Short Stories
“Are You A Psychopath?” By Charles Bodi
Based on a true story
“I remember it clearly. I had been leaning against the wall of an alleyway off of 5th street, waiting for Joey to come with my money. I had got him into a job where he could…. pick up… whatever he needed and he owed me $200. I know it seems like a lot of pay off just to get some kid a job, but I had to flirt with the manager for three weeks straight. She was very beautiful so it took longer to win her over, I guess it was because she was use to people flirting with her. Still, I’d never come across anybody I couldn’t win over. It’s a win-win. They get some attention and I get whatever I want… basically.
I had just gone to get some coffee beforehand. Walked in seeing a shyer new girl working there, threw her a smile and asked if I could get her number so I could take her out to dinner. She was so flustered she didn’t even remember to take money from me for the coffee, and that’s that. I walk away with a free coffee and her number, both to end up in the trash. My philosophy is, if you want something, you have to reach out and take it. Winning the game and following all the rules don’t exactly match up in real life.
Joey finally walked into the alleyway, 13 minutes late. I knew from the moment I saw him that he didn’t have my money. I don’t believe in the system’s rules but I believe in my own rules; if you don’t have my money there will be consequences. After all, I was a businessman, and when I make a promise… or a threat, I deliver. He said that he didn’t have my money because he had to give it to his mother who was sick. I said I was sorry, then nearly beat the life out of him. I told him that before I made the deal with him. It sounds wrong, but if I don’t follow through, then my clients would start thinking that exceptions are okay, and giving me an excuse is okay. It’s not. In essence, I am not here to be a friend, I am here to be a businessman and that’s how it works.
Where it went wrong was when the police showed up. I was arrested because I was also carrying an unregistered gun, a personal caution. I was held in a prison until my court date which was four weeks away. The people in the prison ranged from bulky meatheads covered with tattoos to smaller anxious people, whom I assumed has committed small crimes and regretted it because they wouldn’t last in prison. I was in shape, but not super tall or bulky like I was sure the other cell members in jail would be.
One of the officers told me that for possession of an unregistered weapon and almost killing someone would land me about five years. I pondered about myself, how I would work my way out of this. I knew I could, after all I wasn’t just anyone, I was businessman Charles Bodi and I could work my way out of anything, I just had to think of how. Another guy, a lankier, rat-like, but chatty guy, came up to me and asked what I was in for and how long I was looking at. I didn’t care much to talk to him, but it proved useful after I answered his questions. He suggested that what I could do was fake madness and ask to see the prison psychologist. I think the court calls it “pleading insanity.” I had recently watched the film “Crash” which is about an insane person who gets sexual pleasure from crashing cars into walls; I had also read a bibliography of Ted Bundy from the prison library, and in it he had said that he liked seeing women die because it made him feel more normal. So I asked to see the prison psychologist, and I told him about how crashing cars into walls gave me sexual pleasure, and how watching women die made me feel normal. The psychologist asked me more questions about it, all to which I lied about the insane things I had seen crazy people think in movies, or on the news.
When the time came for my court date, I had really adopted my new character and, if I do say so myself, I was quite convinced that I could work my way out of this so they would send me to some cushy hospital where I would get taken care of and given anything I wanted. That’s when it went bad. Cursed by myself, I faked madness too well. The judge decided that I should be sent to the Broadmoor hospital, which is also known as the Broadmoor asylum for the criminally insane. Asylums are where they put serial killers and criminally disturbed people, and as soon as I got there I told them this was a terrible mistake. I am not a mentally ill person, that I had faked madness. They didn’t believe me.
From then on out I did everything I could to prove that I was sane, that I was just a normal person who was trying to get out of prison. It didn’t work because it seemed that everything I did, that seemed so normal to me, the doctors somehow twisted around. I stayed in my cell a lot because I didn’t want to go out where the serial killers and insane people were. They took it as a sign of aloofness and isolation, and wrote it down as part of my mental illness.
I thought that if I acted normal, and talked about normal things, and looked normal, that I could convince them that I was sane and in my right mind. I got a pinstripe suit and stayed in shape. I ate healthy. I subscribed to a news article and I had read that the military was trying to train flies to sniff out explosives, so I told one of the doctors about it. Later looking at the notes my doctor made, he had jotted down “ believes flies can sniff out explosives.” If I learned anything, it is that the things that seem most normal can be used as the extreme that is portrayed as mental illness. What exactly is being normal? or sane? The doctors take quite a few non verbal clues. But it occurred to me, how do you sit like a sane person? Do I cross my legs like a sane person? Do I watch t.v. like a sane person? Do I eat like a sane person? There is no way to really tell.
Like I said before, my prison trial was going to be five years. I was still in Broadmoor and it had been 12 years. I couldn’t prove that I was sane, and it is much harder to prove you’re insane than it is to prove you aren’t. Finally I asked my doctor why I was here, if they really understood that I had faked it and I just wanted to go home now. That’s when my doctor told me why I was still in the asylum. It shocked me really. My doctor looked at me and said, “Charles, we’ve carefully assessed you, and we believe that you faked madness. We know you aren’t insane.” I remember getting angry, that I had been here for no reason, but they continued. They told me that what I was, was not insane, but a psychopath. They explained how I was a psychopath, and that I was a danger which is why I was here. The things they told me, how psychopaths are manipulative, cunning, have a grandiose sense of self worth, lack of empathy, and so on, where strange. In the business world I grew up in, that is how you climbed the ladder and became successful. Everything that seemed normal to me, is what convinced the doctor’s that I was a psychopath. As a matter of fact, faking your brain going wrong was a sign in itself that your brain has gone wrong.
I got out after 14 years of being in Broadmoor, when they decided I wasn’t dangerous. As I reentered the real world with real people, I began seeing psychopath behavior everywhere based on what the doctors told me. I concluded, everyone has a bit of psychopath in them, whether it’s being manipulative to rule things in their favor, or being cunning and self centered. How do you decided when someone is not sane enough, to keep them locked up. How do you assess a person completely, when people are so complicated. We live in a world of gray people, who are assessed as black or white. I remember going to my hotel room after I got out. I flirted with the lady at the desk who then gave me a discount. I began to question myself, is psychopathy from the brain going wrong, or a part of human nature? I looked at the ledge of the balcony outside my window and wondered what it would be like to live in a world of psychopaths. I am in an undeniable belief, that it would be the same.” I put my pen down. I had finished my book. It was to be published tomorrow, I just had to get to my signing. I was headed down the street with the original unpublished manuscript in my hands, winking at some of the girls as I passed by. Then out of nowhere I heard a gunshot and felt my shirt became soaked near my left shoulder. I fell down to see my old cellmate from the psychopath section of the asylum walking away stuffing a gun into his jacket and disappearing into the chaos of the crowd.
