The Diary of Albus Rottingleaf

Second Series of Entries:

               I realize now that I concluded my last entry with an abruptness antithetical to my aim. That a more thorough examination may be fruitful. I’ll begin by mentioning that the physical sensation that accompanied the bludgeoning of Courtney Mac was no doubt gratification. That said, it was not sexual but comparable, more so, to the development of sexuality itself. Whereas an infant innately possesses an all-encompassing sexuality subject to whatever it can handle only to discover the various erogenous zones by means of pleasure (like receiving sustenance from a breast), so too do we possess a similar higher order satisfaction. As we blindly suckle for the equivalent breast though, it is not to be found. Look back to pre-history and see how par the course murder was. Where has that compulsion gone? How censured we are! The gratification I felt was what an infant feels when it discovers, for the first time, the breast, accompanied by the irreplaceable feeling of obtaining nutrients for the first time. And although I believe that someone observing me crying out while perpetrating the act would no doubt conclude it to be an expression of ecstasy, I’ll repeat that I think it would be a mistake to call the pleasure sexual. It was the discovery of a necessity. An end to a lifetime of starvation. The instant alleviation of woes never even fathomed.

               The biological tinge of this discovery additionally awakened an intense spiritual component of my existence. I felt very close to God. Our existence being obviously dependent on him means that the closer we come to our biological fulfillment the more intimate our connection with creation. We can say that genetics have an incentive structure supplied with the necessary mechanisms for discovering him, and the gravitational force that pulled me towards my action confirms this. Being free from the inundating social milieu and the perverse cultural impediments allowed me to succumb properly to my nature, as God intended. My excitement at the clarity I felt and the prospects from the mountaintop which I then resided overshadowed any guilt or paranoia I might have otherwise felt. The days passed in a state of elated eagerness.

               And so, from a chronological perspective the months following the Courtney Mac incident ticked by uneventfully. There was an eventual annoyance, though, arising from the realization that walks were no longer viable. Not only could I be perceived as suspicious due to the fact the towns near me were now hyper aware of wanderers but the incident mentioned, being the first in twenty years in my area, meant a genuine community effort of identification was in effect for the foreseeable future. Additionally, it was clear that my disposition afforded me no control over where I might end up. Ah, what was I to do? The puzzle sat in my mind like a storm on the horizon, that is to say, an inevitable inconvenience.

               Pleasurable enterprises demand repetition and so I initially contemplated a way to produce the exact same circumstances as the first time. I wondered if I might drive to a neighboring town. I almost convinced myself that it was possible but after a few compulsory drives decided that it was untenable. I imagined a clever detective who would somehow use the two murders to narrow my location enough to trap me. Also, I view the act of driving as simply impossible to be done anonymously. Any stray camera might be used to identify an out of place driver. And so, I thought. Thought, thought, thought.

…

               Recollecting the shameful happenings that came next entices me to firstly recall a happy relationship from my childhood which will also serve to alleviate the unforgiveable character trait and the subsequent actions that may be assumed unjustly about my childhood; that I may have abused animals. It’s often seen by the unenlightened as the preliminary stage of where I currently reside but I believe it to be rarer than most people think. Animals are, after all, the most accepting companions and so I could not even imagine, in my adolescence, harming them.

               His name was Ahpapa, my puppy. Oh the gratitude I have when his image springs forth in my mind. A loyal Dacshund whose autumn brown coat hung softly over his long body. That single color only giving way towards his determined face which was a few shades lighter. Pleasant little paws adorned with black pads and groomed nails. Whiskers that tickled when he kissed. Oh, Ahpapa! I can see you so clearly.

               We met when I was young. Too young for most to remember but so influential was Ahpapa in my life that sheer effort from my earliest years brings our beginnings clearly to mind. No greater mental expenditure is relevant when compared with the remembrance of our happiest moments. And so, I recall, in conjunction with Ahpapa, his original owner named Borka. She was a toddler near my age who I considered my friend. A polish neighbor, whose parents I only recall as shadows. She had black hair and pale skin; her eyes were a glimmering gray. My stunted speech and her linguistic aptitude which was primarily engaged in the employment of the polish tongue meant our interactions were unimpeded by the monotony of words. We played frequently and our favorite engagement was the climbing of a tree in her yard. The earthy mammoth stretched its appendages with such chaotic eagerness that we never ran out of junctures to explore. Sturdy but rough branches sprawled endlessly upwards and our timorous hands clutched tirelessly, only steadied by the support of each other. Recalling it now, those tender acts of support may have been the first purely affectionate touches I received, as she pushed me from below to aid my lengthening limbs towards their destination.

