He looked like Pennywise, but he knew that some females found him, (an egghead), attractive. He was living in his ivory tower, safe in his world of academia. That soft image must have driven them crazy.
Early on, he was so doted upon by his supervisors, who loved his work, they said it had ‘international impact’.
Hell yeah. Tabloid impact.
At first, women loved him too – but he hated them. They all reminded him of his mother, a woman he loved and despised in equal measure.
He had sweated his socks off to get into that prestigious tower, a grind he had willingly accepted before he turned a dark corner and descended into the depths of hell.
No one recognised the rage hidden beneath the distorted face. In award ceremonies, fists clenched, thumbs jabbing at the worthy professors flanking his shoulders, and as they handed him his accolades he felt shoehorned into intellectual stardom.
Why could nobody see the abnormalities in his mind? The dismal depths of depression? His doctorate was good for hiding wacko-shit? Nothing more. He was a nut job, prowling the hallowed halls of learning.
His baby torture video sold for $10,000 on the dark web and the cybersex business could have survived, if he wasn’t caught. In an excruciating interview, he preened and sneered, delighting in flipping off the questioner with the easy retort, ‘I may answer that question later in my best-selling autobiography.’
Or possibly in his obituary.
He is writing a memoir in prison. The book starts off with, ‘Why am I trapped in this body, to what purpose?
Was it Tolstoy who said that everyone wants to change the world, but no one thinks of changing himself? Why do we turn our back on our own negativity? Surely, such cover-ups lead us down the path to delusion and madness. When we, finally, acknowledge our own darkness … human children will be safe.’
Pina is a writer based in London, UK