Turn Around
Flipping through the radio was something I didn’t normally do, but today nothing good was on. Getting through traffic was already treacherous enough, I didn’t need to listen to bad music and ads while I was at it. Hardly pausing on each of the songs, I flipped through the stations; one finally caught my attention. I wasn’t even sure if I had heard it I was going through it so fast. Just as I was flipping backwards through the last few stations to see if I would hear it again, my car radio turned off. Knowing it was probably just a glitch, I turned it back on and it was playing a song I didn’t mind. Leaning back in my seat I took a shaky breath, rationing away the weird radio. Mindlessly I started clutching my steering wheel, a nervous habit. Nobody else was in my car, except it felt like there was. Obviously, I thought, there was nothing going on because I didn’t even believe in that kind of stuff; I just couldn’t stop thinking about when I was flipping through the radio stations. Pondering what had happened, I started making a list in my head of what was real and what wasn’t. Questionable, I heard the radio say my name and tell me to turn around. Real, I haven’t slept in two days. So, I guess it was all just my imagination. Then, the radio changed stations which caught my attention because my hands hadn’t left my steering wheel. Under the little screen that shows which radio station I’m on there were three words. Vanessa, turnaround. Wanting to just stop my car and get out, I slowed down. Exhaling slowly I speeded my car back up because today had been a long day and for all I know I was hallucinating. Yesterday I was perfectly fine and so was my radio; I concluded it was definitely just me imagining things. Zero explanations came across my mind that seemed practical enough; maybe I was dreaming, or hallucinating. After a while I couldn’t stop glancing down at the radio station. Bound by those three words, and then all of the sudden a clock appeared. Counting down from 10 right next to the words “turn around”; before what I knew was happening it struck 0 and a car crashed into mine from the side, pushing me into the river right off the road. Drowning, I couldn’t get out of my car and as I looked down the radio said only two words, “too late.” Everything went black.
Victoria
Bliss in Barcelona
Back when I was younger, my favourite game to play was candyland. I’d always be the blue player, and I made sure we never went on a roadtrip without it. I loved the way the bright colors were so unreal and unlike the world outside, and honestly, who would want plain, dull, grey cement sidewalks when you can imagine gumdrop sidewalks with peppermint trees? Now candyland, as far as I had known, was the best, most colorful, most amazing place I could possibly imagine. That is, until the trip that would change my mind, and undoubtedly, my dreams. It all started when my parents finally decided to let me join them on their annual trip to Spain to visit distant family. The plane ride was if anything, dull, and seemed infinite. The packaged peanuts, slightly salted left me thirsty, but not for water. For adventure into the unknown. My parents sat in the row in front of me, while I sat in the window seat in the row behind next to a student who informed me that she was going back to spain. She smelled of freesia flowers and had long, dark hair paired with a friendly, genuine smile. She advised my parents to not walk back to the hotel after they got off of the plane, but to take a taxi for safety. We thanked her and continued. The hotel smelled of fresh linen and air fresheners. The world outside the window was dark and disconnected from the small room of the hotel, yet the bright freshly washed sheets on the bed were as close to home away from home I had ever come across. The lamps played out shadows and soft light across the room, just to the point where it wasn’t too bright you couldn’t fall asleep, and not to dull you couldn’t see. The mini fridge in the corner of the room opened up to cold soda’s I had never heard of, and liquors labelled in another language. After slipping into my pajamas, with the smell of toothpaste still in my breath, the night consumed me.
The morning is when everything changed. Every amazing magical thing that had ever happened to me before this was irrelevant. This was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now imagining the only thing that could possibly reference this was Candyland. A blown up version of a fairytale book, the bright pigments reflecting in the sun caught my eyes in ways that I couldn’t take in the very place I was seeing. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. We started our first day there at a small wall covered in the most beautiful colors my eyes had ever seen. They looked like the first popsicles of every summer and the colors you’d see when reading children’s books about far away places. Going down to the beach where the crowds roamed free and the smell of fries and fruit wafted through the air along with the taste of salt water and hot sand tingling after every barefoot step. With the sun shining bright glistening off of the ocean the only place that could possibly compare would be paradise. Maybe this is paradise, maybe this is a Candyland lover’s dream. Or maybe, this is just barcelona, a fist protesting against everyone else that there is wonderful beauty left in the world.