               Borka will always retain a pristine impression in my childhood memory and when she moved unexpectedly, I was quite devastated and cried very hard. These tears were different than those that had previously occupied my home life, they having the quality of emotional distress opposed to physical and although it pains me to admit it, my mother showed a genuine empathy towards my plight. She discovered that Borka’s parents had gotten her a puppy to ease her emotions as they transitioned back to Poland but in the end it was impossible to take the dog with them. My mom brought the puppy home and he ran through the house to my room where I lay crying and kissed me. Ahpapa’s compassion accompanied by his ethereal tether to my dear Borka comforted me. Even his name, “Ahpapa,” was a memento of the playful syllables that characterized Borka’s soft voice. Every time I called him, I imagined the naming ceremony that no doubt commenced when she first saw his shining features; imagining her unable to contain her joy and whatever sounds escaped through her spirited laughs condensed themselves into the identifier that fit so well. Ahpapa was the expression of joy anthropomorphized, my companion.

               Shortly after Ahpapa’s arrival my mother vanished. Being a drug addict, this was unsurprising and so Ahpapa took sole custody of my emotional life. My greatest fear became the possibility of my father hurting Ahpapa but he actually adored the dog. After relieved reflection I decided it was because Ahpapa absolutely loathed my father and being loathed was his preferred reception. When traversing the common space Ahpapa would take a wide birth around him and sometimes stop to glare with furrowed brows into my father’s soul before continuing on whatever errand occupied his itinerary. Still, I worried that Ahpapa’s loyalty would cause problems and so when I expected a beating, I would make sure my door was closed with Ahpapa inside. I suspect my father’s demonic tenderness towards the canine prompted him to also make sure I had completed this task before he began, and so Ahpapa was freed from the duty which he was sure to have fulfilled, of protecting me with his life. Afterwards I would drag myself, sometimes by my arms alone, into my room and upon opening the door Ahpapa would kiss my face and usher me to my bed before running back to close the door, making sure it was secure, pacing in frustration for a few steps and running back to me where he would nudge my weakened arm and snuggle close to me.

               When the supply of food that Borka’s parents had provided me with ran out, I discovered a twenty-pound bag of dog food in the back seat of my father’s car. I waited anxiously for him to bring it in but he never did. As Ahpapa finished his last bit of food I elected to extract the new bag myself, assuming that my father had forgotten about it, and brought it to my room. That night he beat me especially bad. Months later when the food was running low again I, again, noticed a new bag of dog food in the back seat of my father’s car and waited steadfastly for him to bring it in, but he never did. After subjecting Ahpapa to three painful days without food I could resist no longer and took the bag from his car. The beating was brutal. Ahpapa wept. After several more identical events I understood. Had my father brought the food in, Ahpapa would owe something to him. Some affection would be shifted from me to him. The current situation allowed me to provide for Ahpapa. I paid for his food in flesh. I may have viewed it as a noble thing my father did, after all a beating was nothing to me, if not for the sparing manner in which Ahpapa ate his food. Despite me filling his bowl to overflowing, my companion, my caretaker, would eat just enough to subsist, never eating more than a mouthful at a time. I would pet him and say, “Ahpapa you can eat!” and he would just snuggle under my arm and kiss me.

               I wish not to shade our existence with the gray hued memories of home though. We were happy. I being entirely unsupervised meant we could roam the neighborhood at our leisure. We would go to the park and Ahpapa would run and bring me sticks. We would go down the slide and laugh. The other kids all loved him and so Ahpapa had his share of tummy rubs. In those instances, I watched on with joy.

               To recall Ahpapa! There aren’t enough tears to express my feelings in regards to him. And to know that my proclivities concerning murder might lead you to the suspicion that I would do anything to him causes me grief. Ahpapa died of old age… It pains me to recall it but no better circumstance could have been hoped for.

…

               How am I to share, after writing so fondly of him, the conclusion I came to after my incident with Courtney Mac?

…

               A deep sigh. I tap my index finger against the desk, looking for words. I had decided that I could not replicate the circumstances that allowed me to bludgeon someone without consequence. No other ways came to mind. I thought hard but everything seemed like a dead end. I realized how the second murder is exponentially more difficult. I looked, embarrassingly, to pop culture for clues and was reintroduced to the notion that killers often begin with animals. From that I inferred that some level of satisfaction must be garnered from the act. I… decided to bridge my first murder and second pending murder with the corpse of an animal. I decided the easiest would be a dog…

…

               I was aware of a few dog owners in my area and made a point to drive by their houses daily, allowing any thoughts that might materialize ample stimulation. The first candidate was about a block from my house where a Labrador retriever roamed behind a wooden fence. I surmised the existence of the dog from the state of the front yard which was immaculate, the contents of the driveway which held two family vehicles, and the nature of the fence around the back yard which seemed unnecessary. I imagined it to be a family attempting to live what they considered a model life. When I drove by and saw that the cars were gone, I parked along the street and strolled confidently to the fence. Peeking over it I saw the lab sitting in some shade under a tree and concluded that, the fence being so secure, they allowed him to lounge outside while they were away. I went home satisfied and concretized my plan.

               Because of my decided method of disposal, I was not afforded the randomness that I would have liked. It would be done the day before the garbage man came. I would drive by the house that day at around two pm, when I decided most of the neighborhood would be away, and if there were no cars in the driveway, I would hop the fence and throw the lab over, leading him to my car, and drive home. I would then drown him in the tub, taking his body into the garage and chopping it in half. I would put each end in a garbage bag, taking one bag to my neighbor’s bin (she’s an old lady) and putting one in my own. The corpse would be gone before the sun came up.

