Sociopath - Tumblr Posts
Here’s to hoping that every single person with schizophrenia or a schizoaffective disorder or DID or NPD or any other ridiculously demonized mental illnesses has a wonderful day
Welcome to my Ted Talk about AsPD, or Antisocial Personality Disorder, which the internet likes to coin as sociopath 👌🏻 if you don’t like long infodumps about stigmatized mental disorders from someone who is diagnosed, move on.
Quick toxic rundown: People with AsPD are generally characterized as emotionless, violent, manipulative abusers who kill animals and like to make other people their bitches. The biggest pet peeve we have is the emotionless, sadistic and abusive generalization.
Personally, we are highly neurotic, with highs and lows of: depression, frantic drive, self abuse tactics, chronic fear, lapses of rejection, overwhelming over-analyzation, grey area thinking, false goods and false bads, ultimatums, obsessive compulsive behavior, harsh self demands, and irritability.
AsPD is a disorder that is caused primarily (according to current research) by trauma and abuse in childhood; most notably being emotional neglect and absent caregivers that cause a child to have emotional shutdowns and repression episodes in an attempt to self soothe. Primary caregivers who do not bond with their children are also a factor. Children learn how to behave from those around them. If a primary caregiver is emotionally distant and unavailable, children will learn that is normal behavior and that’s how people are. If a primary caregiver does not provide empathy and sympathy during moments of distress and fear, children will learn that aloofness and disregard of others feelings is normal behavior. If a primary caregiver does not keep a child safe, children will learn that they should not prioritize their own safety or the safety of others. You can find my follow up post regarding this here.
Neglected and abused children often act out trying to get attention and help, often acting out in bad ways because they lack the ability to articulate what they’re feeling and what is happening to them. The pipeline for AsPD typically is: Oppositional Defiance Disorder as a child, Conduct Disorder as a teen, AsPD as an adult. There are a lot of warning signs cueing that AsPD is becoming a risk for development, but often kids do not have a support system to help negate it as it’s their support system that is usually a factor in its creation.
Being AsPD is like being an emotional La Croix 70% of the time. If you’re depressed, then it’s like someone in the other room has depression and is telling you about it. The other 30% of the time, if you’re depressed, your brain doesn’t understand how to handle it so it’s an ultimatum between doing something drastic to remove the Trigger or ignoring and dissociating for days on end.
People with AsPD are very good at ignoring things. Honestly it’s problematic as fuck but it’s not hard to ignore major issues when you just, don’t care. It’s not in the terms of being cruel or making ourselves not care, but the fact that finding the emotional willpower is so far out of our feasible reach we don’t do it. This causes us to piss people off because we don’t have the capacity to care as much as they want us to, even if we can and do to an extent.
Think of it this way: empathy/sympathy is a deep tub of water that everyone has. They can easily fill their measuring cup for the needed amount of empathy without any issues and it’s easy for them. People with AsPD don’t have a tub of water. We have shallow skillet. When we try to dip our cup to fill it, we can’t, it always comes up short and it is difficult to get any water in it as there is no room for the cup to dive. Our ability to care is limited because we do not have the same emotional resources everyone else does.
❌ False Positives & False Negatives ❌
I operate on what I’ve learned are called false positives and false negatives. These are things that are trained into the brain from an early age based off of childhood trauma and other factors. False positives are a distorted version of why we do something to help ourself and for our own good, meanwhile a false negative is something we do because it’s a threat, or based out of fear.
❌ Some of my false positives:
- It is good to be afraid of nothing
- It is good to adapt to someone’s personality if they are stronger than you
- It is good to isolate yourself
- It is good to be a silver tongue because you can get into any place you want
- It is good to become a social chameleon and shape yourself to whatever those around you need/want most, because then you have no chance of being abandoned
❌ Some of my false negatives, which can explain the false positives as well as core beliefs:
- it is bad to be afraid, if I am afraid then I am vulnerable and it can be used against me
- It is bad to be emotional or show concern for others emotions because they do not care for mine
- It is bad to be able to be exploited, because I believe it is everywhere
- It is bad to allow myself to be bored, because boredom begets bad thoughts and no one can or wants to help me when I spiral
- It is bad to not shape yourself to the social circle, because people quickly grow tired of those who do not match them perfectly and being discarded means I failed
My core beliefs can be viewed as the root for the false positives and negatives, because they are based on the core of trauma, abuse and neglect. They come from patterns and instances that make someone with AsPD become the opposite of what they experienced:
- eat or be eaten
- If I don’t show that my bite is worse than my bark, I will be taken advantage of and I must remain on top because the ones on top are safe
- I must look out for myself because nobody will do it for me
- It doesn’t matter what happens to me, therefore it doesn’t matter what people think of me
- If I cannot do something well, then I should not do it at all
- If you are dependent on others for emotional and mental well being, you are weak, therefore I must isolate myself to avoid becoming codependent and a burden and useless
- If I can handle the stress of a situation better than everyone else, therefore I will keep the problem (financial, emotional, mental, etc) to myself to reduce chances of being abandoned due to failure of perfection
People with AsPD are hard to get along with. We often:
- are always anticipating a fight
- lack respect for authority
- ignore social structures to an extent
- tendency to lie if it’ll lessen punishment or if we feel the lie is more acceptable than our actions
- limit social support because it’s wrong to be dependent on others
- have an inflated view of our own importance — which turns into a self ridicule for believing someome like me could be found important to others —
- can be rude and inconsiderate of others feelings somewhat unintentionally
- are unable to read the correct social cues in relation to empathy towards people and animals
- am constantly confused by others dependence upon empathy and inability to make desicions from logic based standpoints
We can’t speak for everyone who has AsPD, nor are we saying that no one with AsPD is capable of being a murderer/abuser etc. but we are saying that y’all need to stop automatically classifying someone as a certain “type” as soon as you know about their disorder.
