The foolishness of homicidal youth
When I was eight years old, my teacher required everyone in class to keep a journal. Being eight, I viciously hated not only the teacher, but also a lot of my classmates. The teacher promised she would never read the journals, so over the course of the year I filled two notebooks with:

-- Several page long rants along the lines of "I hate Emily/Ben/the teacher and I wish she would die by falling into a vat of acid ha ha ha"
-- Drawings of elaborate "death machines" involving lots of cogs and axes
-- Drawings of people I hated being killed in various ways, with captions like "Rachel faces the justice... OF DEATH"
-- A long, illustrated story in which people I hated were killed in various ways
-- The pièce de résistance, a story in which my teacher hunted down various high-ranking government officials, brutally killed them and ate their body parts, including crudely-spelled genitalia

If I'd written all this at home, it would probably be okay, but we would write at these journals every day in class. Furthermore, when we were finished writing, the teacher would collect all the journals and keep them in a cabinet right in the classroom. However, since she'd promised she'd never read them, it never occurred to me to be careful about what I wrote at all.

Several years later, I told someone about the journals, and they laughed and replied, "Oh, she probably read it anyway." Shit! I may have been a hateful child, but I was still a trusting one. I now live in fear that one day the teacher will find me again and reveal me as a sick fuck.

Then again, if she had read it I would probably still be in therapy.
(generic hybrid, Thu 1 Feb 2007, 17:22, Reply)