sociopath - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Generation cell phone was followed by generation sociopath - we went from a sizeable minority to a majority - and that was the end of the world as we knew it. In the midst of all the other swirling disasters, from disease to wildfires and climate change, a generation without the attention span to develop introspection and thus the kind of self awareness that develops empathy, that was how humanity would devolve... unless we figured out how to reverse the neurological damage and save both our children and those yet unborn... it was the big disaster coming over the hilltop.
Sociopaths are morons, empathy is a form of intelligence.
The faux-nobility horse is ridden by the asshole when they are asked for anything they don't want to give. It could be a small piece of affection or understanding. It could be assistance, or a chance to rest. It may be a simple expectation of reciprocity expressed. Instead of empathy out comes anger. Yet the clever asshole knows that this is socially inappropriate when they have been asked for something so reasonable. Thus the faux-nobility horse. They will ride out on some accusation that you are morally in the wrong and they are the noble one. They use this notion of guilt or shame as a social weapon. So start seeing it. See when it is used against you... set yourself free.
You withdrew your love right at the start, as soon I was addicted to your touch. How quickly you gave me only ice. Then you sat there as if you were a victim and waited to be soothed, waited for me to pour in the warmth you refused to make for yourself. Then, as I drained over the years, you took more, accused more, had ice storms more often, more harshly... until I broke... and you blamed me for that... absolved yourself... you coward, you unspeakable coward...
I can hear your voice even though I haven't seen you in years. I can remember the stupid things you used to say, all those catch-phrases, what did they all mean anyway? I found you annoying so often and you hurt me on purpose with that refined look of innocence you have. You pulled the wool over my eyes for years, telling tales of trauma and victimhood that never happened. I was the leading lady of all of your dramas until I glimpsed the curtains and the stage lights. I spotted the repetition of your themes, of your script. Really, you should have diversified more. But still you haunt me in ways I can never explain, never shake. I gave you my heart for free, but that shouldn't have made it worthless. It was priceless. There's a difference.
The engineering of the war is something I'd like to take credit for, it wasn't easy. In this day and age it would be so simple for the populations to communicate directly, understand each other's points of view and, heaven forbid, become "friends." They had to hate one another, human nature helped of course. They all wanted to be "right" and "superior." Religion was such a wonderful vehicle for all that, a way of using the best parts of their natures to boost the worst parts instead of suppressing them. I'm telling you it was genius. I guess that makes me a genius. What? Am I ashamed? Not at all. We're still on top aren't we? Life is cruel. Get over it.
It was as simple for Diana to make flame with the cigarette lighter as it was for her mother to cuss her out. Breaking her mind had been such a joy for the old hag who had been bullied her whole life too. Finally she'd had someone weaker to be her victim. Of course she never saw it that way, she was “helping” her daughter by calling her “fat” and “lazy.” She raised the roof every time Diana brought home more failing grades before lighting up her fags and playing her Bob Dylan so loud the walls vibrated. It was time to “take care” of all that. Some ash would be so much more manageable than the walls and everything in them. After taking care to spill the ethanol in a natural spill pattern she lit a piece of fabric and dropped it, running hard as her back became scorched by a wall of heat. Her hair was burning but she was out, she rolled in he dewy grass. Mother would be in bed, drunk. It wasn't at all hard to cry for the cops; she had, after all, lost a lot of hair.
The only announcement of his arrival was a slight drop in the air temperature and the descent of absolute silence. Without turning Leanne knew he was there, pale in the shadows of the cemetery. His voice came, high pitched and cold, "Where are they?" She wanted to spin on the spot before he could vanish, to take in his face once more so that she could paint a portrait of it for her wall. Instead she nodded, feeling a frisson of glee, she was closer to eternal life.
"They are meeting me here in five minutes, a group of three, all young as you asked." Unexpectedly his finger alighted on her exposed neck, cold as a cadaver. He ran it from behind her ear to the edge of her low-cut t-shirt, and audibly sniffed like a wine connoisseur taking in a fine vintage. Then he withdrew and instructed her to do the same tomorrow, to keep coming even if she could bring no more "friends."
Gordon could read her faster than a tweet. The smile - anxious - she was eager to please him. The clothes quite provocative but her body posture was awkward, she'd do whatever he asked and then be embarrassed. He'd be her best friend for as long as it took to drain her bank account, then he'd do all the things to her that she'd hate and he'd love. Then either she'd walk or stick around to be his servant, he really didn't care which. But once he found his next mark she wouldn't even get a goodbye, he'd just be gone with her cash in his own private accounts. She wasn't bad to look at really, a bit dumpy around the stomach perhaps but a more enjoyable "job" than working in some office or on a building site.