My own backyard
You don’t really have to tell me twice, because I already know that the neighborhood I grew up in was awful, but believe me when I say that I had the childhood that children’s book novelists can only begin to come up with. I’m not talking I got a dog and went to school, I’m talking I had lemonade stands and a tree house and a pink sparkly bike with training wheels. Up until this point my life has been utterly cliche. Wrapped up in the blanket of my backyard that was just past the driveway and through the red alleyway gate. When I used to walk down the alley and as soon as I turned the corner after the shed it felt like the only home I’ll ever know. The grape vines on the left, the garage on the right, the basketball hoop hanging high above my 1 through 11 year old head, and that was just the driveway. You could walk through the gate past the bright chalk drawings and step onto the grass always growing greener than the neighbors. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of grass between your toes when you don’t have a care in the world and dance to songs only you can hear inside your head. Right past the gate was one walkway pade of stepping stones, brightly mosaiced with the broken dishes and glasses throughout the years. To the left was a garden so big it took up almost a third of the yard. There was big bushes that bloomed tiny white and yellow sweet smelling flowers every spring, and pine trees that never went bare. There were daffodils, and roses, and marigolds, and larkspur, and violets, and many more that I did not know the name of but admired none the less. But if you ever had flowers as many as these, you know the one thing they attract more than anything is bees. As a small child you’d assume that those bright black and yellow flying balls of fuzz would have been terrifying but when you march and and don’t mind if they land on you while you look and water the flowers it’s really not bad at all. Up ahead in front of that garden, right up next to the house and to the left of the porch was yet another garden where my mother had planted mint leaves and chives and an assortment of snapdragons, which were always my favourite. Every year I made sure that we had yellow, pink, purple, and orange snapdragons. To the right of the old wood porch, there were quite a few things. It was the play yard, and no there wasn’t any grass, but there were plenty other things. There was a dog house that my dog hated and never went in, there was a plastic toy shed that held all of our outside toys like plastic spoons and shovels and frisbees and soccer balls and anything else a kid could possibly need. I remember only that it smelled musty, but I didn’t mind all that much. There was a sandbox which I used to make scale models of the castles I was positive I would live in when I got older. The sand squished between my toes being cooled off with water gave the feeling of summer in my feet. There, beside the house as an extension of the yard, was yet another garden of which contained peppers and tomatoes. My mother always made sure to buy ones that weren’t quite as spicy but sometimes on those hot summer days you could hear her in the kitchen and the smell of salsa and roasting peppers would waft through the air. Finally, the grand star of the yard, besides the gardens of course: the tree house. We had a very large tree in the middle of the right half of the yard, right across from the big garden. The treehouse was very high up and even though the tree had been struck by lightning and now refused to grow any leaves, it was sturdy and strong and now was the host to a tree house. I remember my father building the treehouse by hand with no help and it was quite a big treehouse if I do say so myself. When you were up there you could look down on the world and everything would go quiet except for the wind that you could always hear the rustling from a bird or a squirrel. The air would smell clean and dry, just like you’d expect summer to smell. The dark green paint of the treehouse was a barrier slowly peeling away slightly at the edges and the twinkling lights that turned on at night were as bright as the stars we could see when we camped up there. Where the night sky was our bedroom night light that glowed with the pale moonlight casting shadows that made you feel like it was some other place all together. Even during the day when you see look out and see husbands yelling at their wives and prison cellmates driving off in their stolen cars, it was a magical place unlike any other in the safety of my own backyard.
Character Development Assignment
John sat there waiting under the hot lamp shining on every drop of sweat rolling down his face. A small electric fan was blowing in the corner but fought with no avail to the heat inside the room. The cool metal against his wrists was attached to a steel table already nailed down. He looked up at the mirror and knew it held more eyes than his own, then looked down clenching and unclenching his fists, he felt sweat drip down off his nose and he watched it fall down, but as it hit the table it seemed to almost slow down… the splatter of the drop seemed almost languid. Something had changed, as if the world went silent; as if someone flipped off the background noise, the tv static. He looked up; the fan in the corner was still. The air did not move around him and the heat seemed to have evaporated into a cool, dry chill. The door swung open silently behind him however the man that walked in did not appear in the mirror. He had slicked coal black hair, pale skin with a clean shave, a long black trench coat, freshly shined black shoes, and dark sunglasses that he took off to reveal brown eyes that were so dark they were almost as black as his hair. John thought that in any other situation he would have steered away from the dark character, but now he couldn’t take his eyes off of the stranger. The stranger pulled up a chair, silently scraping it against the cement floor. The stranger sat down and interlocked his hands in front of him on the table.
After a few moments of silence the stranger blinked, cocked his head slightly and said, “hello Jonathan.” Trying to play of his nervousness, John smirked in an amused fashion and said, “you some weird cousin I don’t know about here to get me out?”
The stranger gave a small smirk in reply but then the smile evaporated. “Yes and no. No, I am not your weird cousin; yes, I am here to offer you a chance to live.” John perked up and raised an eyebrow, now curious in the stranger. “Who are you exactly bud?” John questioned. “My name is Joseph Achmetha. I am a dealer, and I have a deal that was given to me to offer you. You have one chance to make a decision and that decision is final. There are no redos or second chances so I advise that you think cautiously and thoroughly.”
“I still don’t understand,” John blurted out, “seriously just tell me... why are you here?”
“I am here to offer you a deal.” Joseph replied calmly.
“But who? Who is giving me a deal? What is this all about? Who sent you? Why is everything seemingly frozen?” Panic and frustration set into John’s eyes.
“Let me elaborate more. Achmetha, it means brother of death. I am here because of my brother, Methusael, which means who demands for death…”
“wait, is this like some grim reaper shit prank because I don’t have time for this... I am about to be sentenced and I-” Joseph cut him off. “John you need to start listening very closely and open your mind past whatever you have come to know to be real and myth. Yes, you know him as the grim reaper, and I know him as Methusael. Yes, he is my brother and I am the person who offers his deals to certain individuals. You are about to be tried and sentenced to death, however Methusael has chosen you to have the opportunity to live.”
“Doesn’t God choose who lives and dies?” John asked, regrettably already guessing at the answer.
“No, God does not choose. It is Methus bael’s job to choose, and it is none the less a curse. Life is fragile, and to toy with death is a game that should not be played. It is a balance that he holds in his hands, deciding who lives and who dies. He must sit there and watch families and friends weep as he steals someone away… he-” John cut Joseph off now in anger.
“Why does he have to do that? Why does he have to tear everyone apart? Everyone deserves to live!” John’s eyes started to tear up and his face became red. His hands shook against the cuffs digging into his wrists.
“Because,” Joseph said sadly,”it was what he was born to do. Every person deserves to live, yet every person has to die. He has no other choice, it was and forever will be his destiny. He uses his power as wisely as he can and understands more than any mortal ever shall. He has come to make you an offer because he believes you have more potential to do within your life than what you have already done.”
John finally started to calm down as if he understood something about what was impossible for him to understand. He sighed with contempt and then asked, “what is his offer?”
Joseph sighed in relief that John was not going to question more about things he shouldn’t know.
“The offer is simple, it is the choice that is difficult. Because you have potential to this earth, you are valuable; far beyond your own belief. You are worth three lives and, if you live, you will go on to create great things. However you will find that this offer is a double edged knife. If you decide that you would like to keep living and become what you were destined to be, then he will not take your life. However he still needs a the value of your life to be taken from someone, or in this case, three someones whom also must be related to you. If you choose your own life, you must choose three others of your relatives for him to take. If you choose to die, you will be the only one he takes. This is his final offer, there is no negotiating and I need an answer within one week. Think carefully Jonathan, you have accidentally gotten yourself into a very tricky game.” John closed his eyes and breathed and deep breath in and slowly let it out. His eyes opened to his apartment ceiling and himself in his bed. He checked his phone and saw that it was exactly a week before the police put him in the investigation room. A breeze wafted through the room and although the sun was warm, the breeze was chilled and swept across the room in a sullen sigh.
