Message for GRENDEL

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]

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