Would a psychopath ever ask "What am I?"

Would they even care?

Is there such a thing as a "good" psychopath, or are they ticking time bombs? Wolves hiding as sheep, waiting for any opportunity to do whatever twisted compulsion compels them?

I lived a stereotypical "rough" childhood; abuse, drug-addled parents, isolation from my peers, it goes on and on. Pain and hatred were my lullabies.

I spent a decade and a half addicted to morphine, revelling in the numbness, the false warmth. It made me feel human. Whole. I don't take the blame on that one. My father gave it to me, using me like a slave to do things he couldn't.

I spent those years drifting from couch to couch, one bad situation to the next. I enjoyed it. More than I should have. I never once cared for the people that I abandoned as I wandered; one day I'd simply slip out, or explode, or whatever else it took to leave. The reason was irrelevant. I was always justified.

I even began seeing others as little more than machines, soulless husks wandering about with one purpose: to exist within MY world. I gave them a simple name: Non-sentient beings. Bodies without mind or soul.

I look just like another person in a crowd. But when I stand next to them, all I see are vulnerabilities. The neck, so soft and vulnerable. Eyes, perfectly sized for the shape of my thumbs. And it excites me like nothing else in this world. I've never acted on my urges. Maybe I never will.

I sought help, once. My family pushed me, but I wanted to know what I was.

But, like always, I simply pretended to be "better." Overburdened doctors don't make great psychologists. I was out in a week, and within two I was back to my old routine.

I've quit taking any form of drug, now, aside from caffeine and tobacco. The withdrawal was agony, but now... Everything is so clear. People are so simple. I feel like a god amongst mortals, a puppeteer playing with marionettes. And it's intoxicating. I'd be frightened if I really knew what it meant to be afraid.

I saved my test score for last: 4.56 primary, 3.94 secondary. And on another test, a 39/40. I was honest. I had nothing to gain by lying, so why would I?

Would a psychopath ever ask "What am I?"

Would they even care?

Is there such a thing as a "good" psychopath, or are they ticking time bombs? Wolves hiding as sheep, waiting for any opportunity to do whatever twisted compulsion compels them?

I lived a stereotypical "rough" childhood; abuse, drug-addled parents, isolation from my peers, it goes on and on. Pain and hatred were my lullabies.

I spent a decade and a half addicted to morphine, revelling in the numbness, the false warmth. It made me feel human. Whole. I don't take the blame on that one. My father gave it to me, using me like a slave to do things he couldn't.

I spent those years drifting from couch to couch, one bad situation to the next. I enjoyed it. More than I should have. I never once cared for the people that I abandoned as I wandered; one day I'd simply slip out, or explode, or whatever else it took to leave. The reason was irrelevant. I was always justified.

I even began seeing others as little more than machines, soulless husks wandering about with one purpose: to exist within MY world. I gave them a simple name: Non-sentient beings. Bodies without mind or soul.

I look just like another person in a crowd. But when I stand next to them, all I see are vulnerabilities. The neck, so soft and vulnerable. Eyes, perfectly sized for the shape of my thumbs. And it excites me like nothing else in this world. I've never acted on my urges. Maybe I never will.

I sought help, once. My family pushed me, but I wanted to know what I was.

But, like always, I simply pretended to be "better." Overburdened doctors don't make great psychologists. I was out in a week, and within two I was back to my old routine.

I've quit taking any form of drug, now, aside from caffeine and tobacco. The withdrawal was agony, but now... Everything is so clear. People are so simple. I feel like a god amongst mortals, a puppeteer playing with marionettes. And it's intoxicating. I'd be frightened if I really knew what it meant to be afraid.

I saved my test score for last: 4.56 primary, 3.94 secondary. And on another test, a 39/40. I was honest. I had nothing to gain by lying, so why would I?