My name is Geoff Hathaway. My voices plaque me like a swarm of locusts, devouring everything inside of me, leaving nothing behind. I am certain they will haunt me long after I die here in this cage. I’ll never forget the day my mind changed forever. I’ll never forget the day I sealed this fate for myself. I’ve created within my conscience this new living hell. I am now merely a shell of the person I once was, staring at the same walls that I have been staring at for the last twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years of watching others come and go, back to their freedom, knowing that I’ll never again see mine, is the worst kind of torture imaginable. I deserve to be here. I know that. However, this does not change the fact that this is not rehabilitation. This is not the way that I will improve. Society imposes life sentences on those of us who commit horrific acts, many of which are committed at a young age. They put us in cages for life with no real goals for any kind of rehabilitation, just punishment and pain.
I have been here for a very long time and all I have had are those fake, man-made hands of time ticking away in my mind. I have had ample time to document my experiences during my imprisonment. And I will have many more years after this too. I am never leaving; I will never walk in a park again, drive a car, get married, or have children. None of it. That all was stripped away from me when I made that tragic mistake on August 23rd, 1997. I will explain the significance of that date as I continue. I never had the opportunity to experience a normal childhood or grow up in society. I was only fourteen years old when I broke into that house in the middle of the night and killed the three men responsible for murdering my entire family. I often tell myself that it wasn’t a mistake and that I did the right thing. But did I? If I did the right thing, I wouldn’t be here, right? I wouldn’t be rotting here.
The names of the three men are now distant memories, and I’ve given up trying to remember them. But what I do see and remember, replaying every fucking day, is the way they busted into our home in the dark of night and killed both of my parents and my three older brothers. I heard the intruders breaking the locks and whispering amongst themselves. I crept and hid in the very back of the closet, listening as my family begged for their lives while being slain by these unknown intruders. I was crying and holding my mouth closed so I wouldn’t make a sound. There was a hidden door at the back of my closet behind my hanging clothes. You couldn’t have seen it unless you were looking for it.
I still hide away in that closet in my mind, even all these years later. I’m still scared all the time. As I said, I never had the chance to learn and develop into a healthy adult. My mind is frozen in the moment that I lost everything I loved. I waited for them to leave, terrified of what I was about to see. Everything I’ve ever known and loved was gone, just like that. I saw my brothers, mother, and father lying side by side with their throats slashed. It’s all I see when I close my eyes. They were lined up like they were on display. I did the only thing I could think of – I ran out of the house, screaming for someone to look my way. That was the very first day when I realized my now uncontrollable insanity was starting to take shape. Life was not supposed to be like this – this way.
The manifestation of my mother puts her finger to her lips to quiet me and reassure me that everything would be okay. I continue to see her to this very day, though she doesn’t look the same as I remember. She is all white and surrounded by a smoky haze. Her eyeballs are missing, and only deep dark hollow pits remain. She has cuts all over her face. Her throat is still dripping blood from when her life was tragically taken. I can’t, for the fucking life of me, figure out if she is real or just another figment of my traumatized mind state. When I arrived here, I was silent and had already lost my way. The internal pain of seeing them in that state had driven me to the point of eternal rage.
I have conversations with my deceased mother, brothers, and father every day. They would follow me even if I was able to leave this tragic place. The prison where I am contained is located on the coast of eastern Maine. I believe the town is Cape Elizabeth, I am so disoriented that I don’t even know where I am anymore most of the time, but it doesn’t matter. I will never be able to enjoy this place. I will never enjoy the beauty of the ocean in this beautiful coastal society. I am a destructive force, a danger to anyone that comes into contact with me. You will have to watch this unfold to understand why I say this.
I can only learn about the world from the books they allow me to read. I read every day; I write every day too. I have been by myself the entire time I’ve been here, and it has been messing with my mind. I scream all the time because I am confined with my deceased family and constantly watch my inner demons come to life. I say that in one breath. I have also created numerous illustrations of the hallucinations that I experience on a daily basis. Are they real? I will never truly know. I write and create in an attempt to find some form of humanity, however, it still never comes. Being alone forces me to tap into my creativity, otherwise my inner demons will continue to consume me. Well, they already have.