One last thing I do want to point out is that it is not uncommon for people with AsPD to derive some sort of enjoyment in causing harm, doing something illegal, hurting someone or animals, etc. This entirely stems from lack of environmental control as a child. Being able to control what happens to others or being able to control the things you say or do that hurts someone else is a hefty high to get addicted to; it soothes the underlying itch of not being able to control your own trauma and abuse, so in turn you push these behaviors onto others and enjoy it because it gives you a sense of power and control. Some people with AsPD do genuinely love hurting others, and some enjoy hurting others when they believe it’s deserved or their ire has been stoked. Some enjoy causing pain to those they think deserve it, and others don’t care who they hurt as long as they feel like they’re in control of the situation.
Hope this have some insight into AsPD 🤙🏻 if y’all have any questions, shoot.
My therapist (who's worked in forensic psychology and with many people with personality disorders) just told us we're likely antisocial.
But like a specific flavour where I've built my own moral compass based on not wanting to deal with negative stuff like jail and ruined image.
Her exact words were "society-conforming antisocial".
So yay I guess. It's nice to have a description and I'm definitely gonna do some more research...
Dan: so? How are we going to get that information from them? They won't tell us.
Jay: we burn them! 🛢🔥^♡^🌸🌸🌸
Dan: NO!
(I just wanted to draw some JayDan Omegaverse with Alpha!Jay and Omega!Daniel. But I ended up making this comic. Not sure what I was going for, but I like the result at the end :/ btw I suck at drawing Jay's hair T_T)
Well, my forensic medicine textbook says this. I did my research, Sherlock...
The Kinder and Gentler Hitler?
The other day Amanda was conversing w some of her friends in a Facebook social group having to do w spirituality. To the utter horror of many in the group, some of the members thought that people should try to look at the positive aspects of Hitler and the atrocities he inflicted during the holocaust. They went so far as to post a picture of a kind hearted and gentle Hitler walking hand-in-hand w a little girl and looking down and smiling at her. Apparently, they had never heard of propaganda. Their argument was that had the Hitler's holocaust never happened the group would not had the opportunity to talk about it. I fail to see how that equates to something positive, but that's just me wanting enlightenment I guess. Amanda was was so angry at the audacity of these members that she couldn't even begin to think how to write a response. She asked if I would ghost write a response for her. I was banging away at my keyboard before you could say sieg heil:
"All sociopaths are human and, as such, have human traits despite their mental illness. Nevertheless, Hitler was a sociopath and you have to understand how sociopathy works in order to come to terms w the apparent conflict of "kind man" and "monster" behavior. Sociopaths have feelings just like you and me. What makes them different from us is that they have no conscience. They are just as capable of loving children but their reason for doing so is purely self serving. It isn't because they have compassion for them. They are incapable of that emotion. They love them because doing so makes them feel good. That is their only motivation. If a child did something that would cause them to want to kill them they would do so w out hesitation. Sociopaths can love and display other humanistic traits but only if it doesn't interfere w their other wants and desires. It was Hitler's lack of conscience that negated any good that he may have done, that made him appear to be "human" (keep in mind that any good that he did was self serving) and made him, for all intents and purposes, a monster" ~ Trabue Gentry
I've seen this saying floating around a lot lately and it has seriously concerned me. It is a beautiful and romantic notion but please don’t believe that all people are good or have a good side. It simply is not true, not by a long shot. Some people will grab hold of you, not let go and fuck you up in the most horrific and unthinkable ways…and enjoy every minute of it. I know this to be true because it happened to me. Never did I even consider that this person could so coldly calculatingly perform the cruel and inhumane acts that they did to me and other innocent people. Remember, one out of every 100 people are born sociopathic. So, please be very cautious. Those who beat and rape women, molest children and murder in cold blood.don’t have a good side. They are, for lack of a more clinical term, pure evil and there is nothing you can do to help them. They are mere machines of destruction. ~ Trabue Gentry
Sociopath
Sociopaths are people who suffer from a dissocial personality disorder. They have difficulty forming long-term relationships. Others often describe them as unscrupulous, callous or manipulative. You are extremely willing to take risks and behave irresponsibly in the eyes of others. Sometimes you come into conflict with the law.
What is the difference between a sociopath and a psychopath?
In specialist literature, the two terms sociopath and psychopath are not always strictly separated, although a distinction is useful. Psychopathy is the most extreme form of a dissocial personality disorder. While the sociopath acts impulsively, the psychopath plans his actions precisely and acts coolly and deliberately. There are the following differences in behaviour:
Sociopaths have feelings such as fear or anger. They quickly feel attacked and then react aggressively. This behaviour gets them into trouble and ensures that relationships are usually only superficial and short-lived.
Psychopaths, on the other hand, have themselves well under control. They also lack compassion, but they are very good at covering up this lack of empathy.
Psychopaths are highly functional and usually well integrated into society. They are extremely manipulative and easily gain the trust of others. As they can exploit others cold-bloodedly and unscrupulously, they are very dangerous.
There are also thought to be differences in the development of both clinical pictures. Experts believe that sociopathy is more likely to be triggered by a childhood trauma. The typical sociopath has almost always experienced abuse, violence or neglect as a child. Their antisocial behaviour often even serves as a survival strategy. Psychopathy, on the other hand, appears to be innate.
In psychopaths, the areas of the brain responsible for impulse control and empathy are not properly developed from birth.
