The Diary of Albus Rottingleaf

First Series of Entries:

              Despite the danger associated with such endeavors as I embark upon now, I suffer from a nauseous yearning to write which has been consistent throughout my life, similar to the affliction that will surely endow the following pages. No more will be said than necessary to adequately convey and explore my own thoughts, although I feel it prudent to disclaim that within me there is a lack of certain proclivities for restraint. Let anyone who doubts the authenticity of my accounts do so freely and with a stern conviction that those of my particular apprehension do not exist. Complain that I investigate such topics simply for controversy’s sake. Set the world how you see fit.

               The unfashionable view which currently lingers in the recesses of the modern era is a view that there are some who deserve to die. An unpleasant thought except for certain long and rainy days, rife with traffic and boredom where the mind can wander to the deeper problems that do not face us directly, but act to agitate from avenues just down the road. Inexplicable disgust overcomes us for brief moments every so often when a parent is being particularly harsh to a child, for instance. My father was like that to a degree I confess. A classless man shaped by hard work whose decrepit hands were rough and aged with labor. I cannot for the life of me recall his face but I remember that his movements were abrupt, sporadic, and unpredictable. He was a man not particularly fond of children, or anything as far as I could tell. He had no enthusiasm for drinking which was surprising considering how much of his time was spent in the endeavor. His mannerisms were rough and he often hit me. My keen eyes studied him constantly as a child and so I claim I can spot a child beater from first glance. Surely child beaters deserve to die? Ah but children are resilient and can overcome great adversity, who are we to judge how ruthlessly one raises their children? So, let us continue our exploration… Murderers? Putting aside for a moment the motive of justice, even from an economic perspective one can see the benefit of such executions. They would say, “look how much money society must spend to house the prisoners!” and I imagine this would be correct. So, the question that faces society is just how much it’s worth to not kill a killer and once it’s admitted that in certain circumstances the act is tolerable its simply open to interpretation from then on. The primary discouragement, as I see it, is a bad taste left in the mouth of those who perpetrate the act, and in our current ethos it’s often seen as one who does nothing to stop such ‘injustices’ is themselves purporting a similar injustice and so a price is paid. I often fantasize about a decisive state in which morals are actually sought out and so if I was indeed ever caught, I would like to be buried under the prison as all those society deems evil should be. But we as a people are passive and so I must take matters into my own hands. My passion as I see it, absolutely requires satiation, of that there is no question in my mind, it is an absolute. There is though, I imagine, a divine purpose to everything and so I intimate that the victim is not particularly important per se as long as the perpetrator is acting in accordance with himself. Society as a whole has a disgust for such actions and would lock the killer up hastily regardless of who the victim is and so obviously the first and most important thing is to select based primarily upon ease rather than moral inclination. Especially as a matter of gaining experience. How many noble ideals have been vanquished by lethal injection simply because the idealist could not even sacrifice one life? Besides, it’s hardly a leap to imagine one’s tastes changing even despite the deep thronging that accompanies the perpetration of one act opposed to another.

…

Allow me to take this brief passage to remind myself of the anonymous disposition that this collection has so that I may continue without reluctance. A diary is a special thing. I cannot help but take a moment to reflect on the intimate nature of it. You and I are together, alone. My cheeks redden when I realize that I’ve already told you snippets from my past, although clouded in desperate grasps for justification. I wonder if these vindications are a defense mechanism of mine? For now, I’ll enlist the philosophical moralizing as the expression of a genuine passion. For I do intend to write freely and although I know that you may be apprehensive about my nature already, remember how intimate this connection is. I wish to sincerely explore the maturation of the divine quality which guides my actions. To conceal nothing from you.