I am writing, drawing, and reading. I'm composing the songs of the deceased as the walls continue to bleed. I have been ripping my hair out while screaming. My father also appears to me daily, but not the father that I have been yearning for. He does not resemble or behave like himself. It seems as though he has emerged straight from the depths of Hell. He blames me for what those men did to him and never thanks me for seeking revenge. I continually yell at him and remind him that he is not my father. Each time he visits, I must clarify my actions in immaculate detail, as he refuses to leave until everything is thoroughly explained. I have to relive my crimes repeatedly in my mind and and vocalize them as well. This is my reality and I am unable to change it. I am trying to explain, ‘Dad, I killed those men for closure, for our family, for Mom, for Marcus, Daniel, Nick, and for you! I have sought vengeance for all of you. Why can’t you remember this? Why must I repeat myself!?”
The demon in front of me was never my father. I still call him Dad because nothing in this place is clear. So, I must constantly retell him how I exacted my revenge. I vividly recall the faces of the three men that robbed me of my family. I have committed them to memory. I witnessed them together in a convenience store one day as I was returning home from therapy. Witnessing the events of my childhood compelled me to seek help. However, when I attended therapy sessions, they did not help and I hated it.
I briefly caught a glimpse of them through the window before I ran out screaming as they left my house on that fateful evening. Their vacant expressions were imprinted in my memory, consuming my every thought. They toyed with my mind – I dreamt of them, I dreamt of my revenge. I watched as they entered an old black van. I was accompanied by my grandma at the time and I miss her dearly. She used to buy me a candy bar after each therapy session. She really knew how to calm me down. However, not even a sweet candy bar could calm me down on that occasion. Suddenly, overcome with anger, I quickly fled on my skateboard in the direction they were heading, maneuvering between the houses. I always carried my skateboard. It was imperative that I did not lose sight of them. From a safe distance, I observed them laughing, knowing full well what they had done. The two men who were not driving were holding cheap beers in their hands. I observed them stopping at every red light and began strategizing my plan. I trailed them on my skateboard until they parked in a driveway on a side street in town. I cannot remember the name of the street, but rest assured, I remembered the route to that house.
That night, I had planned to sneak out. The demon posing as my father spoke, as it always does, repeating the familiar phrase,“Continue, my child.” Despite this, I must persist, and so I will. On the night of August 23rd, 1997, I remembered that my grandfather owned a gun with a silencer in the closet in his room. It was on the top shelf in a small, gray box. It had always been locked, but my anger caused me to smash it open on the floor. To this day, I’ll never know where that strength came from, but I have an idea. I removed the loaded gun from the box after smashing it open and placed it into my red backpack. In addition, I retrieved his brass knuckles, complete with a razor-sharp knife on the end. These were among the impressive objects that my grandfather would often collect. My grandparents used to visit me here, but they have both since passed away. I can’t wait to see them again.
It was at that point I snuck out of my grandparents’ house, which was the last time I would ever see it. I traced the same route as the one I had taken on the day I encountered the men at the convenience store. The house was shadowed in darkness and excluded a sense of foreboding. I sensed my inner being becoming consumed with retribution. I approached the door with thoughts of revenge echoing in my mind. It was finally time to make them pay for what they had done. I didn’t have a disguise on, they didn’t see me when they entered my house and took everything away. I was determined to finish this.
The house was quiet and still, yet to my surprise, it was unlocked. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get in. There were no stairs in this monstrous house. I was the tiger, and they were the sleeping deer. Quietly, I entered each room, carefully muffling the sound of the gun with a small pillow. With the addition of the silencer, the silence was maddening. With a click and a muffled bang, I proceeded to the next room. Click, muffled bang, click, muffled bang. Ultimately, all that remained was for me to dismember and consume them. I was far from finished. I welcomed the scent of gunpowder from my grandfather’s gun, inhaling in order to remember what I had become.