               This quickly became frustrating. I could only reasonably drive past the house two times to check if cars were there. The layout of the subdivision meant that to pass the house was to leave the subdivision and so to avoid suspicious patterns once I left, I remained out for a while. Additionally, not only was at least one car always in the driveway, but there were always people walking merrily around, so that even if there was an opening in one respect, it evaporated from another. No matter what time of day I tried, at least one car remained. In my annoyance one night, I even walked over and peered over the fence, ready to throw caution to the wind, but the dog was not outside. I took a step back and remembered my relationship with God. Remembered the feeling of being led. I realized the lab was not in my plan.

               The mental sobriety allotted by my decision to forego the Labrador, which had been frustrating me for months, cleared my head enough to formulate a plan with a higher probability of success. In hindsight my original plan was unwieldy, it was paradoxically too careful yet punctuated by rashness. It was so obvious after my initial misgivings that I should not be afraid of driving if there wasn’t an actual murder involved. If there was no looming imaginary detective analyzing my actions, there was no need to be so calculated. I would drive to the closest urban center and look for stray dogs.

               I took the highway about an hour and a half to the nearest city. Not being much of a traveler I, for the most part, guessed where I might find what I was looking for. I assumed that my best bet would be around the city limits, where old ramshackle manufacturing plants operated. The day was gray and unusually windy. I would get out of my car periodically, to investigate alleyways that seemed like stereotypical gathering places of abandoned animals, and my jacket would flap vigorously in the wind. My urgency was so honest that I felt like (and I’m sure an observer would confirm) I was looking for my own lost dog. Several times I bent over slovenly to peer into the gap left between old pallets that were leaning against brick walls in abandoned alleys. I would whistle too, hoping to gain the attention of any nearby prospects. I drove for several hours, slowing down whenever approaching an especially decrepit building, and would widen my visual field looking for any movement.

               Finally, I had some luck. I was driving through a street that was so rocky and filled with potholes that I imagined it to be no longer considered operational. As I drove, I saw a dog splayed on the side of the road. So still was the animal that I assumed it to be dead. I pulled over and as I approached it, one eyelid lifted up and a puzzled eyebrow furrowed inquiringly. So subtle was the movement that I thought it to be the dogs last and that it must have been hit, being therefore fatally injured. But upon inspection the dog looked intact. It was a black and white border collie whose light face wore the dirt of travel. So skinny that its ribs were visible. One ear appeared to be chewed off by another animal and it paws were rubbed raw. I debated if I should stomp it to death as a test to see what level of satisfaction it might imbue but decided against it. I picked the animal up and put him into the back seat of my car.

               It was getting late and I hadn’t eaten all day so I stopped for some food and decided to get the dog some as well. I gave him a hamburger and some water and although he ate it slowly, I could see him begin to perk up. He remained laying across my backseat for the duration of the ride but I noticed, looking through my rear-view mirror that his eyes now remained open. When I pulled into my garage, I elected to take him out of the backseat but leave him in the general area with the vehicle. He seemed energized, even walking despite the condition of his paws and laid down on a mat before the entrance into my house.

               I went upstairs and began filling the tub with water. I was worried that the dog might bite me and so I thought it would be smart to cover his face. My initial thought was a garbage bag but that would get messy in the water of the bathtub. I decided a pillow case would suffice and took an extra one from my closet. Putting my hand in it, I tried to emulate what a dog bite might feel like by pinching myself hard through the pillow case. The thickness of the fabric muffled the pinch enough to satisfy my fears that a thrashing dog might escape my grip and bite me. When the bathtub was full, I ran my hand through it and it was comfortably warm. I should add, that when I say it was full, I mean full for my purposes. In other words, I accounted for the change in water level that would occur when I submerged the dog. I was ready.

               When I entered the garage, his white face greeted me with enthusiasm and I patted his head and put the pillowcase over it. I noticed that he smelled like dog (surprising I know) and I suddenly could not shake the thought of my house smelling like wet dog. Additionally, cleaning the loose hair that would no doubt shed and coat my bathroom was a major, previously unseen, chore. While I was wrestling with these thoughts the dog had begun to feel uneasy and was trying to scoot backwards to free it’s head. Propping its hind legs close to me it was pushing hard. I had tightened the open end of the pillow case creating a knot that was wrapped around my hand, and using this grip I lifted the dog high into the air and slammed it hard against the ground. The pillow case did little to stifle the yelps that emerged from the writhing animal. Still in my grip I dragged the dog by its pillow cased head to a work bench where I took a hammer and drove it hard where the head appeared to sit. The yelps intensified, taking on not only a note of anguish but the additional quality of being gasps for air. I hit the hammer again and the dog screamed like a child might. Again, and the noise stopped.

               I had a saw that I used to cut the dog in half and double bagging each half I waited until garbage day, when I put one bag in my neighbor’s bin and one in mine. I could have put both in my own, I think, but I’ve often found that when one plan gives way to another, certain remnants remain and so it didn’t even cross my mind.