Composition #8 December 19, 1957
Just so you know…I know what you did. Leslie Rose hasn’t come to class in three days. You think I don’t know what you did? I do. Are you hiding her somewhere? I saw you with her in the greenhouse. I go out there every Wednesday after school and I saw you. If you think I’m lying, I’m not. I’ll tell you what she was wearing. She was wearing a red dress with white polka dots and she was looking up toward the vaulted glass. I could see her breath, the cold air puffing out in frequent bursts. She looked like she was in pain. And then you put her up on the table. I remember it because you broke one of the clay pots to make room for her. She spread her legs and I saw you put your hand on her mouth to quiet her down. You smeared her red lipstick and she never looked less put together and more happy. And then you put your head underneath her dress and I didn’t know what to do. You’re a pedophile. I hate you. She was his girl. And you knew that. And there’s nothing special or intriguing or imaginative about you. There’s just your age, and for some reason, that means something to 14-year old girls. Were you jealous of him? Were you afraid you’d lose her to him? Because you would. That’s the thing about older, inappropriate men. They are a means to an end. They are an experience, a heartbreaker, an impassioned tread that will eventually just lead them back to their soulmate, the boy they grew up with, the seemingly so prosaic, but actually layered boy next door. And you killed that boy. You killed him and I’ll never forgive you for that. To her, you’ll never be as interesting as him. You didn’t experience everything for the first time with her. And he did. He was her first everything. You will always be second. Even when it comes to sleeping with her. What? You thought you were first? You stupid fuck. I bet you stole her sun, too. And if you did, I hate you for that, too. There are too many reasons I hate you, too many to ever count.
Composition #9 December 20, 1957
I’m too sick to talk to you today. Or at least to tell you about my plan. I’m not in the mood. Why do you always change my mood? You should know the person you killed. You don’t. He was my friend. He was my everything. And I know he never looked at me the way he looked at Leslie, but I loved him just the same. Jake was perfect. He was my boy. He was one of those guys who everybody says is handsome. Everybody says was cute. His appeal wasn’t subjective. His charisma was infectious and everyone agreed on his aesthetic qualities. They weren’t debatable. Fuck you for ruining that. Because of you, I’ll never know if he could have loved me the way he loved Leslie. It may have been a long shot, but I wouldn’t have minded being second. I think you mind. Don’t you? I mean, I know I would. You’ve upset me again. I have to go. 10:32AM. I have to throw up again. There’s blood in my throw up. It’s from you. And it’s from how much you disgust me. If I could spit it up on you I would. But I can’t. It only happens at night. In my bathroom. I throw up and then I put my face on the tile floor to cool off my cheeks. Sometimes I close my eyes and the porcelain changes colors. Probably on account of me throwing up, but more likely that it was you, again. Merging colors and hallucinations robbing me of my time again. Melting stuff. Changing things. I’m not your fucking experiment. I don’t know how many times I have to say that to get it through your head. You’ll see soon enough. Hey, and fuck you for not reading my compositions. You’re probably too busy fucking your student. Pathetic. Plodding while I’m plotting. 10:33AM. Typical.
Composition #10 December 21, 1957
Perfunctory is the word I would use to describe you. I would say that’s a fair assessment. No attention to detail. No attention to me or anyone else in this fucking room. Mechanical. That’s not how he was. I hope you know that Jake was nothing like you. He was left brained. That was the great enigma of our relationship. He was very, very left brained and I was right brained. Somehow we were always meeting somewhere in the middle. It worked. It worked better than anything in my life. Since we’re doing this whole labeling people with words thing, and you’re perfunctory, it’s only fair that I brand myself as well. I’m voyeuristic. There’s no other place that excuses that flaw more than a funeral…and I took full advantage of that. Why not? Everybody else there is the same as me. The only difference is they’re just like you…they’re pussies and they ‘ll never admit they have the flaw. You know why? Because there isn’t a mourner that’s existed on this planet, in funereal history, that hasn’t become everything they hated about the person next to them. It’s the great truth and curse of the mourner. If you’re a mourner, you’re self-important, self-righteous. You think your presence is needed, is special, s different than the person next to you. Guess what? I’m going to let you in on a little secret. It’s not. That’s why they call it “the dark parade.” Because all you stupid fucks look exactly the same. And you’re all there for the same reason. And you’ll all say the same comforting bullshit that at the end of the day, isn’t actually comforting. You’ll all fail at emotional repair, not only for the grieving epicenter of the problem, the family, but also for yourselves. And you know why? Because you don’t care. And you never did. You didn’t’ know Jake and I don’t understand why you were at the cemetery. Was it just to finish him off? Did you need the closure? Did you need to make sure we shoveled the dirt in and you could hear the squeaky release of another dead teenager taking his last real elevator ride? Did you need to see him six feet under? You can’t, you crazy fuck. That’s why they call it six feet under. Once you put the dirt in, it’s just far down enough that without a headstone, no one would even know you were there. No one. You put him in the ground. You didn’t even know him and this is all just an act, another round in a room full of circus freaks. That’s what mourners are. Voyeuristic circus freaks. And nobody escapes that label. Not you. Not even me.
Composition #11 December 22, 1957
This is how I’m going to murder you. Let me start by telling you why I feel the need to do this and I discussed it with Sherman. I’m not 100% sure he agrees with the plan on the whole, but I know he thinks it’s a solid idea and he’s right behind me on it. First and most importantly, I am doing it because you deserve it. Eye for an eye. This is going to be the Code for Hammurabi. You can’t say I didn’t tell you so. Because I’m laying it out for you. I’m doing this because I’m bored. I’m going to kill you because I’m smarter than you. You’ve really let yourself go. You’ve fallen into the stereotype of being a high school teacher. It’s so sad. Everything about you is a cliché. Male. Middle-aged pedophile. And the real thing that calls you right out…you take yourself too seriously. You teachers, worthless. You say you understand us because you were once students. You were once in our adolescent shoes. Since you were once a student, that makes you the expert on now being a teacher. That’s the great disconnect in American secondary schools. Nothing you do will stop it. You’re a self-fulfilling prophecy. You know you’re small. You come from a small town. You lived your whole life here. You make the student’s life harder because yours was never hard enough. You never challenged yourself. It isn’t that I’m bored with my life or my time. It’s your worst nightmare. I’m bored with you. And if I’m bored with you, Leslie probably is, too. We’re going to do it together, she and I. Your lover is going to help me do this. Because you’re just her lover. You’re not the love of her life. And since you took away the love of her life, she’s going to help me take away the love of your life, the only love…the chance that you might one day get out of here and forget that you let yourself slip into this disappointing existence. Then everyone will know what an arrogant prick you are. The arrogant prick that hates his world of bucolic refuge. That’s who you are. The small town prick that looks down upon the metropolis he’s never been to. The city he’s never dared to taste…a conurbation he’ll never melt into because he can’t be a piece of pointillism. That last part probably went over your head. Perhaps too much of an analogy. You’ve got to be the big fish. No more. No more pond to do that in. What’s so sad is that you could’ve loved both. You could’ve loved the excitement of a big city and appreciated Telegraph for taking you away from it. You never saw the greatness of both.9:59PM. Now more than ever, I’m certain this is going to be fucking brilliant.
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