…

               The whirring of a fan in the heat helps to clear the head and focus the thoughts, a white noise and a cool sensation on the wet perspiration of one’s lower back. For one whose thoughts drift as my own do, unless otherwise occupied by an object, a dulling agent is welcome. The recollection of days past is inevitably accompanied by those distinct pangs of fright and shame, for who but me could cast myself so far? And it was against the tide. This is perhaps the reason why the existence of fate is so obvious to me! I do, though, remember my first love, she remains a child despite an acquaintance into adulthood, and despite the shrieks of her final moments her beauty remains intact. No, it is not her who haunts me, for we did love each other, Rachel and I. A garden of daffodils and the light prance of one whose sole passions were dancing and the love of a friend. To watch one as her, a tan delicate blonde, was to know the art of the prance, and more so she shared with the world our love in such movements. So entranced would she become among the low shrubbery, sun setting in the distance, that her eyes would remain closed for long durations and I would watch for hours on end pleading with my heart for a rare glimpse of those emerald gems which would peek in tender spasms of elation. It’s in the midst of true love that one can view another’s soul, in the fixation of sincere enjoyment, absolute living. I remember a moment, though, one ripe summer evening that despite my attentive and constant inspection a particular glimmer had faded, a glimmer with which I was proud of and had claimed it, in my mind, as a characteristic of hers which I myself had cultivated. And so, as this unique and fruitful characteristic faded, I felt a part of me leave her. But alas, this was not what made me commit to my actions which hitherto do not haunt me, and I merely share as a preface to my current mental state, which requires much concretization. Yes, I had since grade school been slowly recusing myself from daily social activities, and it was through such companions as Rachel that I managed to stay visible to the world for a time. Though despite her efforts fate could not be inundated and so my solitary nature took hold. I all but vanished watching Rachel from a distance. A magnificent specimen and although we had not spoken, her heart was obvious. She was a very passionate person and watching her was especially pleasurable, myself being a more calculated individual. I take sole responsibility for our lack of meaningful contact and so was able to move on for a time, and so I will allow the same chronology to take hold here.

               The instant my education was completed I inevitably recused myself from society all together. My days were spent with the works of those prominent psychoanalysts who promise cures, who make the honest assessment that the best one can hope for is to return to a natural state of unhappiness. Who rightly observe that when all ailments are alleviated the human beings’ natural disposition is sadness. But, most importantly, they provide the means of facilitating self-discovery, a sizable portion of which is an investigation of one’s own childhood. For the first time I looked backwards. The initial process was simple, I catalogued all the times in my life that I could remember thinking, ‘why did I do that,’ and searched the caverns of my memory for an explanation. I found that much of my enigmatic behavior originated with my mentioned Father, who made me feel worthless. I traced the feeling to an expectation that he would be proud of me if I, for instance, won my little league soccer game. The constant pursuit of this kind of gratification without ever experiencing the pleasure accompanied by its acknowledgment led me to have a general neglect towards the values of those around me. In my youth I unconsciously came to the conclusion that nothing I ever did would receive praise and therefore praise lost its value. Additionally, my mother imbued in me a facial expression which without the requisite investigation I would not have recognized. A manipulative furrow of the brow accompanied by a slight snarl of the lips and loosening of the jaw made me my mother’s son. I used that look to make other’s feel small. To chastise them without providing a single tangible complaint against myself. A master stroke of the kind of charisma that one uses to lord over others. I grew to understand a lot, although my main question was still unanswered. My exhilaration concerning the concept of death left still unsettled. I found no connection between my undeniably abusive parents and this looming instinct. As surprising as it may sound, my Father’s beatings, no matter how bad, remained dotted, isolated incidents in my mind, having no temporal significance or rippling effect. My mother’s dissatisfaction could explain my dislike of brunettes but not this impulse. The analysis went on for a long time and continues to this day but for the purposes of this recollection, these were the discoveries that occupied my mind at this juncture in my life, along with an ever-worsening preoccupation with the thought of death.