The treatment options and prognoses are correspondingly different. While a dissocial personality disorder can be treated psychotherapeutically - an approach that plays a major role in the reintegration of offenders into society - it is apparently not possible to cure a genuine psychopath. Some experts even assume that the symptoms can be exacerbated by treatment. Accordingly, psychopaths have the highest recidivism rate among offenders.
Why pursue therapeutic measures when one can simply engage in the overtly illicit act? One need only join a party, and the criminal behaviour will be resolved when one has sufficient influence to petition a judge.
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Regardless of the fact that the act is an assassination, the assassin has given the emotionally unstable individual and his party, which acts without moral constraints, a considerable advantage.
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Causes of dissocial personality disorder
How an antisocial personality develops has not yet been conclusively clarified. Most scientists today assume a combination of genetic and environmental factors:
Genetic disposition: the likelihood of antisocial behavior is higher if one or both parents have already been affected by the disorder. A scientific study of twins has also confirmed that there is an overall genetic predisposition to all personality disorders. Other favorable factors are probably anxiety disorders, depression, alcoholism, drug addiction and suicide risk in the family.
Traumatic childhood experiences: Physical violence, sexual abuse and other traumatic relationship experiences in childhood increase the risk of developing antisocial personality disorder.
Serotonin deficiency: A lack of the neurotransmitter serotonin presumably ensures that sociopaths are unable to react adequately to emotional signals and generally feel less fear. On the one hand, this explains the lack of empathy for the suffering of others, but also the strong tendency towards risk-taking behavior. Some experts assume that people with a dissocial personality are generally understimulated. This is why they are constantly looking for a "kick" - on the one hand in dangerous sports, but also in criminal acts on the other.
Neurophysiological factors: Imaging studies indicate dysfunction in the prefrontal cortex of the brain in antisocial personalities. This is likely to be the trigger for the extreme emotional coldness, especially in the strongest form of psychopathy.
Signs: How to recognize a sociopath
People with antisocial disorder stand out due to their socially intolerant behavior. This often becomes apparent in childhood and adolescence.
Possible signs of a dissocial personality can be
Lack of empathy
emotional coldness
pronounced egocentric behavior
Lack of a sense of guilt and responsibility
Low frustration tolerance
strong impulsiveness
violence
Problems entering into long-term relationships
High willingness to take risks
Disregard for social norms and laws
Diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder
Both the ICD-10 and DSM-V classification criteria can be used to diagnose the personality disorder.
According to ICD-10, dissocial personalities must have
character abnormalities such as egocentrism, lack of empathy and a lack of conscience and
there must be a considerable discrepancy between the behavior displayed and social norms. Criminal acts may occur, but are not essential for the diagnosis.
For a clear diagnosis, organic causes must have been ruled out.
In addition, at least three of the following characteristics must be fulfilled:
The affected person has a lack of empathy and shows callousness towards others.
He (or she) shows a clear and persistent irresponsible attitude and repeatedly disregards social norms and obligations.
He (or she) is unable to maintain lasting attachments or relationships with other people, although he (or she) has no difficulty forming relationships.
He has a low frustration tolerance and often behaves impulsively or aggressively.
The affected person feels little or no guilt and is unable to learn from negative experiences, especially punishment.
He tends to blame others or make excuses to explain his behavior, which has brought him into conflict with society.
The DSM-V is based on similar behavioral patterns, but emphasizes the criminal component, which manifests itself, for example, in violations of the law. In addition, according to this classification, the person affected must be at least 18 years old for the disorder to be reliably diagnosed, and the conspicuous behavior must have been apparent since at least the age of 15.
"Your Mother's Daughter"
I can only bring myself to write poetry when I'm broken when I'm tear-streaked and raw and the burn of the salt runs down my face like acid. It's the only time I recognize myself the only time my reflection is someone I understand.
But God, I am so fucking ugly, so disgusting, so fucking abominable - when I cry, when I grieve.
I look just like her. I fucking look just like her. And a million miles away, she sleeps just fine.
I tug at the crimson thread that binds us together - but when I look down I see that I've only snatched my own intestines out, the patter of blood like children's feet on wet grass.
Okay, so I KNOWWWW I need to finish the Homelander fic!! I know.... I've just been through a hell of a writer's block. I am re-working some of the plot, since the newest chapter doesn't feel quite right (and I do tend to write filler once I'm stuck and I'm trying not to do that).. please bear with me. I will be editing today!! In the meantime... here is something completely unrelated and a lil dark that I wrote!
"Untitled - Mommy Issues"
Mother (noun): a woman in relation to her child or children. (verb): bring up (a child) with care and affection.
Malicious intent (noun): the intent, without just cause or reason, to commit a wrongful act that will result in harm to another. It is the intent to harm or do some evil purpose.
Sometimes, I have these unsettling fantasies about my mother.
In my darker ones, she's old and in the hospital, and I've driven up to see her in the middle of the night. I give her one last chance to admit what she's done - which she never takes. We argue - I accuse, she lies - and I feel myself growing darker and darker inside, until it happens: I reach my breaking point, and I go completely silent. She notices the change, looks afraid, reaches for her nurse alert button - but I’d already snipped the wires ten minutes ago. Nobody is coming. Nobody is coming.
I am smooth when I descend upon her, like oil spreading across the ocean.
It’s too late in the night for a nurse to come calling - and this hospital is shoddy and negligent, just like her; I’d made sure of that before I checked her in. There was nobody to save me then, all those years ago, and now there will be no-one to save her.
And so, with nothing but the yellow hospital light to bear witness, I take the pillow from behind her head, and hold it over her face, feeling the sharp tip of her nose against my palm.