Characters:
Detective’s team member #1: a member of the detective cadwell’s team.
Charles Bodi: main suspect being interrogated in the assumed murder of his missing wife, but is not the actual killer. Innocent but nobody believes him.
Detective James Cadwell: interrogator in the Robin Pendleton missing dcase. Divorced, lives alone. Strict and to the rules. Convinced that charles bodi killed his wife.
Setting: The stage is set as an interrogation room in a new york police station. A mirror is placed on the right hand of the stage. In the center of the stage is a metal desk, with two metal chairs on either side of the table. The walls are blank and white besides one clock and one camera turned on. On the desk is a place where handcuffs are attached. Charles sits on the left, facing the mirror, and Detective Cadwell sits across from him, angled and leaning forward. His stance and tone is accusing, as if he is daring mr bodi to keep denying it.charles is stanced defensive and a bit aggressive. A the scene begins, a single large spotlight will be places on the table and where the characters sit, but still enough to illuminate the rest of the stage. Detective Cadwell is wearing a suit, a bit loose fitting. Detective Cadwell looks sleep deprived and a bit worn out but unyielding and relentless in the case. Charles bodi is wearing a blue button up shirt with a tie undone, but still around his neck . He is also wearing black pants. Cuffs are around his wrists and hooked to the table. The detective is aggressive in position and stance, and throughout will get quite obviously upset about how long the interrogation is being dragged out. Throughout the scene, there will be times when one of the characters will break away from the table. A single small spotlight will be placed on them and the rest of the stage will be dark. This will show the internal monologue and thought processes of Charles Bodi and Detective Cadwell.
Detective Cadwell enters and sits
Mr. Bodi sits up
Detective Cadwell “Rough week you’ve had here Mr. Bodi,”
Charles Bodi “Excuse me?”
Detective Cadwell“Well you know,with your wife being missing and all.”
Charles Bodi “Ah yes, I’ve been kind of in shock lately, as if, I can’t believe any of this is really happening.”
Detective CadwellIn a passive aggressive tone “Mmm, I bet this is just tearing you apart, isn’t it?”
Charles Bodi Defensively “Yes, it has been. Just like any man who loses his wife…”
Detective Cadwell stands up and paces a bit around the room whilst talking
Detective Cadwell“But you see Charles, that’s where you’re wrong. Not..all men are torn up if their wife goes missing… some, as a matter of fact, are probably glad they’re gone. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Charles Bodi “What are you getting at here detective?”
Detective Cadwell place both hands on the table and leans in
Detective Cadwell “What I’m getting at here Mr. Bodi is that I believe you did it and now I’m here for proof,”
Charles Bodi “I didn’t do it detective, I almost wish I did because then this would be over sooner.”
Detective Cadwell Daring “Just admit to it and this conversation will be over…”
Charles Bodi “I would, except that I didn’t do it.”
Detective Cadwell Smirking “Okay, Mr. Bodi, let’s do it your way. Let’s start earlier this week, what were you doing the day and night of monday, June 19th?”
Charles Bodi “Well, I work throughout the week days at my office building and on Monday mornings I always stop for some coffee and a bagel.”
Detective Cadwell “Which shop do you go to?”
Charles Bodi “Café amoré-”
Detective Cadwell “And that can be confirmed?”
Charles Bodi “Of course it can..”
Detective Cadwell jotting things down “continue”
Charles Bodi “After that, I went to work and had lunch around noon at the office. Then back to work, home around seven, dinner at eight, and then did some work at home for my company and went to bed.”
Detective Cadwell “So you and your wife didn’t have any… arguments about anything? Anything resting unease between you?”
Charles Bodi “No, just a normal night.”
Detective Cadwell “Mhm, and do you drive a car? Walk? Bike?-”
Charles Bodi “A car,”
Detective Cadwell “And where is this car right now?”
Charles Bodi “Well it’s in the shop, another car must run into mine in the parking lot while I was at work, drove off without a note or anything.”
Detective Cadwell “Uh huh, let’s go to the day she went missing, last tuesday. Could you describe that?”
Charles Bodi “Well it was just like the day before, coffee and bagel, work, went out to lunch, went back to work, and then went home except she was gone. She didn’t answer her cell, no note or anything. She was just… gone.”
Detective Cadwell “very compelling story. Where did you go to lunch?”
“Just went to a park to eat my lunch I had brought from home,”
“So what you’re saying that around noon, during the time that your wife went missing, you were at a park eating lunch where nobody else can account for your whereabouts? Interesting.”
“Well, it’s the truth, I don’t know what else you want…”
“Oh I’m not done Mr. Bodi. As I’m sure you know, a neighbor reported seeing a white van outside your house around noon that day she went missing. The neighbor claimed she hadn’t ever seen that car before.”
“But I have a black sedan, so how cou-”
“I’m well aware Mr. Bodi, what do you do at work?”
“I’m an internet technician for the district,”
“So does this mean you, travel different places sometimes?”
“Yes, when it’s needed,”
“And did you travel anywhere the day your wife went missing?”
“Not for my work.”
“And do you have a specific car you use for work, I’m sure your small sedan couldn’t possibly hold all of your equipment.”
“Yes, I have a work car”
“And can you describe that car for me? The one you use for work?”
“... well it’s a… it’s a white van.”
The door to the interrogation room opens, in steps team member #1
“Sir, we just found the body. It was ditched about four blocks from central park in a dumpster. Cause of death is suspected from blunt force trauma to the skull, possibly with a tool like a screwdriver. Time of death was around 12:30 on Tuesday.”
“Thank you, I’ll be out soon.”
Mr. Bodi gulps and loosens the tie around his neck, sweating
“Now Mr Bodi, do you have anything in your van that you use, like a screwdriver perhaps?”
“Well… yes I do but I swear I didn-”
“Let’s see here. You leave work around noon to go to a place where nobody can confirm your whereabouts, you leave in a white van just like the white van that suspiciously showed up at your house the day of the murder, you carry the necessary weapon that could have been used to murder your wife and then disposed of, and you have the audacity to keep denying a confession?!”
Yelling “I DIDN’T KILL MY WIFE!”
