Page 102 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

His life ended the day he came into theirs.

There was no point in wishes.

Hopes.

Or prayers.

The innocence of youth violently ripped away.

No one wants another mouth to feed when you can’t afford to pay,

for the drugs.

The alcohol.

The whores.

All is not as it seems.

Behind closed doors.

When happy smiles hide teeth and claws.

A life in reverse.

Pay close attention as I talk.

About the boy whose life was over,

before he’d even learned to walk.”

The image of a little boy appeared on the screen behind him, a boy sitting in a crib with a dirty face and filthy clothes, crying, but it was clear no one was going to come. And then he went on proclaiming to the crowd.

“Arran was a silent boy.

But his demons they roared loud.

And the voices in his head,

told him you shouldn’t be here; you should be dead.”

The warehouse went pitch black, then a single spotlight lit him up again, in his blue mask and boiler suit. The image of a teenage boy appeared behind him in place of the child. The teen was leaning against a wall, with his hood down, smoking a cigarette. And smoke billowed into the crowd alongside the faint chatter of voices from the speakers, cursing and swearing, sounding like bullies taunting their victim. And he continued his performance.

“As life went on and he got older,

the punches and kicks became much bolder.

But now there’s another factor of his misery they own

Fists hurt,

but words?

They can cut.

To.

The.