I brace myself against her desperate jerks and press firm. I do not stop until I see she's lost the fight.
When I remove the pillow, her eyes are glassy, and I wipe a lone tear that rolls down her ruined cheek. Then I pull the hospital sheet over her body, and drive home.
Hey, your post got me thinking so I hope you don't mind if I brainstorm 'aloud'. If we accept the idea that a sociopath lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience then I agree with your characterization of Snow and Rumple as more sociopathic than Regina. My agreement is primarily based out of motivating factors. Snow's and Rumple's motivations both stem from personal desires irregardless of others. For example in Snow's case "I want Regina to be better like she was before/I don't want Regina to be estranged from her mother like me" versus "Regina deserves to be better for herself/Daughters deserve a relationship with their mothers." For example in Rumple's case "I want to get Bae back and am going to use Regina to do so" versus "I was responsible for my actions and should do all that I can to get him back". Complicating this are that Snow wants to appear 'good', displayed by her often ignoring or dismissing other alternatives that are congruent with her desires, and Rumple wishing to appear both blameless and powerful, as displayed by pretty much everything he does. Regina's motivations, on the other, outwardly appear selfish and, in my opinion, stem from personal safety.
I think a big key here is how much she wants to be loved yet at the same time has literally no clue how it is to be loved. Her mother 'loved' her which involved using magic to physically restrain and harm her, emotionally abusing her using words (judging by the stable boy scene), expecting behaviours regardless of Regina's desires, selling her to another person (based on the whole selling her part I'm going to assume that if Leopold was not an abuser he was at least the holder of her agency which, really, I think is abuse anyway), and doing all of this because she loved her. Imagine what she would have done if she didn't. Her father's 'love' involved watching her abuse and making excuses for her abuser, watching as she was unwilling sold to a man his age, waiting years before he assisted her in her plan of escape and trying to talk her out of it (he got the snakes for Genie), and not once that I ever saw telling her it wasn't her fault, that the people who used her were wrong, and that she deserved more. Pretty much everybody in her life continued these two patterns. Daniel may have loved her. I found his reactions awfully similar to Henry seniors in that he wanted her but wasn't prepared to stand up to her abuser to keep her safe. Leopold, y'know the guy who married her, restrained her movement, locked her away emotionally, and blamed her for things she had no control over. Rumplestiltskin stepped neatly into Cora's shoes using magic to gain control over her and making her always aware that she was never enough. Snow, egocentric little Snow, 'loved' Regina in the midst of all this but (and I found this telling) never really displayed concern for her emotional health. Genie professed to love her and helped to save her but only when he thought he would get to keep her.
Even as Queen with Leopold dead and Snow on the run Regina was nearly obsessed with wanting the people to love her. She had been trained her entire life that a) she needed to be loved to be happy, b) no one could really love her, c) it was all her fault, and d) she's responsible for the fact that people can't love her. Meanwhile, in the background, we have Rumple ensuring she always lost and Snow getting all the love and happiness she never had despite her actions (i.e. without the responsibility Regina lives with).
So when you talked about organic personality versus adopted personality I think about the reaction when one of them kills. Snow kills some person and rides off into the sunset with her lover happy in the knowledge that she has done something 'good' and/or was forced by some 'evil' outside force to do something 'bad' despite her verbal wishes to the contrary allowing her to shrug off blame and bask in being a hero. Rumple kills some person that did something vaguely offensive to him but cannot be blamed or held responsible for this due to either a) making the actual act have occurred with someone else's hands or b) being too powerful for the surviving/witnessing people to do a damn thing about it. Regina kills a whole lot of people and is confused when she is fear/reviled/hated and forever held to account for her act.
Also, while I'm thinking off it. Snow ships her daughter to Maine in a box despite knowing nothing about Maine except that it is somewhere horrible without happy endings so that twenty eight years later said daughter can come back and free her and her love from a curse. Rumple lets his son fall all alone into the last portal to a place without magic knowing that Baelfire cannot fight to protect himself because he doesn't want to lose the magic that gives him power over others. Regina, after knowing the boy she would like as a son (Owen), for all of two days a) let's him go as he wants and b) stays at the border she can't cross for who knows how long on the off chance he might return and in the process is able to see that he is safe.
I think what it comes down to for me is that Snow and Rumple both like being the way they are regardless of how it impacts society (thus displaying a lack of social conscience). Regina does not like being the way she is just lacks the understanding of how to be any different without becoming unsafe.
eshusplayground — I’m curious about your statement about how Rumple and Snow fit the criteria for psychopathy or sociopathy more than Regina does. Care to elaborate?
Ahhhhh, caught me on a throwaway. This is something I’m still researching, so it’s not quite ready yet,...
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but
👏Narcissist is not a code word for abuser👏
👏 Sociopath is not a code word for abuser👏
👏 Psychopath is not a code word for murderer👏
Not every shitty person is shitty because of a disorder that pop psychology likes to demonise. Slapping a label on every shitty person out there is ableist toward the NPD/ASPD sufferers who are just trying to get by. Stop it.
I Just Killed My Ex
Mentally Unstable! Hyunjin x Psychopath! Reader
warning: mentions of killing, and violence
You stood over the lifeless body, your breath steady and unnervingly calm. His eyes remained wide open, frozen in an expression of shock and betrayal, reflecting the pale moonlight that filtered through the thick canopy of trees. The woods, dark and dense, loomed around you, swallowing all other sounds except the distant rustling of leaves and the soft hoot of an owl. The woods had always been his greatest fear, ever since he was a child. That’s why you chose this place. You lured him here with the perfect bait—promises of a romantic evening, the illusion of affection that he so desperately craved.