End scene
Based on a true story
“I remember it clearly. I had been leaning against the wall of an alleyway off of 5th street, waiting for Joey to come with my money. I had got him into a job where he could…. pick up… whatever he needed and he owed me $200. I know it seems like a lot of pay off just to get some kid a job, but I had to flirt with the manager for three weeks straight. She was very beautiful so it took longer to win her over, I guess it was because she was use to people flirting with her. Still, I’d never come across anybody I couldn’t win over. It’s a win-win. They get some attention and I get whatever I want… basically.
I had just gone to get some coffee beforehand. Walked in seeing a shyer new girl working there, threw her a smile and asked if I could get her number so I could take her out to dinner. She was so flustered she didn’t even remember to take money from me for the coffee, and that’s that. I walk away with a free coffee and her number, both to end up in the trash. My philosophy is, if you want something, you have to reach out and take it. Winning the game and following all the rules don’t exactly match up in real life.
Joey finally walked into the alleyway, 13 minutes late. I knew from the moment I saw him that he didn’t have my money. I don’t believe in the system’s rules but I believe in my own rules; if you don’t have my money there will be consequences. After all, I was a businessman, and when I make a promise… or a threat, I deliver. He said that he didn’t have my money because he had to give it to his mother who was sick. I said I was sorry, then nearly beat the life out of him. I told him that before I made the deal with him. It sounds wrong, but if I don’t follow through, then my clients would start thinking that exceptions are okay, and giving me an excuse is okay. It’s not. In essence, I am not here to be a friend, I am here to be a businessman and that’s how it works.
Where it went wrong was when the police showed up. I was arrested because I was also carrying an unregistered gun, a personal caution. I was held in a prison until my court date which was four weeks away. The people in the prison ranged from bulky meatheads covered with tattoos to smaller anxious people, whom I assumed has committed small crimes and regretted it because they wouldn’t last in prison. I was in shape, but not super tall or bulky like I was sure the other cell members in jail would be.
One of the officers told me that for possession of an unregistered weapon and almost killing someone would land me about five years. I pondered about myself, how I would work my way out of this. I knew I could, after all I wasn’t just anyone, I was businessman Charles Bodi and I could work my way out of anything, I just had to think of how. Another guy, a lankier, rat-like, but chatty guy, came up to me and asked what I was in for and how long I was looking at. I didn’t care much to talk to him, but it proved useful after I answered his questions. He suggested that what I could do was fake madness and ask to see the prison psychologist. I think the court calls it “pleading insanity.” I had recently watched the film “Crash” which is about an insane person who gets sexual pleasure from crashing cars into walls; I had also read a bibliography of Ted Bundy from the prison library, and in it he had said that he liked seeing women die because it made him feel more normal. So I asked to see the prison psychologist, and I told him about how crashing cars into walls gave me sexual pleasure, and how watching women die made me feel normal. The psychologist asked me more questions about it, all to which I lied about the insane things I had seen crazy people think in movies, or on the news.
When the time came for my court date, I had really adopted my new character and, if I do say so myself, I was quite convinced that I could work my way out of this so they would send me to some cushy hospital where I would get taken care of and given anything I wanted. That’s when it went bad. Cursed by myself, I faked madness too well. The judge decided that I should be sent to the Broadmoor hospital, which is also known as the Broadmoor asylum for the criminally insane. Asylums are where they put serial killers and criminally disturbed people, and as soon as I got there I told them this was a terrible mistake. I am not a mentally ill person, that I had faked madness. They didn’t believe me.
From then on out I did everything I could to prove that I was sane, that I was just a normal person who was trying to get out of prison. It didn’t work because it seemed that everything I did, that seemed so normal to me, the doctors somehow twisted around. I stayed in my cell a lot because I didn’t want to go out where the serial killers and insane people were. They took it as a sign of aloofness and isolation, and wrote it down as part of my mental illness.
I thought that if I acted normal, and talked about normal things, and looked normal, that I could convince them that I was sane and in my right mind. I got a pinstripe suit and stayed in shape. I ate healthy. I subscribed to a news article and I had read that the military was trying to train flies to sniff out explosives, so I told one of the doctors about it. Later looking at the notes my doctor made, he had jotted down “ believes flies can sniff out explosives.” If I learned anything, it is that the things that seem most normal can be used as the extreme that is portrayed as mental illness. What exactly is being normal? or sane? The doctors take quite a few non verbal clues. But it occurred to me, how do you sit like a sane person? Do I cross my legs like a sane person? Do I watch t.v. like a sane person? Do I eat like a sane person? There is no way to really tell.
Like I said before, my prison trial was going to be five years. I was still in Broadmoor and it had been 12 years. I couldn’t prove that I was sane, and it is much harder to prove you’re insane than it is to prove you aren’t. Finally I asked my doctor why I was here, if they really understood that I had faked it and I just wanted to go home now. That’s when my doctor told me why I was still in the asylum. It shocked me really. My doctor looked at me and said, “Charles, we’ve carefully assessed you, and we believe that you faked madness. We know you aren’t insane.” I remember getting angry, that I had been here for no reason, but they continued. They told me that what I was, was not insane, but a psychopath. They explained how I was a psychopath, and that I was a danger which is why I was here. The things they told me, how psychopaths are manipulative, cunning, have a grandiose sense of self worth, lack of empathy, and so on, where strange. In the business world I grew up in, that is how you climbed the ladder and became successful. Everything that seemed normal to me, is what convinced the doctor’s that I was a psychopath. As a matter of fact, faking your brain going wrong was a sign in itself that your brain has gone wrong.
I got out after 14 years of being in Broadmoor, when they decided I wasn’t dangerous. As I reentered the real world with real people, I began seeing psychopath behavior everywhere based on what the doctors told me. I concluded, everyone has a bit of psychopath in them, whether it’s being manipulative to rule things in their favor, or being cunning and self centered. How do you decided when someone is not sane enough, to keep them locked up. How do you assess a person completely, when people are so complicated. We live in a world of gray people, who are assessed as black or white. I remember going to my hotel room after I got out. I flirted with the lady at the desk who then gave me a discount. I began to question myself, is psychopathy from the brain going wrong, or a part of human nature? I looked at the ledge of the balcony outside my window and wondered what it would be like to live in a world of psychopaths. I am in an undeniable belief, that it would be the same.” I put my pen down. I had finished my book. It was to be published tomorrow, I just had to get to my signing. I was headed down the street with the original unpublished manuscript in my hands, winking at some of the girls as I passed by. Then out of nowhere I heard a gunshot and felt my shirt became soaked near my left shoulder. I fell down to see my old cellmate from the psychopath section of the asylum walking away stuffing a gun into his jacket and disappearing into the chaos of the crowd.
