Fifth Period Stats by Kaila Allison

Sunday, September 21, 2014
Kaila Allison's frightening insight into the mind of a psychopathic schoolboy.

So, it's Eric here, duh, coming at you from fifth period Stats class where I am - you guessed it - bored as all Holy Hell. I don't get why people do this shit. Looking at the fat, broad back of Mr. L as he scribbles formulas on the chalkboard makes me sick. That globby fold of skin at his neck is not a pretty picture. Bet you he hasn't been laid, well, ever. Poor bastard. Gave me an A last quarter, can you believe it? And I didn't even show up to all the tests and everything. Just told him my sweet old doggy-woggy died and I'm suffering from post-traumatic depression so couldn't come to class. Bastard will believe whatever shit comes out of my mouth cuz he's secretly in love with me, that fairy. I'm really a good student when I want to be.

Perked my head up when one of the questions that the old L gave us had been about suicide rates and amount of homework given at school. Wow, these profs really trying to tell us something, are they? Raising a generation of zombie-children, are they? Suckling on books like they're food or something. Lotta stuff you can learn from books, like how to build pipe bombs and how to get guns when you're underage. But we don't read those kinds of books in school. We read shit like Shakespeare. That guy's pretty smart, with all his puns and stuff. Quite like his bloody scenes too, like all those deaths at the end of Hamlet. I like when Ophelia drowns herself. But the profs don't linger on that because they have deadlines to meet with the state.

I've seen those real study-minded kids though and they're hungry for being Valedictorian cuz they get a lot of pride having Principal Fuck-Face pin a shiny ribbon onto their lapel. I could be Valedictorian if I really wanted, if I had the drive and all that. But I'm interested in other things. If they had classes on psychopaths in school I'd be the fucking Valedictorian. Imagine me up there at graduation, standing and grinning like a clownish bastard, with that corny ribbon on my chest. There won't be any fucking graduation anyway.

So the stat was that with 95% confidence the amount of homework given at school did positively correlate with the number of suicides! Well that was the conclusion I came to after doing the goddamned Z-test or T-test or fucking Chi-square. Maybe I did it wrong. Never have been one to check my work, but who cares. Some things you don't need math to prove. You can see it with your eyes.

Like last year this prep, Preston von Douchebag, was number one at everything, typical textbook jerkoff that was smart and got hundreds of chicks and athletic and wealthy and all the teachers were like bowing down to him like he was the fucking Messiah. Apparently the kid was slated to be fought over between Yale, Princeton and Harvard. When letters came in the mail, they were slim. He'd been rejected. From all three. A mistake, he thought, it must all be some mistake. But Daddy saw and gave him a nice slap across the face. Then a week before graduation, Mommy found him a-swinging from one of those fancy-pants preppy belts from the ceiling fan in the den, face all purple and drool dripping from his black tongue onto the plush carpet below.

M and D are absolutely clueless about our society nowadays. I hate it when adults are like, "Well back in the day," and, "Well your generation..." blah-fucking-blah. Yeah Mommy and Daddy, why don't you go ahead and tell me about my own generation, since you know us all so well. Stop blaming us for all of your goddamned Baby Boomer problems.

Anyway, keep getting googly-eyes from Ramona T who sits next to me. She's sort of good looking, I guess, but has this gross kind of snaggle tooth when she smiles. She acts all Christian-y and good but I know she has a secret desire to be with a bad boy like me. All girls like that do. It's some disease or something. And with my over-the-top charms and world-class smile I bet she just can't resist me. I'm sure she dreams about us riding a motorcycle together while touching herself at night. Jeez.

Let's see... old L is still up there blabbing away and looking over at me like I'm taking real good notes on whatever it is he's blabbing about. Gives me a little fairy smile. Sometimes I'm just too impressed with myself, with my ability to fool the average person. Or are people just astoundingly stupid these days?

Getting my paycheck today! Fucking score. Going to buy... alcohol? Cigarettes? Already purchased all my materials from the last paycheck and all I have left to do is wait. All good plans have a grace period for you to collect your thoughts, to write down your last words, to say goodbye and fuck you.

Oh, you don't know about the plan, do you? Dylan says I have to be careful about leaving a paper trail but isn't that the point? I said, Don't you want to live in infamy? Don't you want them to know how we did it so they'll follow us even after we die? Dylan's a bit apprehensive, him always being a pussy when it comes to things that involve action. He's real quiet-like too. Reads a lot.

Ramona T, if you don't stop ogling me up and down like I'm a fucking freak show I'm gonna punch that snaggle tooth right out of your ugly mouth. You'll be the first one I kill.

Although M and D are ignorant people, they sure as hell are sweet. M's a down-home southern-like lady and D's really good at whatever business job he has, real cheery and all on account of his wonderful offspring. No reason to hate them, but man am I going to break their hearts. Can't help it though, because when you have a calling, you can't let even sweet people get in your way.

Last night Dylan came over and we made a tape. I set up the cam so it was right on my lovely face and Dylan sat next to me, both wearing our black trenches, looking all intense-like into the eye of the cam.