               Oh, how far I walked in those days! Inspired by the title of Rousseau’s work, ‘Reveries of a Solitary Walker.’ I decided lonely strolls were the best method for interpreting the inevitable divine instructions that would surely appear to me. Rousseau was after all a paranoid and genuinely sick according to a metric which would perhaps cast its net around me as well, yet despite this he acquired a vast understanding of himself and his species, and although I don’t imagine myself to be a Rousseau I did long for some direction. It’s been a trend in my life to cling fast to those almost entirely unread authors whose disposition appears similar to my own, interpolating any and all recommendations no matter how subtle. Therefore I walked, searching for a way to alleviate a compulsion for which I could not even imagine a release.

               I found during these walks that almost instantly I obtained a manic disposition and would trudge tirelessly and (pardon the analogy) like the planchette on a Ouija board I allowed myself to be moved. I would regain my bearings briefly, later recalling those moments of sobriety with a foggy determination. Vibrant images sprung forth of places whose hues, in these recollections, announced themselves so brightly, with the blinding light of heaven, that I attached to these places the presence of God. My dreams during this period were a kaleidoscope characterized by pleasurable twists which revealed quick glimpses of those geographical locations which had stood out to me, before dissolving into colors and shapes. I would uselessly implore with the sensation of reeling backwards the geometrical instrument to settle on one image. With such urgency did I believe myself to be throwing my weight backwards, angling for a more agreeable view, that I could feel my floating body gain speed until the pressure forced me awake.

               I took these dreams seriously and analyzed them honestly. I’ve found that abstract dreams are typically easier to dissect due to the lack of characters which can have endless interpretations (this maxim carries into the analysis of real events as well). My conclusion was that the kaleidoscopic orientation of the dreams was a representation of my view of the world through society’s lens and the flashes I saw were of my destiny. In other words, society was obscuring my view of my own purpose. And seeing how through my altered states I was introduced to those places, which stood out so distinctly, I further concluded that my eccentricities operated outside of the lens and despite their many inconveniences they were worth facilitating.

               The distinguishing feature of time being its abundance, I proceeded in no particular hurry to familiarize myself with the areas that I had grown to associate with my purpose. As a matter of fact, I actually felt impelled to visit these holy spots not just infrequently but sporadically. I did so until one spot enlisted from the heavens a sincere gravitas above all the rest. It was a mildly secluded park with thin woods surrounding most of it. The woods thickened slightly as they bordered a residential area and a gravel path led to a cul-de-sac. The park itself was modern with plastic apparitions spawning from the recycled rubber ground. A concrete path hugged the surrounding thicket creating an enjoyable walk around the grounds where one could admire the deliberate and colorful shrubberies. As I walked the main path, I noticed my heart beating with an intensified thud as I approached the gravel path leading away from the park and to the cul-de-sac, that once stepped on obfuscated the walker from the world. The blind spots so numerous that I flickered in and out of existence with each step, and the woods that sprawled endlessly from one vantage point, suffocated from another. My heart beat. I felt myself crouch down and there, crouching, I was no more. I waited but nothing happened. No one walked by and it eventually became dark. I came to my senses and stood up, brushing some leaves from my shirt, and returned home.

               I became filled with terror that I would be discovered. I watched the news with a heightened alertness and anytime anything was introduced with the phrase, “breaking news,” my stomach turned and my face grew pale. My sleep was much disturbed by this, any car passing outside my window sent me into a panic. It took time for me to realize that no action was perpetrated by me, all I did was simply crouch. Once the terror subsided it was clear that the intention in the back of my head was what had frightened me. That supposing someone would have walked through that little gravel path something sinister would have occurred that afternoon. I recollected though (perhaps justifying to myself), that the sensation probably was a result of carelessness. That is to say, my blasé approach. It was still light out after all, the park itself was inhabited by gleeful children and I had no exit strategy. That would have been it, had someone walked into that solitary foliage. That would have been the end of my life. Still… I felt it was written into the stars, I couldn’t help but return.