Turn Around
Flipping through the radio was something I didn’t normally do, but today nothing good was on. Getting through traffic was already treacherous enough, I didn’t need to listen to bad music and ads while I was at it. Hardly pausing on each of the songs, I flipped through the stations; one finally caught my attention. I wasn’t even sure if I had heard it I was going through it so fast. Just as I was flipping backwards through the last few stations to see if I would hear it again, my car radio turned off. Knowing it was probably just a glitch, I turned it back on and it was playing a song I didn’t mind. Leaning back in my seat I took a shaky breath, rationing away the weird radio. Mindlessly I started clutching my steering wheel, a nervous habit. Nobody else was in my car, except it felt like there was. Obviously, I thought, there was nothing going on because I didn’t even believe in that kind of stuff; I just couldn’t stop thinking about when I was flipping through the radio stations. Pondering what had happened, I started making a list in my head of what was real and what wasn’t. Questionable, I heard the radio say my name and tell me to turn around. Real, I haven’t slept in two days. So, I guess it was all just my imagination. Then, the radio changed stations which caught my attention because my hands hadn’t left my steering wheel. Under the little screen that shows which radio station I’m on there were three words. Vanessa, turnaround. Wanting to just stop my car and get out, I slowed down. Exhaling slowly I speeded my car back up because today had been a long day and for all I know I was hallucinating. Yesterday I was perfectly fine and so was my radio; I concluded it was definitely just me imagining things. Zero explanations came across my mind that seemed practical enough; maybe I was dreaming, or hallucinating. After a while I couldn’t stop glancing down at the radio station. Bound by those three words, and then all of the sudden a clock appeared. Counting down from 10 right next to the words “turn around”; before what I knew was happening it struck 0 and a car crashed into mine from the side, pushing me into the river right off the road. Drowning, I couldn’t get out of my car and as I looked down the radio said only two words, “too late.” Everything went black.
Victoria
Bliss in Barcelona
Back when I was younger, my favourite game to play was candyland. I’d always be the blue player, and I made sure we never went on a roadtrip without it. I loved the way the bright colors were so unreal and unlike the world outside, and honestly, who would want plain, dull, grey cement sidewalks when you can imagine gumdrop sidewalks with peppermint trees? Now candyland, as far as I had known, was the best, most colorful, most amazing place I could possibly imagine. That is, until the trip that would change my mind, and undoubtedly, my dreams. It all started when my parents finally decided to let me join them on their annual trip to Spain to visit distant family. The plane ride was if anything, dull, and seemed infinite. The packaged peanuts, slightly salted left me thirsty, but not for water. For adventure into the unknown. My parents sat in the row in front of me, while I sat in the window seat in the row behind next to a student who informed me that she was going back to spain. She smelled of freesia flowers and had long, dark hair paired with a friendly, genuine smile. She advised my parents to not walk back to the hotel after they got off of the plane, but to take a taxi for safety. We thanked her and continued. The hotel smelled of fresh linen and air fresheners. The world outside the window was dark and disconnected from the small room of the hotel, yet the bright freshly washed sheets on the bed were as close to home away from home I had ever come across. The lamps played out shadows and soft light across the room, just to the point where it wasn’t too bright you couldn’t fall asleep, and not to dull you couldn’t see. The mini fridge in the corner of the room opened up to cold soda’s I had never heard of, and liquors labelled in another language. After slipping into my pajamas, with the smell of toothpaste still in my breath, the night consumed me.
The morning is when everything changed. Every amazing magical thing that had ever happened to me before this was irrelevant. This was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now imagining the only thing that could possibly reference this was Candyland. A blown up version of a fairytale book, the bright pigments reflecting in the sun caught my eyes in ways that I couldn’t take in the very place I was seeing. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. We started our first day there at a small wall covered in the most beautiful colors my eyes had ever seen. They looked like the first popsicles of every summer and the colors you’d see when reading children’s books about far away places. Going down to the beach where the crowds roamed free and the smell of fries and fruit wafted through the air along with the taste of salt water and hot sand tingling after every barefoot step. With the sun shining bright glistening off of the ocean the only place that could possibly compare would be paradise. Maybe this is paradise, maybe this is a Candyland lover’s dream. Or maybe, this is just barcelona, a fist protesting against everyone else that there is wonderful beauty left in the world.
