Anybody can be a killer these days. Granted, you need spectacular self-control—your life’s in the balance, too, after all—but self-control’s something you can learn. There are exercises for it on the Internet. But you don’t have to leave it all up to deep breathing and visualization—chastity cages have been particularly popular since the vector disaster, and they can be just as integral to the killer’s toolbox as duct tape and hacksaws. I used to use the CB-6000, but I upgraded to the Steelwerks Alcatraz model. It was a gift. From her.
I must sound like a psychopath. I’m not, I swear. In fact, before we go any further, I’d really like to stress, on the record, how incredibly sorry I am for everything that’s happened. Will you pass that along? Maybe I should write a letter or something. I mean, I would hope my actions at the end would speak for something, but I don’t know. I have a habit of not seeing myself very clearly.
I suppose I should start with the basics, right? Well, my name is Jay, I’m from here—from Manhattan—and, before any of this happened, I was a junior at Columbia University. I was studying English in the College, and aside from lacrosse, writing was my biggest passion, although I wasn’t very good at it. I probably liked lacrosse better when I first got to Columbia, and I was pretty good at it—really good, actually—but a whole bunch of shitty things happened, and I ended up getting hurt bad enough to end my career at the beginning of my sophomore year. So I started focusing more on my writing. Pretty hard to fuck up any body parts sitting at a desk all day! Oh. I guess you could get RSI, actually. Or a bad back.
How about something about my family? My dad’s a hedge fund manager, and I love him and everything, but we’re not especially close. He was always so busy that, when I was younger, I was more or less convinced Mom and I lived with a super friendly lodger. My mom was an event planner, way back when, but she gave it up when she and Dad got married. She was always around. I had a nanny and everything, but she was always my mom. I like to think of my dad like a butterfly, each visit to my life dazzling in its beauty and brevity, and Mom like a Roman bust, permanent and stoic.
I love my parents, but I haven’t spent a lot of time with them since I started college. My dad keeps inviting me to dinner at Park Avenue Whatever-Season-It-Is, but it’s hard to find the time. It’s funny, my dad never saw me when I was kid, and now I’m the one who never sees him. I wonder what he must think of me now. I doubt there’ll be many dinner invitations in my future.
Well, I think that’s kind of everything worth knowing about me. Except that I’ve been in love. That’s important. Not just regular love, either, if there is such a thing, and not chick flick-style love. The kind of love you sell your soul for. Looking back, I can see now that it wasn’t real love—I mean, it wasn’t healthy—but the things I did for love were real. I can’t deny them. I relive them all the time, even in my dreams.
What do you think about me writing that letter, honestly? Do you think the family will even read it? I just want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t want to upset them. Maybe writing a letter would make it worse. Tell me, doctor, what would you do if you were me?