The blade in your hand glistened, slick with the blood you’d just spilled, each crimson droplet sliding down its length with a kind of grace. You glanced down at the handle, the smooth wood fitting comfortably in your grip, before shifting your gaze back to him. A slow smile tugged at your lips, curling them into a smirk as you admired your handiwork.
"Y/N… why the woods? You know I hate it here, it’s too dark…," he'd whined earlier, his voice trembling with the same unease you’d always found so irritating. You remembered the way his eyes darted nervously from tree to tree, as if expecting the shadows to leap out at him.
You had chuckled softly at his discomfort, leaning in close to murmur sweetly, "Why are you scared?" Your hand had traced lazy, gentle patterns down his arm, a gesture that once reassured him. "I’m the one who’s going to have to walk back alone."
The way his brow furrowed in confusion, the slight quiver in his lips as he tried to make sense of your words—it was almost too easy.
"W-What?" he had stammered, the fear creeping into his voice.
But he never got an answer.
His hands had reached up, grasping weakly at your wrists as though that could stop you. You watched, emotionless, as the light slowly faded from his eyes. The strength in his grip loosened, his arms falling limply to his sides.
Now, as you stood over him, the wind ruffled your hair, carrying away the metallic scent of blood. The darkness of the woods no longer seemed menacing to you—it was a sanctuary. You had planned every detail, down to the exact moment the moon would be highest in the sky, casting its cold light over your final act.
The shadows embraced you, and for the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You knelt beside him, wiping the blade clean on his shirt, then stood again, taking in the stillness of the night. His body was just another part of the landscape now, another piece of the scene you had made.
Without a second glance, you turned and walked away, the leaves crunching softly underfoot. You wouldn’t be walking back alone after all—not really. His fear had died with him, but yours? Yours had just begun to bloom.
You stared down at the body, your breath now coming in measured, calculated intervals as the reality of what needed to be done next settled in. The blade still shone in your hand, but its purpose had been fulfilled. Now, it was just dead weight, like him. The woods were vast, dark, and suffocating, but you couldn’t leave him here. No. He had to come back with you. This wasn’t over yet.
With a sigh, you crouched beside him, brushing aside the stray twigs and leaves that clung to his clothes. His lifeless body looked heavier now, limp and uncooperative. You grabbed him by the ankles, testing his weight with a small tug. The thought crossed your mind briefly—how odd it was to be this close to someone you once shared intimate moments with, now reduced to a mere object, something to be moved, disposed of.
The first tug was awkward, his legs dragging across the forest floor with a dull scrape. The sound was unsettling but strangely satisfying, the friction against the earth a reminder of his final resistance. You adjusted your grip, digging your heels into the dirt for leverage, and began the grueling process of pulling him through the trees. His body bumped over roots and uneven ground, his head lolling to one side, as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut.
You glanced over your shoulder occasionally, scanning for any signs of movement, for any witnesses that might be lurking in the darkness. The woods were silent, save for the sounds of your labor and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Each pull sent a surge of adrenaline through you, driving you forward.
It wasn’t long before the clearing came into view, the distant outline of the city lights barely visible through the gaps in the trees. You had parked your car far enough away that no one would suspect anything, but close enough that you could still manage to get him inside without drawing too much attention. You hadn’t planned on him being this heavy, though. The trek felt longer, more arduous with each step, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled the physical strain.
After what felt like hours, you finally reached the edge of the woods. His body was covered in dirt and leaves now, his clothes torn from being dragged across the rough terrain. You wiped the sweat from your brow and glanced at the car, hidden just out of sight, parked along a secluded stretch of road. The hardest part was yet to come.
You heaved him up into the trunk, your muscles screaming in protest as you shoved him inside. The thud of his body hitting the metal interior echoed in the night, but no one was around to hear. You slammed the trunk shut, the sound final, like a door closing on this chapter.
Back at the apartment, you parked in the underground lot, grateful for the late hour and the quiet that enveloped the building. You moved swiftly, methodically, hauling his body from the trunk and into the elevator, avoiding the security cameras you had already noted during your planning. His weight dragged behind you, a burden both literal and symbolic, as you made your way to the door.
Once inside, you exhaled, surveying the dimly lit space. The apartment felt too clean, too pristine, as though it had been waiting for this. You wiped your hands on your black jeans, smearing them with dirt and blood, and turned your gaze to the body lying in the middle of the room.
This was your sanctuary, your carefully curated life, and he was the one thing that didn’t belong anymore. But now, it was his final resting place. His presence here would serve a new purpose.
With a grim determination, you dragged him across the floor one last time, positioning him where you wanted—just another piece in your plan.
The hospital loomed in the distance, its sterile glow cutting through the night like a beacon. A smart choice, really—neutral ground where you could blend in and buy yourself time. No one would suspect you here. Hospitals were filled with people consumed by their own tragedies, chaos and misery woven into the very walls. It would be easy to slip through unnoticed, another face among the wounded and weary.
The stench of iron clung to you, lingering in the air like some perverse perfume. Blood, still warm, dripped slowly from your fingertips, splattering onto the cold pavement with each step. The sound of it hitting the ground was faint, barely audible over the distant hum of traffic, but to you, it might as well have been a drumbeat echoing your guilt. Your black clothes, chosen with care for their ability to conceal, now felt heavy, saturated with the evidence of your crime. The fabric stuck to your skin, wet and uncomfortable, the drying blood forming a layer that made your every movement feel deliberate. You could feel it like a second layer of skin, invisible to everyone but yourself.