My own backyard
You don’t really have to tell me twice, because I already know that the neighborhood I grew up in was awful, but believe me when I say that I had the childhood that children’s book novelists can only begin to come up with. I’m not talking I got a dog and went to school, I’m talking I had lemonade stands and a tree house and a pink sparkly bike with training wheels. Up until this point my life has been utterly cliche. Wrapped up in the blanket of my backyard that was just past the driveway and through the red alleyway gate. When I used to walk down the alley and as soon as I turned the corner after the shed it felt like the only home I’ll ever know. The grape vines on the left, the garage on the right, the basketball hoop hanging high above my 1 through 11 year old head, and that was just the driveway. You could walk through the gate past the bright chalk drawings and step onto the grass always growing greener than the neighbors. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of grass between your toes when you don’t have a care in the world and dance to songs only you can hear inside your head. Right past the gate was one walkway pade of stepping stones, brightly mosaiced with the broken dishes and glasses throughout the years. To the left was a garden so big it took up almost a third of the yard. There was big bushes that bloomed tiny white and yellow sweet smelling flowers every spring, and pine trees that never went bare. There were daffodils, and roses, and marigolds, and larkspur, and violets, and many more that I did not know the name of but admired none the less. But if you ever had flowers as many as these, you know the one thing they attract more than anything is bees. As a small child you’d assume that those bright black and yellow flying balls of fuzz would have been terrifying but when you march and and don’t mind if they land on you while you look and water the flowers it’s really not bad at all. Up ahead in front of that garden, right up next to the house and to the left of the porch was yet another garden where my mother had planted mint leaves and chives and an assortment of snapdragons, which were always my favourite. Every year I made sure that we had yellow, pink, purple, and orange snapdragons. To the right of the old wood porch, there were quite a few things. It was the play yard, and no there wasn’t any grass, but there were plenty other things. There was a dog house that my dog hated and never went in, there was a plastic toy shed that held all of our outside toys like plastic spoons and shovels and frisbees and soccer balls and anything else a kid could possibly need. I remember only that it smelled musty, but I didn’t mind all that much. There was a sandbox which I used to make scale models of the castles I was positive I would live in when I got older. The sand squished between my toes being cooled off with water gave the feeling of summer in my feet. There, beside the house as an extension of the yard, was yet another garden of which contained peppers and tomatoes. My mother always made sure to buy ones that weren’t quite as spicy but sometimes on those hot summer days you could hear her in the kitchen and the smell of salsa and roasting peppers would waft through the air. Finally, the grand star of the yard, besides the gardens of course: the tree house. We had a very large tree in the middle of the right half of the yard, right across from the big garden. The treehouse was very high up and even though the tree had been struck by lightning and now refused to grow any leaves, it was sturdy and strong and now was the host to a tree house. I remember my father building the treehouse by hand with no help and it was quite a big treehouse if I do say so myself. When you were up there you could look down on the world and everything would go quiet except for the wind that you could always hear the rustling from a bird or a squirrel. The air would smell clean and dry, just like you’d expect summer to smell. The dark green paint of the treehouse was a barrier slowly peeling away slightly at the edges and the twinkling lights that turned on at night were as bright as the stars we could see when we camped up there. Where the night sky was our bedroom night light that glowed with the pale moonlight casting shadows that made you feel like it was some other place all together. Even during the day when you see look out and see husbands yelling at their wives and prison cellmates driving off in their stolen cars, it was a magical place unlike any other in the safety of my own backyard.
Character Development Assignment
John sat there waiting under the hot lamp shining on every drop of sweat rolling down his face. A small electric fan was blowing in the corner but fought with no avail to the heat inside the room. The cool metal against his wrists was attached to a steel table already nailed down. He looked up at the mirror and knew it held more eyes than his own, then looked down clenching and unclenching his fists, he felt sweat drip down off his nose and he watched it fall down, but as it hit the table it seemed to almost slow down… the splatter of the drop seemed almost languid. Something had changed, as if the world went silent; as if someone flipped off the background noise, the tv static. He looked up; the fan in the corner was still. The air did not move around him and the heat seemed to have evaporated into a cool, dry chill. The door swung open silently behind him however the man that walked in did not appear in the mirror. He had slicked coal black hair, pale skin with a clean shave, a long black trench coat, freshly shined black shoes, and dark sunglasses that he took off to reveal brown eyes that were so dark they were almost as black as his hair. John thought that in any other situation he would have steered away from the dark character, but now he couldn’t take his eyes off of the stranger. The stranger pulled up a chair, silently scraping it against the cement floor. The stranger sat down and interlocked his hands in front of him on the table.
After a few moments of silence the stranger blinked, cocked his head slightly and said, “hello Jonathan.” Trying to play of his nervousness, John smirked in an amused fashion and said, “you some weird cousin I don’t know about here to get me out?”
The stranger gave a small smirk in reply but then the smile evaporated. “Yes and no. No, I am not your weird cousin; yes, I am here to offer you a chance to live.” John perked up and raised an eyebrow, now curious in the stranger. “Who are you exactly bud?” John questioned. “My name is Joseph Achmetha. I am a dealer, and I have a deal that was given to me to offer you. You have one chance to make a decision and that decision is final. There are no redos or second chances so I advise that you think cautiously and thoroughly.”
“I still don’t understand,” John blurted out, “seriously just tell me... why are you here?”
“I am here to offer you a deal.” Joseph replied calmly.
“But who? Who is giving me a deal? What is this all about? Who sent you? Why is everything seemingly frozen?” Panic and frustration set into John’s eyes.
“Let me elaborate more. Achmetha, it means brother of death. I am here because of my brother, Methusael, which means who demands for death…”
“wait, is this like some grim reaper shit prank because I don’t have time for this... I am about to be sentenced and I-” Joseph cut him off. “John you need to start listening very closely and open your mind past whatever you have come to know to be real and myth. Yes, you know him as the grim reaper, and I know him as Methusael. Yes, he is my brother and I am the person who offers his deals to certain individuals. You are about to be tried and sentenced to death, however Methusael has chosen you to have the opportunity to live.”
“Doesn’t God choose who lives and dies?” John asked, regrettably already guessing at the answer.
“No, God does not choose. It is Methus bael’s job to choose, and it is none the less a curse. Life is fragile, and to toy with death is a game that should not be played. It is a balance that he holds in his hands, deciding who lives and who dies. He must sit there and watch families and friends weep as he steals someone away… he-” John cut Joseph off now in anger.
“Why does he have to do that? Why does he have to tear everyone apart? Everyone deserves to live!” John’s eyes started to tear up and his face became red. His hands shook against the cuffs digging into his wrists.
“Because,” Joseph said sadly,”it was what he was born to do. Every person deserves to live, yet every person has to die. He has no other choice, it was and forever will be his destiny. He uses his power as wisely as he can and understands more than any mortal ever shall. He has come to make you an offer because he believes you have more potential to do within your life than what you have already done.”
John finally started to calm down as if he understood something about what was impossible for him to understand. He sighed with contempt and then asked, “what is his offer?”
Joseph sighed in relief that John was not going to question more about things he shouldn’t know.
“The offer is simple, it is the choice that is difficult. Because you have potential to this earth, you are valuable; far beyond your own belief. You are worth three lives and, if you live, you will go on to create great things. However you will find that this offer is a double edged knife. If you decide that you would like to keep living and become what you were destined to be, then he will not take your life. However he still needs a the value of your life to be taken from someone, or in this case, three someones whom also must be related to you. If you choose your own life, you must choose three others of your relatives for him to take. If you choose to die, you will be the only one he takes. This is his final offer, there is no negotiating and I need an answer within one week. Think carefully Jonathan, you have accidentally gotten yourself into a very tricky game.” John closed his eyes and breathed and deep breath in and slowly let it out. His eyes opened to his apartment ceiling and himself in his bed. He checked his phone and saw that it was exactly a week before the police put him in the investigation room. A breeze wafted through the room and although the sun was warm, the breeze was chilled and swept across the room in a sullen sigh.