               I decided to randomize my actions moving forward, so that no pattern could be identified. Every Monday I flipped a coin, if the coin was heads, I would go to the park late at night and crouch in my spot. If tails, I would not go that week. I would roll a die to decide which day I would go, and flip another coin to decide if the previous dice roll would be ‘deferred’ until the next day (this was my solution for only having six spots on the die). I would look for numbers on television shows or in newspapers to fill in the rest of the details, like the exact time I left my house and how long I would stay crouched (although I decided I would not stay longer than twenty minutes). I admit it’s rather uninteresting because a lot of the conclusions were reached by arbitrary means, for instance if someone on tv said “catch the 232 train,” I would decide to leave my house that week at 2:32 am. The park being roughly three miles meant it was a quick thirty-five-minute walk and cars passed very rarely. I would crouch with a frenzied heart for the allotted time then get up and go home.

               I confess I was relieved that the coin flip yielded tails the first two weeks after I had implemented this system and allowed me time to concretize my expectations. I adamantly believed that, in terms of the act, the less complex plan would be better. By better, I mean less possibility for things to go wrong and a low probability that I would be caught. The method I decided would be a straight forward bludgeoning with a rock that I noticed adjacent to my crouching spot. Feeling the weight, I decided it would incapacitate with one blow and the nature of the enclosure insured I would be able to stand up and hit with my full strength without being noticed. Additionally, it seemed impossible that the body would be discovered before thirty-five minutes had elapsed. I slept soundly knowing these details and my paranoia evaporated.

               Several months passing, the exhilarating nature of my crouching expeditions forced me to consider if I was just a thrill seeker and not as I originally suspected, one who is subject to severe peculiarities of character. I think it’s a natural tendency of life to throttle between believing oneself to be unique and being reconciled to boring mediocrity. I ruminated the satisfaction I felt at the simple act of crouching during the earliest morning hours, straining to identify its origin, eventually concluding that it arose from the inevitable perpetration of the act to which it was in service of. That if I was indeed a thrill seeker, the thrills sought were so substantial as to render it a perversion to cast me among, for instance, a sky diver. Furthermore, I decided that, despite my earlier panic of being caught, the excitement I now felt would be the same even without the possibility of imprisonment, the two emotions were entirely distinct. That is to say that even though the act would be considered by many to be high-stakes, this fact played no part in my positive emotional response to it, and if the panic were to return it would no doubt come after. Here I considered how entrenched of a trait this was, for the pendulum of emotion to swing so aggressively. To be blinded by the ebullience surrounding a park but strangled afterwards by the prospect of being caught.

               My malleable posture grew comfortable blending with the tender leaves whose scent danced in the cool morning air. The temperature was growing colder and an unforeseen obstacle presented itself, my now greatest companion, those leaves, were beginning to shed. To relinquish themselves to a necessary fate. My little grove which concealed me so well, did less so now. Still I continued, though, maneuvering myself slightly further back allowing a thick tree to block my now protruding head. The cold weather forced me to add an additional deferment which I called ‘the breath test,’ that is, if I went out at my planned time and my breath was visible my expedition was deferred to the next day, and if the next day was the same then that week was cancelled. My mission remained exhilarating.

               All went well except one incident which caused me some moral and procedural inquiry. I had left the house at one am, precisely, arriving in my spot at one-forty am, and stayed as planned twelve minutes crouched with my forearm flexed, tightly gripping the rock which was near my bent knee. After the twelve minutes had elapsed, I stood up and began to walk, when I heard footsteps behind me. I took a big step off the path and leaned against one of the thicker trees whose large canopy provided an especially dark reservoir and watched as two teenage girls, giggling all the way, hurried by. The practical question that arose was what would I do if there was more than one person? I had seriously made up my mind beforehand that the great arc my arm would make was destined for the first person to cross my path at the observed time but it would definitely complicate things if there were two. In the end I decided that I would stick to my original plan no matter what and let chance decide. I chose to trust the adaptive capacity of a mind suspended by exhilaration to adequately conduct what fate deemed necessary. Thinking that through, I had also to contend with the fact that there was only a minute difference between me being crouched and the two girls passing. Should I have, after months and months of waiting, allowed for some leeway? I, at this juncture in my development, as you can see, was convinced in the absolute nature of fate and here too I came to the conclusion that no leeway would be given. No other substantial occurrences intruded; the act occurred the very next week.

