My child died as expected. The child was four or five years old, not
too big, not too bright. My motive for the murder is still unclear.
In interviews I have given various reasons, including psychopathy,
drugs, abusive parents, societal factors, impending hair loss,
impotence, and unrequited love. In an attempt to be more honest, I
would now add fear and hatred to the list.
I now understand that the child was a work of art, and that my
approach to the child was fundamentally flawed. At the time I
conceived of it as a sort of tomato, something soft and fleshy and
sliceable. Now, however, I realize that it was as a classical
statue, whose limbs should be accidentally broken, whose facial
features should erode over time. I humbly concede my error.
I am not saddened or disturbed by the event, but it would be accurate
to state that I have detected a certain poignancy in the situation.
I beheld the child at first with understandable detachment. While
possessing certain human characteristics, the child was nevertheless a
mere mockery of humanity, an obvious toy. What stories I'd been
told!--that these frail, detailless models eventually metamorphose
into full-fledged humanity; that they are blank slates to be scribed
with experience; that I was once an automaton of this sort.
Ludicrous! I certainly had no recollection of existing in this state,
of possessing any less rationality or intelligence than I do now.
At first I found the theory amusing; but like an old joke too often
retold, the child's mere presence began to grate on me. I began to
view it as a disgusting parody of my existence as a human being.
Still, I treated the child no worse than I had...
Other children? Absolutely not. Under no circumstances did I allow
the child to mingle with other children. My reasons, however, stemmed
not from some ridiculous puritanism, but from simple pragmatics: I
cannot tell children apart. They all look alike to me. If I had allowed
the child to mix with a group of other children, I would have been
unable to recognize it again.
At the beginning? No, I never harbored destructive fantasies about
the child, not for any significant length of time, until much later.
I simply didn't think about the child that often. After all, the
child kept mostly to itself, asking occasionally for bread or water.
By and large I provided what it requested.
[to be continued]