Characters:
Detective’s team member #1: a member of the detective cadwell’s team.
Charles Bodi: main suspect being interrogated in the assumed murder of his missing wife, but is not the actual killer. Innocent but nobody believes him.
Detective James Cadwell: interrogator in the Robin Pendleton missing dcase. Divorced, lives alone. Strict and to the rules. Convinced that charles bodi killed his wife.
Setting: The stage is set as an interrogation room in a new york police station. A mirror is placed on the right hand of the stage. In the center of the stage is a metal desk, with two metal chairs on either side of the table. The walls are blank and white besides one clock and one camera turned on. On the desk is a place where handcuffs are attached. Charles sits on the left, facing the mirror, and Detective Cadwell sits across from him, angled and leaning forward. His stance and tone is accusing, as if he is daring mr bodi to keep denying it.charles is stanced defensive and a bit aggressive. A the scene begins, a single large spotlight will be places on the table and where the characters sit, but still enough to illuminate the rest of the stage. Detective Cadwell is wearing a suit, a bit loose fitting. Detective Cadwell looks sleep deprived and a bit worn out but unyielding and relentless in the case. Charles bodi is wearing a blue button up shirt with a tie undone, but still around his neck . He is also wearing black pants. Cuffs are around his wrists and hooked to the table. The detective is aggressive in position and stance, and throughout will get quite obviously upset about how long the interrogation is being dragged out. Throughout the scene, there will be times when one of the characters will break away from the table. A single small spotlight will be placed on them and the rest of the stage will be dark. This will show the internal monologue and thought processes of Charles Bodi and Detective Cadwell.
Detective Cadwell enters and sits
Mr. Bodi sits up
Detective Cadwell “Rough week you’ve had here Mr. Bodi,”
Charles Bodi “Excuse me?”
Detective Cadwell“Well you know,with your wife being missing and all.”
Charles Bodi “Ah yes, I’ve been kind of in shock lately, as if, I can’t believe any of this is really happening.”
Detective CadwellIn a passive aggressive tone “Mmm, I bet this is just tearing you apart, isn’t it?”
Charles Bodi Defensively “Yes, it has been. Just like any man who loses his wife…”
Detective Cadwell stands up and paces a bit around the room whilst talking
Detective Cadwell“But you see Charles, that’s where you’re wrong. Not..all men are torn up if their wife goes missing… some, as a matter of fact, are probably glad they’re gone. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Charles Bodi “What are you getting at here detective?”
Detective Cadwell place both hands on the table and leans in
Detective Cadwell “What I’m getting at here Mr. Bodi is that I believe you did it and now I’m here for proof,”
Charles Bodi “I didn’t do it detective, I almost wish I did because then this would be over sooner.”
Detective Cadwell Daring “Just admit to it and this conversation will be over…”
Charles Bodi “I would, except that I didn’t do it.”
Detective Cadwell Smirking “Okay, Mr. Bodi, let’s do it your way. Let’s start earlier this week, what were you doing the day and night of monday, June 19th?”
Charles Bodi “Well, I work throughout the week days at my office building and on Monday mornings I always stop for some coffee and a bagel.”
Detective Cadwell “Which shop do you go to?”
Charles Bodi “Café amoré-”
Detective Cadwell “And that can be confirmed?”
Charles Bodi “Of course it can..”
Detective Cadwell jotting things down “continue”
Charles Bodi “After that, I went to work and had lunch around noon at the office. Then back to work, home around seven, dinner at eight, and then did some work at home for my company and went to bed.”
Detective Cadwell “So you and your wife didn’t have any… arguments about anything? Anything resting unease between you?”
Charles Bodi “No, just a normal night.”
Detective Cadwell “Mhm, and do you drive a car? Walk? Bike?-”
Charles Bodi “A car,”
Detective Cadwell “And where is this car right now?”
Charles Bodi “Well it’s in the shop, another car must run into mine in the parking lot while I was at work, drove off without a note or anything.”
Detective Cadwell “Uh huh, let’s go to the day she went missing, last tuesday. Could you describe that?”
Charles Bodi “Well it was just like the day before, coffee and bagel, work, went out to lunch, went back to work, and then went home except she was gone. She didn’t answer her cell, no note or anything. She was just… gone.”
Detective Cadwell “very compelling story. Where did you go to lunch?”
“Just went to a park to eat my lunch I had brought from home,”
“So what you’re saying that around noon, during the time that your wife went missing, you were at a park eating lunch where nobody else can account for your whereabouts? Interesting.”
“Well, it’s the truth, I don’t know what else you want…”
“Oh I’m not done Mr. Bodi. As I’m sure you know, a neighbor reported seeing a white van outside your house around noon that day she went missing. The neighbor claimed she hadn’t ever seen that car before.”
“But I have a black sedan, so how cou-”
“I’m well aware Mr. Bodi, what do you do at work?”
“I’m an internet technician for the district,”
“So does this mean you, travel different places sometimes?”
“Yes, when it’s needed,”
“And did you travel anywhere the day your wife went missing?”
“Not for my work.”
“And do you have a specific car you use for work, I’m sure your small sedan couldn’t possibly hold all of your equipment.”
“Yes, I have a work car”
“And can you describe that car for me? The one you use for work?”
“... well it’s a… it’s a white van.”
The door to the interrogation room opens, in steps team member #1
“Sir, we just found the body. It was ditched about four blocks from central park in a dumpster. Cause of death is suspected from blunt force trauma to the skull, possibly with a tool like a screwdriver. Time of death was around 12:30 on Tuesday.”
“Thank you, I’ll be out soon.”
Mr. Bodi gulps and loosens the tie around his neck, sweating
“Now Mr Bodi, do you have anything in your van that you use, like a screwdriver perhaps?”
“Well… yes I do but I swear I didn-”
“Let’s see here. You leave work around noon to go to a place where nobody can confirm your whereabouts, you leave in a white van just like the white van that suspiciously showed up at your house the day of the murder, you carry the necessary weapon that could have been used to murder your wife and then disposed of, and you have the audacity to keep denying a confession?!”
Yelling “I DIDN’T KILL MY WIFE!”
End scene