human understands. My curse (and a curse it is) defies all the normal fetters of morality and civilization. It confounds the reasonable mind. I have puzzled for years over my nature and my conclusions sound irrational, even to me, though every experience, every urging, every lust confirms my prognosis.
I have a disease and it has made me a monster. It has made me a creature far removed from the society of men, a pariah. I’m as hopelessly addicted to the consumption of human flesh as an addict is to his next shot of heroin. Yet the drunk, the junkie, the coke fiend, and even the glutton inspire more sympathy and compassion than I could ever hope for because their compulsions do not disfigure or destroy others. Their obsessions leave only themselves and their own loved ones in tears. It destroys their own friends and families, their own lives. I could only hope for such a benign addiction. I would gladly trade my curse for theirs.
The addiction that tortures me is like the terrific thirst of a vampire combined with the rapacious hunger of a werewolf and I’m convinced the curses are one and the same. That’s why I was judged insane and sentenced to life behind bars instead of put to death, because no one understands this thing inside me and no one will listen! They do not believe this monstrous thing that I am has little choice or freewill involved in it, except for the choice whether or not to indulge it, which, for me, would be like choosing not to drink when my throat is parched or eat when my stomach churns with hunger pains. That is hardly a choice. This thing that has led me to such loathsome crimes is a disease that was passed to me. It does not describe my character. I’m a naturally mild person. I would not willfully harm the tiniest flea were I not compelled to do so by this terrible curse.
The man I see when I look in the mirror is not the man I once was, not the man I aspired to be. It is not the man who first met Alicia and, I believe, not the man I would have been had I never been accosted by my own homicidal fiend, Damon Trent, or had I not been born of the seed of a malevolent father, a sadistic pederast far worse than Damon Trent. I know how this must sound to you, like I’m avoiding responsibility for my actions, but make no mistake. I know I’m responsible. The lives I took haunt me, even those who were not so innocent. I’m a predator who grieves his prey and my immense remorse is the only proof I have that I’m still human. I mourn Alicia every day. I miss her as you could never imagine. She is the only woman, besides my mother, who ever truly loved me. I loved her too, more than I could ever express. My desire for her brought out the monster within me and I failed us both by letting it overcome me and then her.
I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.
Sincerely,
Joseph Miles
Joe folded the letter and placed it in the envelope. He knew the language sounded oddly stiff and formal, antiquated. He couldn’t help it. The longer he remained behind walls of steel and concrete, the more he forgot how real people spoke to one another. All he had for reference were books by Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, Leo Tolstoy, and Charles Dickens. They, along with a host of other grand figures of historic literature, were his only friends now. He thought it was better he sounded like them than like one of his fellow convicts or the coarse prison guards.
The next time he saw his lawyer, Joe planned to give the letter to him with instructions to mail it to Lana like he’d done with the rest of them. He didn’t want to know where she lived. He didn’t trust himself. If he ever managed to leave this hellhole, he didn’t believe he could resist the urge to pay the woman a visit. The idea that she might resemble his beloved Alicia in any way would be an irresistible temptation. If she wrote him back, her return address would be on the envelope. Joe knew himself well
I have a disease and it has made me a monster. It has made me a creature far removed from the society of men, a pariah. I’m as hopelessly addicted to the consumption of human flesh as an addict is to his next shot of heroin. Yet the drunk, the junkie, the coke fiend, and even the glutton inspire more sympathy and compassion than I could ever hope for because their compulsions do not disfigure or destroy others. Their obsessions leave only themselves and their own loved ones in tears. It destroys their own friends and families, their own lives. I could only hope for such a benign addiction. I would gladly trade my curse for theirs.
The addiction that tortures me is like the terrific thirst of a vampire combined with the rapacious hunger of a werewolf and I’m convinced the curses are one and the same. That’s why I was judged insane and sentenced to life behind bars instead of put to death, because no one understands this thing inside me and no one will listen! They do not believe this monstrous thing that I am has little choice or freewill involved in it, except for the choice whether or not to indulge it, which, for me, would be like choosing not to drink when my throat is parched or eat when my stomach churns with hunger pains. That is hardly a choice. This thing that has led me to such loathsome crimes is a disease that was passed to me. It does not describe my character. I’m a naturally mild person. I would not willfully harm the tiniest flea were I not compelled to do so by this terrible curse.
The man I see when I look in the mirror is not the man I once was, not the man I aspired to be. It is not the man who first met Alicia and, I believe, not the man I would have been had I never been accosted by my own homicidal fiend, Damon Trent, or had I not been born of the seed of a malevolent father, a sadistic pederast far worse than Damon Trent. I know how this must sound to you, like I’m avoiding responsibility for my actions, but make no mistake. I know I’m responsible. The lives I took haunt me, even those who were not so innocent. I’m a predator who grieves his prey and my immense remorse is the only proof I have that I’m still human. I mourn Alicia every day. I miss her as you could never imagine. She is the only woman, besides my mother, who ever truly loved me. I loved her too, more than I could ever express. My desire for her brought out the monster within me and I failed us both by letting it overcome me and then her.
I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.
Sincerely,
Joseph Miles
Joe folded the letter and placed it in the envelope. He knew the language sounded oddly stiff and formal, antiquated. He couldn’t help it. The longer he remained behind walls of steel and concrete, the more he forgot how real people spoke to one another. All he had for reference were books by Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, Leo Tolstoy, and Charles Dickens. They, along with a host of other grand figures of historic literature, were his only friends now. He thought it was better he sounded like them than like one of his fellow convicts or the coarse prison guards.
The next time he saw his lawyer, Joe planned to give the letter to him with instructions to mail it to Lana like he’d done with the rest of them. He didn’t want to know where she lived. He didn’t trust himself. If he ever managed to leave this hellhole, he didn’t believe he could resist the urge to pay the woman a visit. The idea that she might resemble his beloved Alicia in any way would be an irresistible temptation. If she wrote him back, her return address would be on the envelope. Joe knew himself well
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