You walked toward the hospital’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open as you approached, like a mechanical sigh welcoming you into a world of antiseptic smells and soft murmurs. The fluorescent lights were harsh against your bloodshot eyes, casting everything in a cold, sterile light that contrasted sharply with the warmth of the blood that still clung to you. But no one looked twice. The rush of nurses, doctors, and patients barely spared a glance in your direction. To them, you were just another face, just another body passing through.
The blood from your ex seeped through your clothes in places, sticky and warm, though no one noticed. Not yet. Your dark attire hid the worst of it, but you could still feel it, the wet patches where his life had spilled over and marked you as something other than innocent. You kept walking, your pace steady but not hurried. Panic would give you away. You couldn’t afford that. Not now.
He had to die.
The thought repeated in your mind, a mantra of justification, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—yourself or the ghost of him that still lingered in your thoughts. His face flickered across your memory, that familiar sneer curling his lips, the look of disdain that he always wore when he talked to you. That condescending tone, the way he spoke as though every word you said was meaningless, as though you were some toy to be played with and discarded. His cruelty had always been so subtle, so artful. He never hit you, never screamed at you. No, he was much smarter than that.
He twisted your thoughts until you didn’t know where his desires ended and yours began. He made you doubt yourself, question everything you once held dear. Slowly, over time, he chipped away at you, stripping you down until you were a hollow version of the person you used to be. You tried to leave, once. You packed your bags, stood in the doorway, but he had stopped you with nothing more than a few choice words—a promise to change, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made you second-guess everything. You had been weak then, afraid. But not anymore.
Now, you were free.
But freedom came with a price, and as you stood in the sterile hospital hallway, the weight of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. You could almost feel his ghost following you, whispering in your ear, telling you that you would never really escape him. He would haunt you, a constant presence, until the guilt consumed you whole. But you didn’t care. You could live with the guilt. It was better than living with him.
You moved through the hospital with purpose, though each step felt heavier than the last. Every door you passed felt like an invitation to turn back, to undo the irreversible, but you pushed forward. You knew why you had come here, knew that the hospital wasn’t just a hiding place—it was a temporary refuge from the storm that raged inside you.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as you approached the front desk, the buzz of the hospital growing quieter in your ears as your mind raced. You leaned against the counter, feigning calm as you scanned the waiting room, your pulse thrumming under your skin. It was busy—families waiting for news, doctors rushing between patients, nurses scribbling down charts. No one cared about the woman in bloodstained black clothes who had just walked through the doors. Not yet.
You tapped your fingers against the counter, your mind flickering back to his face once more. You saw the sneer again, heard his voice—the way he’d called you pathetic, small. But not this time. This time, you had made sure he would never speak again. And as the hospital buzzed with life around you, you felt a twisted sense of satisfaction settle in your chest. He was gone, and you were still here.
You were still free. But for how long?
"Good evening, how can I help you?" the nurse chirped, her voice unnervingly bright, the kind of overused politeness that made her seem robotic. She had no idea who you were, no idea what you had done just hours ago. And that was the beauty of it.
"I’d like to donate blood," you replied smoothly, your voice soft but unwavering. You kept your expression neutral, even innocent, as if nothing in the world could be out of place.
The nurse blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the request. "Oh, sure… um, we just need to take your vitals first. If you’ll follow me—"
"No need," you cut her off with a slight wave of your hand, tilting your head with genuine confusion, as if she had suggested something absurd. "I’ve got plenty of blood at home. I can bring it in buckets if you want."
Her face changed in an instant. The nurse’s eyes widened, her friendly mask cracking as she tried to process what you had just said. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the hospital walls behind her. Her hands trembled—ever so slightly—but enough for you to notice, enough to spark that amusement inside you.
She stammered, trying to find her voice, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, she mumbled something under her breath, barely audible, and then turned on her heel, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor as she hurried away toward the back room. You watched her flee, your eyes following her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened animal.
The sight amused you. She was weak, terrified—just like him.
A cruel smirk crept across your face, spreading slowly as you leaned back against the counter. You could still see the look on her face, the way her hands shook as she fumbled to escape your presence. People like her were so easy to scare, so fragile. All it took was a few carefully chosen words, a subtle shift in tone, and they crumbled.
You glanced around the waiting area, the sterile atmosphere now tinged with your silent amusement. It was almost too easy. You had come here to buy time, to distance yourself from the body you had left behind, but this… this was a bonus. Watching people break under the weight of their own fear, just like he had, gave you a sense of control. It reminded you that you weren’t weak anymore.
The nurse hadn’t returned, and you doubted she would. The idea of her cowering in the back room, trying to explain what had just happened to her colleagues, made you chuckle under your breath. You imagined her recounting the conversation, her voice shaking, her eyes darting around in fear that you might still be lurking.
You leaned against the counter, waiting patiently, your smirk never fading.
Not long after, an older nurse emerged from the same door, her hair white as snow, her movements slow. There was something about her—a quiet strength, a knowing look in her eyes that came from years of experience. She wasn’t like the younger nurse who had fled in terror. No, this woman had seen her fair share of strange things. She wouldn’t be easily shaken.
"My dear," she said, her voice soft and warm, approaching you with a gentle smile. "Don’t mind that young one. She’s easily spooked. You seem like a lovely girl. Kind. Strong. This generation’s a bit misunderstood, but you all have good hearts deep down."
You blinked, her words falling over you like syrup, thick and sweet. Kind? She was calling you kind? The irony of it curled inside your chest like a snake ready to strike. The words dripped from her lips, heavy with patronizing sympathy, as though she thought she could read you—like you were some lost child she could save with a few soft-spoken reassurances.
