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A Diary Of Madness
I remember the first time I saw her. There was something desperately wicked about the way she held herself- like a bomb waiting to explode. She had a way of looking a person dead in the eye that made grown men avert their gaze. She was fearless, a hurricane of a woman, and I hated her for that. She had been brilliant; it was her knowledge of that brilliance that killed her. Perhaps Aristotle was right, for her genius was marked by more than the proposed "tinge of madness." We laid her in the ground March 13th, 2001. She left behind her no will, family, or friends. I was the closest thing she had to a friend in the entire world, I, Clarice, her college roommate. Before they came to collect her belongings, I confiscated a leather-bound notebook in which I had witnessed her writing on several occasions. Within that notebook, her only known diary, I discovered a confession so unparalleled in monstrosity and fear, I feel that it is my duty to share it with the world. I will not allow for her life to have been lived in vain. Her death will serve to teach future generations the virtue of humility and the value of life.
"It's the winter of '99 and I find myself staring into two lifeless eyes. One of them is set slightly higher than the other, nevertheless, still beautiful in it's imperfection. The face before me, although not flawless, is remarkably exquisite, in all likelihood, because the face before me is a perfect reflection of my own. My hands are trembling as I reach for the switch. I am inconceivably powerful in this moment, and that is the most thrilling, terrifying feeling I've known in the entire twenty-two years of my life. 'I wonder if this is how God felt when He first created Adam.' I take one last look at the product of my tireless work- four years of my life I will never regain. I pull the switch; blood races through my veins, blurring my vision, and then I'm gone.
It's November 16th, 1997 and I am in room full of children despite the fact that most share the same age as myself. I have sequestered myself in a back corner of the room- a failed attempt to remain unnoticed. The teacher calls my name. I give my answer unflinchingly, the correct one on the tip of my tongue; typical. I watch as the others pass notes across the classroom; some doze; some sigh; each one indifferent to 'the significance of Shakespeare's contribution to the world of literature today.' I, myself, do not take notes. My test will be returned to me, graced by a red 'A' with the generic words 'Excellent work,' across the top, next Monday. 'Excellent work to you Mr. Richards. Your class has been ever so enlightening.' I roll my eyes at the thought. The bell rings. Despite the distance, I'm the first one out the door.
I am eighteen years old, and I am on the brink of a discovery beyond my years; more accurately, I am on the brink of a discovery beyond my time. The idea was first born in the spring of my sophmore year as I sat in Mrs. Evans art class. She had given each of us a blank canvas and asked us to recreate the way we envisioned ourselves upon it. While others in the class were brutally diffident in their portrayals of themselves, I fashioned my image identically to the way I was in real life, intelligent, perhaps a bit smug, but it was an honest portrayal nonetheless.
As a little girl I had grown up with a deep love of the sciences. I was constantly dissecting frogs, taking them apart, teaching myself what made them work. I had always found it a shame I could never bring them back to life. Sitting in art class that day, I decided I no longer wanted to waste my time imitating life through art. I wanted to do something more; I wanted to recreate life itself. 'What life better to recreate than my own?'
It took one year to conjure up the resolve to follow through on my decision. I spent that year isolated in my room, coming out only to eat dinner with the other foster children and attend school. High school life repulsed me. While these fools were sitting around discussing the new episode of their favorite show, I was reading books about anatomy. While other girls my age were parading themselves ridiculously around at spring formals, I was was in the basement of the house in which I lived striving to find the answer to the equation of life.
By my senior year, I had made tremendous leaps and bounds in my understanding of the human body and the way it worked. My obsession never once injured my schoolwork, and it required nothing more than minimal effort to be accepted into a respectable university. I immediately began searching for somewhere to conduct my work. Conveniently, I discovered an old, abandoned, dilapidated wing of the university that had previously been used as the science labs. It was in one of those broken down laboratories that I breathed life into a lifeless being- a first since creation. I was God.
It's the winter of '99 and I awake. The realization of where I am and why I am here floods back to me and I sit up violently. Standing before me is a mirror image of myself. I forget to breathe. I have spent four years striving for this moment and finally it is here before me. The creature is undeniably a perfect likeness of myself, a fact I intend to use to expose her to the world.
It is day one of my social experiment. I have spent the last 6 months teaching the creature how to communicate effectively and interact with other people. I have decided to disguise myself and follow her around in order to witness her progress without making a spectacle of myself. She is very intelligent. The speed at which she learns is, admittedly, frightening.
It is now day fifty-two and the creature has had no difficulty in assuming my identity. She displays a remarkable intellect inside of the classroom. However, like myself, she is completely isolated from the rest of her classmates. In fact, she displays almost no interest in social interaction of any kind at all. She is unyieldingly arrogant toward everyone but myself. Regardless, she is undeniably brilliant, and that knowledge fills me with pride.
Day one hundred and six, and the creature displayed obvious signs of impatience and agitation with me in our private lessons today. Her increasingly aggressive behavior has began to worry me.
Day one hundred and ninety six, something terrible has happened today. A student has been murdered, and I'm afraid I know the murderer all too well. In one of her classes today, the creature's accuracy regarding a measurement was questioned by a younger student by the name of Julie. The creature was infuriated that anyone dared to doubt her. I breathed a sigh of relief when she reigned her anger in and continued on with the assignment. Once the bell had rung, however, the creature evaded me and was lost from my sight. She didn't return to our secret lab until late that night. The next morning Julie was found dead in the woods on the edge of the campus. The creature displayed no sign of emotion at the news. Her indifference to the death of another human being was terrifying.
Day two hundred and fourteen, and I've spent every moment of these last eighteen days in agonizing fear. I know not when the monster, my creature, might kill again. She is becoming progressively more and more confident in her power. 'How long until even I have no authority over her actions and become her victim instead?' I have begun thinking of ways to solve this problem I've created.
It is March 1st, 2001, and this day will never be forgotten. Despite my many attempts at kindness, she has begun to hate me as well. She looks at me with disdain for what she sees as inferiority. Any hopes I have for sparing her life are lost with the realization that I have created a monster, and it is my responsibility to destroy her as well. Fittingly, I must be destroyed along with her. After all, 'If a creation can be so awful, how much worse must the creator be!' I will perform the action tonight in the place where I first gave her life. Sadly, I go to my grave with the knowledge that, as I have believed myself to have created a monster, it is, I, that has been the monster all along."
Two bodies were found that next morning in the burned down wing of the university in which she had spent many of her sleepless nights. No evidence was ever discovered as to how the fire was started, but perhaps this account will help to shed some light on this horrific catastrophe that has scarred all of our lives. I have not allowed for a single word of this diary to have been changed. Everything you have read is shockingly true. She was fearless, a hurricane of a woman, and it was her own naive fearlessness that destroyed her in the end.