Laurel sat flicking through her texts from her new profile on the dating website she just joined. They took your BMI and if you didn't check off as accepting a whole list of kinky stuff you wouldn't get any responses, not that she cared, the stranger the better. The kids were crying again, wanting more food and the house was a mess. They should have tidied up, stupid kids. With no witnesses about she could do as she pleased. Picking them up by their waists like they were dolls she just put them in their cribs and let them scream it out. By the time the sitter arrived they'd be asleep.
There is no love, only people using other people. They are in denial if they think otherwise, or perhaps in their mental weakness they cannot accept other people or even themselves for what they are. Their brain must construct complicated notions of things that do no and cannot exist to soothe themselves. I'm not going to apologize for not needing the "kid's picture book" version of life. We get what we get by any means possible, the "honest" are just to spineless to do otherwise. The law enforcers are just one step away from being the crims, in fact I know some who lead double lives. Women want a life time of slaving for what? To raise kids that are just going to hate you, or be indifferent while you rot in an old folks home? No chance, if they want the brats I don't care, not my problem. Now if you don't mind I've got some God-freaks to scam, I just love the Bible, makes my job so easy...
Damian stood outside the pharmacy, his new recruits were ashen- first job nerves, how "cute." He stared at them for a moment, then let his usual charm drop. A glimpse at the man behind the mask generally let them know that backing out wasn't an option. He never did that until he had some dirt on them, once he knew something they were ashamed of he had them. No need to be nice anymore. Kids were so dumb. Listen to their whiny bull-crap for just an hour and usually you had enough to get them to do anything. He'd promised them most of the money and that this would be their only job. Both lies. Today was the mother-load of blackmail, armed robbery. Their young eyes watered behind their balaclavas as they burst into the air-conditioned perfection inside, guns out and shouting. Twenty five to life now or however long they lived in his service, either way was fine with him, but they never chose jail.
Tara let her tears fall, "You left me when I needed you most. You left me with with all the bills, emptied our account and just disappeared! Now you're back?!" She retreated to the far corner of the condo she'd bought with money from her mother's estate.
"I didn't want to take the money, sweetheart. It was my brother, you know how he is. He made me, oh darling, I missed you every day. Every damn day. Nothing was the same without you. The sunshine was meaningless, I couldn't laugh or smile. Please, sugar, take me back and I'll make you happy again. I swear I will." She turned to see him, sincerity pouring from every feature. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, his face slack and his lips sagging, listless. He cast his eyes down instead of meeting her gaze in what appeared to be shyness, or shame. Tara turned and just nodded once. He folded her into his strong arms and eye-rolled as she wept. Now he'd have to change his shirt, but no matter, Tara would buy him a new one...
Marcus had finished with her. She'd performed like a champ all night, now he just wanted her gone. So he did what he always did, told her he had a business trip and he'd call when he got back. She looked at him and smiled, climbing onto his lap and kissing him hard. "Why not?" he thought to himself, "one more round before I kick her out." His phone buzzed and he let it go. These girls were always so needy. Probably the chick from last night, she was so fine, and it had been her first time at the rodeo. So easy. He laid his hands around the girl's neck and squeezed to give her a choke, she was surprised, her eyes became round and her lips parted. Her legs moved, panicked, put he was in the zone, climax only minutes away. As his pleasure increased so did his grip, her eyes closed and her head lolled. That's what he wanted, ejaculation was instant. He dismounted and went for a shower, when he came back she was sitting on the side of the bed naked and crying. Pathetic.
Flora had arrived to visit her father in the old folks home, it was tiresome to keep up these appearances of "the good daughter," but until he was declared incompetent to run his affairs she wanted to guarantee her inheritance. It wasn't far to go but walking him around the gardens was the real chore. He wanted to smell the damn roses and talk about Mom. What was there to say? "Good riddance and why are you still here?" Every day in that place was another chunk of her money gone. The early visit passed in a blur while he talked and she checked her text messages. Then the nurse brought his walker in and idea blossomed in her mind. One false turn at the top of the stairs rather than at the elevator and he'd have more broken bones than the doctors could mend without killing him, hopefully. Plus the hospital is free, operations are free, even the morphine to edge him out of his life is free...