"You're kind."
"Kind," you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue in a whisper of disbelief, tasting bitter, soaked in irony. Did she even know what she was saying? Could she sense the darkness lurking beneath your skin, or was she blind to it? You almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.
The older nurse’s smile never wavered. She reached out and squeezed your shoulder, the gesture meant to comfort, but all you could feel was the weight of her hand—a reminder of the blood that still clung to you, the blood she had no idea was there.
Then her fingers brushed against something wet, and her smile faltered. Slowly, she pulled her hand back, her expression shifting as she looked down at her palm. Blood. Dark, sticky blood smeared across her skin, clinging to her fingers like the evidence of a sin too great to be washed away. Her face drained of color, the warmth that had once been in her eyes replaced with a growing sense of dread.
Her gaze flicked from her hand to your face, and in that moment, the truth crashed into her like a slow, suffocating wave. She knew.
But she didn’t say a word. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. It was as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs, as if her mind was trying to grasp the horror of what stood in front of her but couldn’t quite catch up.
And then, like an omen, the distant sound of sirens broke the silence. Faint at first, but growing louder, closer. They were coming. For you.
The nurse’s eyes widened, panic finally creeping into her expression. You could see it—the fear, the dawning horror that spread across her face as the reality of the situation settled in. She had touched the blood. His blood. And now, she understood.
But she didn’t scream. She didn’t call for help. She just stood there, frozen in disbelief, her eyes locked onto yours, as though she were trying to reconcile the image of the "kind, strong" girl she had seen with the truth of what you had done.
You let your gaze linger on her, savoring the moment, the way her confidence crumbled under the weight of her realization. Her world was shattering in slow motion, and you… you were the cause.
With a soft, almost cruel smile, you turned away, your steps calm, measured, as if the sirens weren’t growing louder with every passing second. You could feel the nurse’s eyes on you, still too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to react. It was perfect. The fear, the silence, the power you held in that fleeting moment.
But you didn’t have time to relish it. The sirens were closing in, and you needed to disappear. Without a glance back, you slipped out the hospital doors and into the night, leaving the nurse—and everything she now knew—behind.
Without thinking, you bolted, pushing through the hallway doors as the wail of sirens grew louder, chasing you through the sterile corridors. Your heart pounded in your chest, every step echoing against the cold tile floors. You needed a way out, fast.
You ran deeper into the hospital, barely aware of your surroundings, just desperate to escape. Rounding a corner, you slammed into someone—a tall, thin man in a hospital uniform. His face was pale, almost sickly, and his hair was a wild mess, framing his hollow eyes. He looked like he had been here far too long. A mental patient.
"Watch it," you muttered, trying to shove past him. But he just stood there, unmoving, his gaze shifting from your face to the floor beneath you. It was as if he could see through you, into the blood-soaked secret you carried.
Without a second thought, you grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nearest room—a laundry room, dimly lit and cluttered with piles of clothes. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly glow over everything.
Slamming the door shut behind you, you pulled out your knife and pressed it against his throat. The blade still had traces of blood on it, glistening under the light.
"Take off your clothes," you ordered, your voice cold and unflinching. You needed to blend in, to disappear before the sirens reached the hospital.
His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Slowly, almost too calmly, he began to undress, his movements methodical, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes, amusement gleaming in them, as if he found the entire situation entertaining.
When he was down to his undergarments, he sat on the wet floor, folding his legs beneath him like a child. His stare never wavered. He watched you with a kind of fascination as you tore off your blood-soaked clothes, swapping them for his. The fabric was cold against your skin, damp from the humidity of the room. As you changed, you noticed the water on the floor—the blood from your clothes seeping into it, swirling like red ink in a puddle.
His eyes became crescent moons as he saw it too. His lips curled into a small, smile. "That’s not your blood, is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with delight, as though the truth excited him.
"No," you replied simply, pulling the patient uniform over your body. "It’s not."
The room fell into silence, save for the soft dripping of water and the distant hum of the hospital around you. You could feel his eyes on you, burning with curiosity, his mind racing to understand you, to piece together the kind of person you must be.
He looked down at the bloodied water, his grin widening. "You killed someone."
You shot him a cold glare, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed even more excited by your reaction.
"I like you," he murmured, his voice dark and playful, like a child discovering a new toy. "Take me with you."
"No." Your response was immediate, firm.
As you moved toward the door, his hand shot out, grabbing your ankle with surprising strength. His grip was tight, almost desperate. "Take me with you," he repeated, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous sort of determination.
Your eyes narrowed, your grip tightening on the knife. "No."
He stood up, quick and agile, pulling clothes from a nearby pile and dressing himself in them as though he had planned for this all along. "If you don’t take me," he said, his tone light, almost sing-song, "I’ll scream."
The threat hung in the air between you. You stared at him, your mind racing. He was unstable, that much was clear. But he wasn’t lying. He would scream, and the sirens were already too close. If he screamed, you’d be caught. You didn’t have a choice.
"You're insane," you muttered, your voice filled with frustration.
He grinned, a wild, manic grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Maybe. But if you don’t take me, I’ll scream."
"Fine," you growled, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet. You didn’t have time to argue. You had to get out, and now, he was coming with you whether you liked it or not.
You rushed to your car, the man—Hyunjin—you had asked in a hurry, following close behind, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Once inside, you sped off, leaving the hospital behind, the distant wail of sirens fading into the night.
The drive to your house was silent, tension filling the small space between you. Hyunjin sat next to you, his eyes flitting between the road and your hands on the steering wheel, a barely concealed excitement bubbling beneath the surface.
