8. [Chapter 8 Antisocial Personality Disorder]
It's like writing the address on an envelope.
He didn't give me a direct answer. But after that day, whether Lawrence killed someone or not, we would make love, like real couples, anytime, anywhere, to the fullest.
We stopped to rest in a small town that day. The roads Lawrence frequently travels on are relatively remote, and it was quite difficult for us to come across a town, so we decided to stay for three days before continuing our journey.
The hotel room faced south, so the sun was shining brightly, but the wind and sand were incredibly strong, and the view was desolate. We had to keep the windows closed the whole time, but actually, we had to keep them closed no matter what. Lawrence was fucking me so hard, it was like he was trying to kill me. I couldn't even tell if I was screaming with pleasure or screaming in pain. Perhaps the thought of fucking me to death never left his crazy mind.
Once out of bed, Lawrence was just an ordinary beast; once outside, he was a normal person. We went grocery shopping together. Lawrence was only responsible for finding the tools he would use to kill me, such as rope, wire, the drill bit he had been longing for, and various medical supplies, like alcohol swabs and aspirin. He was making sure I wasn't killed by anything other than him. If I died from an infection, Lawrence would absolutely go berserk. I was responsible for throwing all sorts of food and bottled water into the shopping cart. Before meeting me, Lawrence only ate compressed biscuits and energy bars; after that, I would buy him some beef jerky, chocolate, and canned goods—things that were more in line with normal tastes.
Lawrence's sense of taste was different from most people's; at least I didn't need raw or cooked human flesh to supplement my protein. When we went to restaurants, Lawrence didn't show this side of himself. He ate hamburgers and fries like me, but while I ate vegetarian, Lawrence would take two pieces of steak. He ate very elegantly; no one could see the brutality within him. To others, Lawrence was a rare gentleman among truck drivers; to me, he was a beast who wouldn't eat until the food was safe. I've always wondered, what exactly is a serial killer? Perhaps they are also human, only their animalistic instincts overwhelmed their humanity, making them closer to our ancestors. A century ago, some scholars believed that the essence of human criminal behavior is a kind of atavism. Due to genetic defects, there is always a segment of humanity who are "born criminals." They lack the sense of pain, have keen eyesight, lack shame and compassion, are morbidly vain, and are easily provoked. If this scholar hadn't died long ago, he really should have met Lawrence.
Lawrence only kills people he encounters on the highway—a rare consistency in his otherwise erratic behavior. His superb acting always amazes me. Before meeting Lawrence in person, I never imagined someone like the "Highway Butcher" could integrate so perfectly into society, even thrive. A recent theory suggests that among those with antisocial personality disorder, some with high IQs are termed "high-functioning antisocial individuals." Despite lacking empathy, they excel at learning and imitating normal human behavior, thus disguising themselves to deceive and manipulate others for personal gain. They are enigmatic, rarely revealing private information or thoughts, and generally dislike being alone, yet their impeccable social skills make them alluring. Girls are drawn to Lawrence's dangerous yet captivating nature; in bars, young women flock to him. Only there can they safely chat and laugh with Lawrence, like antelopes yet to enter a lion's hunting range. Lawrence will invite them for drinks, dancing, and even dates—his practice in faking normalcy. But if a girl became so infatuated with him that she relentlessly followed him onto the highway—and this wasn't an isolated incident—he would immediately find a secluded spot and unleash a killing spree. Thanks to his charm, Lawrence didn't even need to hunt; prey would fall into his trap.
The biggest difference between the small town and the highway is that there are police here. It's not that there aren't any police cars on the highway—bees will go far from their hive to collect nectar—but the police station in this small town is like the hive itself, and Lawrence wouldn't poke at it. There's always a wanted poster for "The Highway Butcher" plastered outside the station, of course without a photo or the name "Caesar Lawrence," making it seem ridiculous, like trying to catch a ghost without a physical form in a net. When we pass the police station, Lawrence glances at the notice board, and I smile at him. Does Lawrence laugh uncontrollably at invalid warrants? No, he keeps a straight face. It's only when we get back to the hotel that he'll be rolling around in bed laughing, or when he's shaving in front of the mirror and sees his own face, he'll burst out laughing. If we're driving on the highway and Lawrence suddenly bursts into laughter without warning, unless I'm thinking about the people he killed and haven't done anything foolish, he's most likely laughing at the wanted poster.
But being a cop isn't easy either. Before I met the "Highway Butcher," Lawrence had been wandering alone on the Nevada-Arizona border for two years, killing forty people—that's roughly one kill every two weeks. In the short six months since we started our "road trip" together, that number had skyrocketed to sixty. He was not only killing weekly, but his crime spree had also expanded; we'd occasionally spend a month or two in California, where the climate was pleasant. Interstate joint operations are a major headache for the police, especially with the already shortage of highway patrol officers and the strong personalities of native Westerners—cooperation is absolutely maddening for them. While they were still arguing about "who gets the most credit if we actually catch the 'Highway Butcher,'" Lawrence and I were already driving our truck to the next state.