"Let it be known," I said, "that what we do, we do for the sake of justice."

"Fuck you all! Fuck you all!" Dylan screamed, like a child really, and I steadied him. Not yet, I said. We have to build intensity.

I continued, real calm-like, "We have been wronged, as individuals, as a generation."

Then Dylan, menacing, like a rabid dog, mouth a-foaming: "And we seek revenge."

Dylan was breathing heavy, like his heart was gonna give out any second. When we were younger he showed me how to cut my wrists, and we started wearing black armbands to school, until school forbid it and we were suspended. M and D were real disappointed in me, but I shrugged it off and was back at school in three days, with these ugly scars on my wrists. They took me to some old glasses-wearing shrink who told me to write down my dreams.

So I wrote down my dreams. Especially proud of the one where I stood at the top of King Tut's pyramid and shot down all these Egyptian grave robbers in their tracks. Did I tell you about my obsession with the Egyptians? When they die they believe they ride on this boat into the heavens. They go back into the sky where they came from. I saw lots of mummies at the Museum of Natural History when I was a child, and they really freaked me out at first but then I started to love them. I love how they're all wrapped up and the embalmers suck their brains and all their blood and guts out and fill them back up with chemicals. Sort of like when we dissected frogs in Bio. I kind of got a little scalpel-happy and smashed up the frog's lungs, which Mrs. H wasn't too thrilled about, and sent me to Principal Fuck-Face for "defacing school property." I said a body is no one's property. It belongs to God. And Principal Fuck-Face got all religious-y and pat me on the shoulder like we were old pals and sent me back to class.

He called home that night and suggested a conference with M and D to "check in" - whatever the hell that means. And the frog incident just happened, luckily, to be the week that grandma died so I had a perfect excuse, being that authorities are so understanding when it comes to adolescent grief over their dead grammies and all. So Fuck-Face completely understood the displaced anger on the frog guts and M and D shed a corny little tear and bought me ice cream on the way home to make me feel better. Sometimes I wish I'd have a bit more of a challenge.

Like Dylan's always hounding me about love and stuff, saying that love is the answer, not hate. He even draws fucking hearts all over his notebooks like a little girl. I say to him, People like me are incapable of love. I came outta M's womb fists a-swinging and blue with anger. M hands me a pill and says, will this make you love me? And I take it and crush it between my thumb and index until it bursts into a white powder. When she cries I get this wonderful feeling of the old blood a-pumping and aliveness.

Five minutes left until lunch. Hopefully M packed me a good fucking lunch. I'm starving. All this waiting sure makes me ravenous. I can hardly contain myself until tomorrow. And I'm all prepared. Bags are packed, vest laid out on the bed, guns tucked gingerly underneath. Letter of goodbye written and stashed in desk. Tapes labeled and rewound. Death is a goal I've always dreamed of. It's like being in a permanent dream. I can hunt down grave robbers every day. I can fly and disappear into thin air. It's like magic. It's a strange and wonderful feeling knowing that in a few mere hours, I will be riding my boat into the sky, and I will leave all these suckers behind.


  1. It took me a second read to get through the angry, venomous voice projected in the story, as it seems almost intended to drive the reader away. But that's the point, isn't it? Much like the mad YouTube rant by the psychotic young man here in my neck of the woods (at UCSB), this leaves one wondering what the little voices are saying in these kids' heads. Maybe we don't want to know...

  2. this Story felt very true to life, why are they so determined to go out in a blaze of glory? good that in this Story he came from a stable Background

    Michael McCarthy

  3. Convincingly written rant of a self-obsessed teen whose vision of the world is limited by his own nature. It's everyone else's fault. It's everyone else who has no vision. If the rant is the point, then OK, but the rant itself is nothing new. At first I thought (hoped) it was maybe going to be a new, modern Holden Caulfield we were going to meet. But his ability to reason sensibly is flawed though it adheres to a certain logic. Unlike Holden, this character has no means of self-reflection. But maybe that is the 'new Holden'? That is the scary part. And ultimately dangerous. Maybe it's this generation's inheritance.

    James Shaffer

  4. An ably presented snapshot of extreme psychological dysfunction. The story gives a worrying insight into the psychopathic mind. This distorted, thought disordered logic is in evidence in the minds of sociopaths, and those with narcissistic personality disorders - along with their sense of grandiosity and entitlement. The glaring lack of empathy towards anyone else is also authentic. The writer also has the courage to avoid pretending that there is some anodyne fix to this type of disorder: only intensive psychotherapy stands any chance of impacting such a presentation and unfortunately this is often not available and/or acceptable to the disturbed person until it is too late.

    Ceinwen Haydon

  5. At first I thought this guy was just a typical mopey teenager, whinging about Shakespeare etc and then I realised how dark and disturbed this kid is. Quite chilling! I'd be interested to read what other characters (e.g. parents) think of him. Well done with this!

  6. Charlotte Hayden (above)