When you finally pulled up to your house, you led him inside. He followed closely, his eyes scanning the space—until they landed on the body.
Your ex, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.
Hyunjin let out a delighted whistle. "You’ve been busy."
You shot him a glare, you walked over to the body, nudging it with your foot. His head fell to the side when Hyunjin tried to touch his face and the blood fell on your shoes. You ran your foot over the dead man's shirt to wipe off the blood.
"He deserved it."
"I’m sure he did," Hyunjin said, his voice dripping with amusement. "And now what? We just… live with it?"
You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. "You’re not going to run?" you asked, curious.
He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I? You’re interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Yes," he said, stepping closer to you. "You’re like me, you're fun." His eyes gleamed with that same unsettling light from before. "We could be good together, you know."
You stared at him for a long moment, weighing his words. He was dangerous, unpredictable. But then again, so were you.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like him around.
...
The door slams behind you as you enter the apartment, your pulse racing with the thrill of what you’ve just done. There’s a certain satisfaction lingering on your lips, a wicked smile you can’t quite hide.
You step over to the mirror, admiring the streaks of blood on your cheek. Not yours, of course. Never yours. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as you lean closer to your reflection.
"Beautiful."
The voice startles you, and you turn to find Hyunjin lounging on the couch, his head tilted as he watches you, eyes glittering with something. He looks far too calm, for someone who just saw you walk in like this.
"Is that why you're still here?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I’m a monster?"
His lips curve up into a slow, smile, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "Because you’re the only one who makes me feel alive," he says, voice as smooth as velvet, dripping with sweetness.
"Isn’t that what you wanted? To save me?"
You walk toward him slowly, every step deliberate, predatory. "I didn’t save you, Hyunjin, you begged me to get you outta there."
Hyunjin’s fingers trace along the edge of the couch, his gaze unwavering. There’s a flicker of madness behind his calm exterior, one that mirrors your own. It’s what drew you to him in the first place. The way he teeters on the edge of insanity, always so close to falling, but never quite letting go.
"Maybe that’s why I like you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Because I want you to break me completely."
You laugh, the sound echoing through the room, cold and hollow. "You say that, but can you handle me, Hyunjin?"
He stands, slow, until he’s towering over you. His fingers brush your cheek, lingering over the blood like a lover’s touch. "Why do you think I’ve stayed?" His lips are close to your ear now, his breath hot against your skin. "I crave the chaos. I crave you."
You can feel the tension in the air between you two, the dangerous pull of your shared madness. There’s a sick beauty in it, the way you both destroy and rebuild each other, over and over again. No one else would understand it. No one else would survive it.
"You’ll fall apart," you warn, even as your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.
His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see it — the madness, the desperation. It’s consuming him, just like it’s consumed you.
"Then let me fall," he murmurs, his voice heavy with longing. "Let me fall into you, Y/N."
Your grip tightens, and for a moment, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence.
Then, Hyunjin smiles —while smearing that blood on your face a little more— that wicked, broken smile that matches yours so perfectly. You press your lips to his, hard and unforgiving, feeling his breath hitch as the weight of your shared insanity finally crashes down.
There’s no redemption here. Just sweet surrender.
Together.
shut the fuck up about how Trump is a 'sociopath' and a 'narcissist'. It all just feels like an excuse to be ableist rather than a simple observation. quit it with the armchair diagnosing of narcissism and antisociality. I'm tired of leftist spaces so flippantly throwing these words around as synonyms to 'abusive cunt' as if there aren't narcissists and antisocials/"sociopaths" in these spaces too, as if we aren't valuable and good enough for you people.
it's one thing to make an assumption based on Trump's behavior, but to act like THAT'S the reason he's a fucking scumbag, all while laughing at the very traits you pointed out as signs of a fucking PERSONALITY DISORDER, really shows your ass. this isn't just holding someone accountable; it's reducing a group of disorders to being an abuser.
people instantly stop being mental health allies when it comes to being fucking respectful to cluster Bs. y'all stop being the 'tolerant left' when someone has a 'scary' disorder, and yes this also includes psychotic and schizospec individuals. I know this post won't stop the ableist behavior among leftists, but I'm tired of it. Leftist spaces are just as unsafe to me as someone with NPD and ASPD as right-wing spaces are to me as a trans and queer individual of color. that's fucking horrific.
I'm not the first and I won't be the last to say this, but leftists need to do better. stop using 'narcissist', 'sociopath', and 'psychotic' as insults. I'm not going to coddle you and hold your hand for spitting in my damn face; pick up a dictionary, since you're clearly capable of reading pop psychology articles on 'narc abuse'. it's not that hard.
It's probably not my place to say this since it seems you've taken a psychology class (and I haven't) but I've always identified Kizami as as psychopath not a sociopath.
Sociopaths have no emotion and usually aren't serial killers. They don't have compulsions to kill, they just happen to not have the empathy capable of making them care if they do.
Psychopaths have no grasp of morals and, as such, are much more prone to compulsive killings. Also, he showed emotion like anger and his twisted "love" for Yuka. A sociopath doesn't feel.
I think Kizami’s parents were irresponsible if not neglectful to Kizami. according to my Psychology class most Sociopaths, such as Kizami, are ABUSED or neglected as a child. That should say something about his family. They knew he had a problem and from what I can gather did nothing to help him. They just scolded him and then gave up. They did not take him to a therapist, or a psychologist to get him treatment. It is THEIR fault that he is the way he is.
Oh to be a teenage lesbian sociopath in 2008, kissing with another bipolar bitch high on drugs about to kill yourselves for poetry