I've digressed a bit. We're still in town. Most of the time, I stay in my hotel bed watching TV, listening to what the station and ordinary people think about the "Highway Killer," lest I become corrupted by his behavior and forget how a normal person should think. Lawrence, on the other hand, organizes the crime notes I've kept for him, then takes them to the post office and mails them to a fixed address. I haven't seen any explosive news on TV yet, like "Police station receives provocative letter from the 'Highway Killer,' 'Zodiac Killer' has a successor," so I guess Lawrence just sends them to people he knows. Every time I want to ask him who that person is, I never manage to bring myself to ask. I rarely ask Lawrence about him, just as he never asks me. We are the closest of strangers.
Lawrence wasn't incapable of observation, but rather lacked empathy. His insight was incredibly sharp; I hadn't even realized it myself before he asked me, "Are you anxious?" You can't try to understand Lawrence using the same methods you use for ordinary people, nor can you simply read his mind. So these are just my speculations: Lawrence thought that when I said "Let's be together," I didn't mean "Let's go buy matching rings," but rather "I want to be your dog." Because he bought me a dog collar, black with a small gold oval tag, which he personally engraved "US Route 50," like writing an address on an envelope. The section of this highway in Nevada is known as "America's loneliest highway," and he "found" me on this road. He wouldn't let me take the collar off, and I didn't want to.
I wore that collar to a book fair with Lawrence. As I mentioned before, there was always something incongruous about him. Before he killed, he listened to classical music, like Verdi's Requiem and Wagner's Valhalla; when he wasn't driving, killing, or having sex, he would read a lot. My knowledge of "antisocial personality disorder" almost entirely came from the books he kept in the driver's seat; I suppose he was also studying himself.
This is a peaceful and quiet town, but all the books at the exhibition were about crime and murder. I don't think the townspeople care much about the dark side of society; they're probably just bored and need some excitement. Like my ex-girlfriend Sarah, who, despite being a wealthy girl with no worries about food or clothing, always loved watching all sorts of horror movies and insisted on dragging me along. I couldn't stand the gory scenes back then, but I didn't want her to discover my phobia and laugh at my lack of masculinity, so I had to swallow my anger and lie, saying I drank too much cola. I frequently went to the bathroom to vomit during the movie, frantically cleaned myself up, and then sat back down next to her, holding the popcorn bucket for her.
But ever since Lawrence's "exposure therapy" took effect, I now find those scenes created with artificial blood to be nothing more than child's play. Yesterday we even went to the video store and bought the DVD of *The Shining*, which we watched on the hotel TV. Lawrence found it boring; he said the protagonist, Jack, didn't know how to use an axe at all, and the angle of the blood splattering was bizarre—the director clearly had never killed anyone. An axe is indeed difficult to use because the blade is uneven, making it unstable and prone to going astray due to inertia. A machete works the same way, but Lawrence used it exceptionally well; he could achieve the desired effect with a casual swing. If he wanted to cut off someone's thumb, he would only cut the thumb, without even harming a hair on the index finger—his technique was unparalleled. I said he could be an action director, and he laughed, saying I could replace that ugly female lead; I'm much prettier than her, and my screams are much more pitiful—the audience would be terrified. We both agreed that horror movies are better played by beautiful women, like Isabelle Adjani in "Possession." She has black hair and green eyes, just like me, and Lawrence really likes that look.
"What are you looking at?" Lawrence suddenly leaned close behind me, looking at the book I was holding. It was a horror novel about a New York serial killer. He dreamed of becoming an architect and building himself the perfect house, but in a moment of impulse, he killed someone, and from then on, he couldn't stop. Over twelve years, he accumulated a whole cold storage room full of corpses, using them to build a house before the police finally found him, ultimately falling into hell. Coincidentally, this person was also named Jack, the same name as the protagonist of *The Shining*, seemingly a popular name among serial killers. Even more interestingly, this Mr. Jack had also dragged people behind his car, in a densely populated city where he could be seen at any moment, but he was in a hurry to escape the crime scene and didn't care about anything else. The bloodstains ran from the murder scene to the cold storage room, and just as he was worrying, a torrential rain came down, washing away all his incriminating evidence. Unlike Lawrence, Jack's victims were already dead before being dragged. Lawrence must have looked down on that kind of behavior.
I handed the book to Lawrence. He glanced at the spine, flipped through the table of contents, and finally looked at the reviewer's recommendation. "Do you like this book?" he asked.
“I think it’s very well written. It gives you a sense of fear from the bottom of your heart, as if you were there,” I said. “To be honest, I feel a bit cold right now.”
"Compared to when we did those things together?" Lawrence chuckled knowingly.
I told you the truth: "You're scarier."
Lawrence laughed and bought the book for me, then put his arm around my shoulder and went back to the hotel.
A note from the author:
Verdi's Requiem is based on the theme of the Last Judgment, so I feel that calling it "Requiem of Terror" would be more appropriate (laughs).
"The Gods Enter Valhalla" is from Wagner's opera "Der Ring des Nibelung: Dauphin Gold".
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com