               Her name which I have changed for obvious reasons was Courtney Mac. She had started college that year and was pursuing a degree in a field called hospitality. From what I understand, this realm of expertise is applicable to hotels and similar tourist attractions where providing a memorable and pleasant experience is paramount. She did okay in high school but wasn’t especially gifted. I surmised this from reading between the lines of the various news reports about her that were very vague in areas like actual academic achievement. Additionally, for the sake of honesty, I’ll mention that she was cute. She had a sheltered quality with brunette hair tediously kempt which hung down to her shoulders and I imagined that she was one to wear sweaters that read, in big letters, the name of her school across the front. I imagine her nails were perpetually short and unadorned. Her smile warm and inviting. A slightly coarse voice. Parents who cared but failed to provide. She lived with them to save money and although I’m unsure if they would have cared, she had just begun to sneak around to see a boy she liked. I suppose she was averse to conflict and decided that it was better not to tell them. Or maybe she was embarrassed? Either way, I recognized her from the prior week and fate impelled me to intercept her in the early morning on her return home.

               It was a cool night. I was induced by a divine sign earlier that week to leave my house at three-twenty-one am, arriving at my shadowy destination at around four. It being so close to dawn I planned only to stay for five minutes. I crouched low. My hand clung to the rock which remained slightly embedded in the ground and glittered with frost. My breathing was heavy but quiet, I employed my best effort to slow it even more, jostling the rock thoughtfully back and forth to free it from its nest partially beneath the ground. Within two minutes I heard the quick light steps of Courtney. My vantage point allowed me a comprehensive moonlit view of her approach which I noticed seemed frightened. I attribute this quality to the simple fact that she was walking alone in the dark. I wondered if her night had been good. If she was content? She was just a few steps from home, across the gravel path to the cul-de-sac where she lived. She moved hurriedly and as she passed me, I vaulted upwards clutching the heavy stone in my hand and struck as hard as I could towards the back of her head. To my surprise her quick movement meant my blow landed resoundingly just below the back of her neck. She crumpled downward, turning towards me, and erupted into screams, the pitch of which deafened me from all directions as if there were multiple people screaming. Startled by the intensity of the noise, I fell downward with all my weight behind the rock which I planted squarely in her face, caving it in. Replacing her previous outburst was a series of loud screeching moans whose sequence implied that they were intended to be cries for help. The affair being much less punctual than expected increased my panic. I couldn’t breathe. I, myself, cried out, grabbing where I imagined her neck was, with shaking hands, and squeezed as hard as I could. I felt my nails clawing into flesh before finally the noise stopped. I cleaned my hands on her sweater as best I could and hurried away, hoping that the commotion only seemed loud because of my proximity, which upon reflection is possible. In any case she wasn’t found for several hours.

               My heightened state made the walk home swift. Only one car had driven by and I managed to evade it by hopping around a fence that sequestered a neighboring yard. My giddiness escaped in the form of laughter as I sauntered out safely from behind the fence and, entering my house, I almost danced to the bathroom where I washed my hands of the grime. I clipped my fingernails short. Took a nice hot shower. And, welcoming the fact that my elation outweighed any foreboding emotions, slept serenely. I awoke the next day feeling refreshed. I proceeded with a sense of gravity, expecting at any moment for a paranoia to set in but it never did. I later chastised myself for such a stern anticipation of inner turmoil. Significant effort was expended over the months bracing for psychological chaos but as the weeks passed, I watched the news reports about Courtney as I would about anyone else. I grieved for her like I would grieve for someone struck by lightning.