In the Mind of a Sociopath...

In the mind of a sociopath, everything is okay. Everything they do is justified, and the world revolves around them. So when I walk into Sammy's house that Saturday night, because the kid's an idiot and he's playing his music too damn loud, I walk in with a mask and a knife and with the intent to kill, and with no conscious of any kind to hold me back. I knock on his door and I wait till he opens it, and when nothing happens I kick the damned thing before crushing my fist into the doorbell. How none of the other neighbors are awake still baffles me. Actually, it just pissed me off even more, and I throw my plan to stab him at the door through the window and follow suit. The window's kinda small, but I'm a very persistent man, and when I get through, I stomp all the way to his fucking room and kick the fucking door down. 

The damn kid's pretending to be asleep. 

I mean, sure, he's probably scared as shit; I'm mad as hell wearing a fucking mask holding a fucking knife stomping my way through his fucking house after breaking in through the damn window. But Sammy, stupid fucking Sammy, was playing his music too damn loud and now look where I am at fucking 2 am in the goddamn morning. 

It's not like I want to be here. It's not like I wanted to pick only one of my knifes and wear my freshly-cleaned mask; pull on my damn combat boots and tuck my Glock-35 into the waistband of my pants. It's not like I wanted to wake up at 2 am in the goddamn morning to the sound of shitty music blasting at fucking 115 decibels from the house next door. It's not like I enjoy standing in Sammy's shit room, watching the kid pretend to sleep while his shit friends are probably hiding somewhere. I didn't want to do all these things. Except for the machete. I distinctly remember grabbing my machete, and I remember the shiver of excitement when my hands grasped the worn hilt. I really wanted the machete. 

But I was actually planning on letting Sammy go. He was a decent kid, really, and he was scared shitless of me and that was beyond 110% okay. I didn't think he actually had any friends at all but oh well. Sociopaths aren't always perfect. 

Sammy's room is shit. There's crap all over the floor like shirts and dirt and shoes and boxers, and crappy comics because who the hell reads fucking Marvel comics? You gotta watch the Marvel movies, dickhead. You read the DC comics. But the point is I can't tell my ass from my face it's such a fucking shithole in here, so when I do find the damn speakers, I'm almost ready to fall to my knees and thank whatever deity it is zealots believe in this time. The speakers aren't bad either, and I'm tempted to just walk right outta here with it but then I remember how loud they were, and how 2 am in the morning it is, and how tired I am and how much I love using my damn machete. So I set it quietly on the floor, cause if Sammy woke up I'd have to kill him and really I just wasn't in the mood, and slide my machete out real smooth from my belt and do a couple practice swings. I stretch my arms high above my head and with all the force of gravity and my own strength I slam the damn thing hard and the speakers fucking break with a satisfying CRACK. 

Except something musta been a bit too loud, cause next thing I know there's Sammy sitting up in his bed looking terrified as fuck, and God-fucking dammit Sammy can't you do anything right? I walk over to his bed and he's about to scream, but I cover his tiny face with one of my hands and debate. There are several ways I could do this. I could just leave. Just walk out, mission accomplished, speakers destroyed and Sammy scarred for life. But I said earlier if Sammy woke up I'd have to kill him, so I can't just leave now. I could use my knife, sheathed and currently unused, and just stab him, over and over and over until Sammy needs to learn to breathe blood or drown. That could be mildly enjoyable, but I really don't feel like washing blood from my gloves today. I guess I could use my machete? But once again, blood spurting everywhere on my clothes sounds less than enjoyable, so no. I still have my Glock-35. I fiddle with it with my free hand for a bit. It's kinda loud. It'll definitely draw attention. If I don't want to get blood splattered I'll have to let go of Sammy's face and shoot him while he's moving. It'll definitely get the police actively involved, and raises the chance that I'll get caught. But blood stains. All over my shirt and mask and gloves and boots. No. I take my hand off his face and the brat darts off, out the door and down the stairs, a little bit faster than I expected but still too fucking slow. 

The first bullet rings and misses, fuck it all, but it's scared Sammy so bad he tripped and now he's rolling down the last few steps. I stand still and fire again, fucking missed his stomach but I got his leg, and it must really fucking suck to be Sammy right now. I walk down to where he's bawling and cradling his lame leg, and I think of how much his life would suck being lame. In a moment of weakness, of pity, I take off my mask and point my gun to his head, look him straight in his terrified teenage eyes and fire. 

BANG.