charming, handsome even. But it's like all his wiring is screwed up, or his chemical balance, maybe that's it? My Mom always said we're all just one or two chemicals away from losing our minds, it was her way of making sure I didn't feel superior to her crazy patients down on the psychiatric ward.
I'm not afraid of Parker, he needs me. I can help him in ways other people can't. I guess I should turn him into the cops or something, but if they don't convict him I'll be the next one sold for parts. Mostly I pretend I don't know what he does, it isn't as hard as you'd think. He's has all the right mannerisms despite feeling none of the emotions. I don't know what it would take for me to find the courage to stop him, maybe one day I'll find out, or maybe I won't.
Fire doesn't care if it burns wood, pig fat or the flesh from your body. Like this knife it has no preference at all. In all this world it is as blind as you will be just an hour from now, when your atoms are just atoms. Every part of your body is no more than a borrowed element forged in a star, and it's time for you to glow hot again – light up the night with the fat under your pampered skin. Burning can be fast or slow, I'm thinking slow, from your toes. In a house fire the smoke puts you out first, it's a kindness I suppose. I'm not kind. You thought you could reform me, but you see Dr Riley, it is I that will reform you. Perhaps remodel is a better term, or release. I'll give you a few moments to talk me out if it, if you can make yourself understood through the kerosene gag.
The knife had been idle its entire life, encased in a thick plastic display box shortly after it's purchase. No doubt a blade such as this cost a small fortune, one gladly paid by the old Earl who spoke voluminously of their history, properties and makers to his dinner guests. Kearny put the whole thing, box and all into his black backpack and left. He had only come for the knife, not pricy paintings or antique silver plates. He wanted it for his purpose, not its resale value. In the next week this piece of art would fulfil its deadly promise. Only such a knife would do. Kearny could quite understand why it was so important to him to kill her with something so exquisite, but it was, very much so. He had already decided to tell her its history before beginning his surgery, undoing the work of the professionals that had taken his money to make her the perfect monster she became...
Jackson weighed the knife in his hand. It was no heavier than a kitchen blade but would cut on first contact, even with minimum pressure. It's serrations were like waves, but not randomly so like on the cheaper knives. They would slide in smoothly and do maximum damage on the way out, like the barbs of a fishing hook. At seven inches he could keep it easily under his jacket, not his only weapon of course, but a useful back-up in close combat. For some reason when he saw his reflection in the steel his mind flicked to Sarah, his ex. He could see her bleeding already and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. It would be simple to kill the seller too, rather than pay for it, but what if he wanted another sometime? He dug into his pocket with scarred fingers and pulled out a wad of notes. He didn't need it all, but it never hurt to show a vendor you could be their best customer. Then next time he called his appointment would be all the faster.
The killing part was his least favourite; it was a necessary chore rather than a pleasure. He'd watched CSI over and over to analyze the best way to not leave a trace of himself but after watching so much violence he found himself too fired up to think straight. Instead he went right out and offered another pretty little thing a ride in his truck, a Pomeranian puppy riding on the passenger side to lure them in. Once inside they were off to "the vets," his barn in on the outskirts of town. He dragged them in by their pony-tails, they always had to have one, and locked the doors. He had so very many fun games to play with them, so much better than all those lame horror movies. By the end of it they were almost relieved to go into the pit with the puppy and feel the cool earth fall on top of their skin. Mostly they didn't even raise a hand to guard themselves. Never once has they died from his "fun," after all, he had no intention of being a murderer. Mommy wouldn't like that.
One percent of the world population are psychopaths, unable to feel emotion correctly and are profoundly selfish. World history is a tale of power won through violence, what kind of person would most easily do that? Could it be a psychopath? And once they had dominance what would the rest of the population do? Overthrow them? Sometimes, but then they become trapped by the same system - power kept by fear. But the most popular way to distract the population from rebellion is a "glorious" war. Anything to maintain the power structure is then preferable to peace.
We can't have peace while we keep a power structure designed by a one percent genetic anomaly in our species that induces a kind of cultural sociopathy toward developing nations. Ninety nine percent of people in the world would be peaceful and loving under a system of love and fraternity; they are sweet, kind, they give to charity and search for hope. And the one percent? Treat them well in a loving hospital where they can't do harm. It's time we accepted the instruction not to kill as more than a suggestion, it actually protects our own souls from degradation.
The future is something we can change and it is as simple as choosing a new path outside of the system created by psychopathy. In what system would the ninety nine percent truly thrive? Perhaps one based on Love, generosity, kindness - the things that really make us happy and fulfilled.
He so hated it when they died too soon, but he had to punish them. They were dirty, their ways were filthy and wanton. If they refused his teaching he sliced them, if they fought back he sliced deeper. He was firm and fair; they were whiny and without morals. He picked them for their painted lips and short skirts, he felt drawn to their high heels and long legs. They made him think bad thoughts, unclean thoughts. They made him lustful and unchaste. Once he had forced himself upon them in the back of his white van they went to his "church" for the preaching. Naked and bound before the alter he defiled himself with them once more before fetching his Bible and his blade. "The beast and the ten horns you saw will hate the prostitute. They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked; they will eat her flesh and burn her with fire." Infused with the zeal of his deepest desires and the reflected power of God he proceeded to light the torches...
If you stay with me, I'll kill you bit by bit. That's what I do to those who love me. Why? I may never know.
If I have enough power over you, it puts me in control.
Having control makes you strong, and nobody likes weak.
It gives me satisfaction.
Almost like it is the thing that drives me. The thing I would do anything for.
When you are flying high, I'll drag you down. I'll eat at your problems just enough to break you, but still be the one to soothe you.
You have chosen this life by not realising what I have done to you.
You're my little doll; and your life is determined by what happens in my dollhouse.
"Then we spill blood to help those who need it."
Not even the ever-present darkness of The Bottoms could conceal the way Benny's eyes visibly widened with desire for the man he now had pinned against the wall. The doctor rarely said anything so violent and even rarer still in a confident and unwavering tone of voice. The thief's mind ignored the fact that Oliver suggested it to help people. All he heard was the words 'spill blood' and those two words spoken from such delicate lips were enough to make his predatory heart beat faster. Those words touched him in ways as intimately as his lover's hands. The imagery of the two of them spilling blood together for the greater good was all levels of delightful and as strong as any drink or drug had ever intoxicated him.