I remembered the brass knuckles with the razor-sharp blade. It was now time to have some fun. I pulled it out of my blood-colored backpack and held it for a while, visualizing my next attack. While they were all dead, it still didn’t feel like enough – it wasn’t sufficient. I desired to taste all of their blood. I inserted my fingers into the luminous brass holes and commenced striking the first man’s face until it appeared as though it had been pulverized into a mixture of red and beige Play-Doh. A feeling of relief and closure flooded my tormented spirit. I proceeded to the face of the next corpse persisting in my infliction of blows. One by one, I mutilated them until their bodies were smashed beyond recognition. As I gazed at my reflection in the blade, I began to laugh.“I must continue!” I screamed aloud, repeating the line over and over as I removed each limb from each corpse. They were unable to scream, and the sight was truly beautiful. Since that day, they couldn’t hurt me anymore and my revenge was critical. What I did next will shock you. “My father,” who is now a demon, always interrupts me when I tell this story and asks, “Were they all as satisfying as the taste of revenge?”
My answer is always the same. My answer was always “yes.” I made my way into their filthy small kitchen and pulled out every pot and pan I could find. It was time to boil the water. My revenge was to taste sweet on this night. The three men will all become the pieces of shit that they were. I planned to consume them all and then flush them after they had been digested. That is precisely what I did. I scoured the house for something with greater cutting power. This small knife was inadequate for slicing through all of these cowards. I discovered a hacksaw and proceeded to prepare my meals. I meticulously dissected the torsos and effortlessly removed all of their internal organs, swiftly submerging them into the boiling pots. The walls were now splattered with a fresh, vibrant crimson hue. I witnessed their bodies transform into something exquisite – something completely new. I found myself manically laughing at their newfound beauty. I then searched their fridge for hot sauce to add a spicy kick. At the tender age of fourteen, it was a surreal feeling of satisfaction to consume all the organs and entrails of my targets, from their intestines to their livers, hearts, and kidneys – everything that had once sustained their lives, and I savored every moment of it.
I’ll never forget when I first pushed them out. Witnessing them transform into a pile of shit was the most satisfying experience of my entire life. Even to this day, nothing can compare to the satisfaction I felt during that first flush. It was euphoric, knowing that the three men who murdered my family were swirling around in that filthy toilet bowl. What an adrenaline rush! I carefully diced them into the smallest pieces with the tools at my disposal. I then experimented with various cooking methods such as boiling, baking, microwaving, and broiling. I saved their heads for the final step – using my creativity to make the most of my resources.
I wanted to relish the moment when I cracked open their skulls and removed each of their brains. I even consumed them. I stayed in that house for more then a week and even saw my grandparents searching for me on the news. I loved them deeply and hoped they understood my intentions. During that week in my family’s murderers’ house, I consumed every piece of them. I even used a cheese grater to grind down each bone. I filled saltshakers with a brand-new condiment. It was a lot of work, but I felt it was necessary.
They took so much from me, which led me to take everything from them. Now, they are nothing but human waste floating below the streets. That is what they have become – literal shit. And to this day, I am proud of it. However, I was caught in the moment and savoring it a little too much. That is how I was eventually discovered, as a neighbor came knocking on the door. I was covered in blood with the remaining waste parts still boiling on the stovetop. I caught a glimpse of her through the window, and she saw me. She let out a blood-curdling scream and quickly dialed the local police. “911, what is your emergency?” We are aware of how those phone calls often unfold.
She owned one of the earlier, bulkier Nokia models, unlike the sleek and advanced ones the world is accustomed to now. Nowadays, it is a rather antiquated device. I know this because I read about everything. It also allowed two-way calling, which even my grandparents had. I tried running and hiding, but was unsuccessful. My effort was in vein and as a result, I now find myself here. People screamed in horror upon seeing a young boy running down the street in broad daylight, covered in blood. Many assumed it was my blood. My mind went blank and I froze. I felt my body hit the ground before a police officer picked me up, exclaiming, “That child is injured, let’s help him!” He then asked, “Son, what happened?”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I was in such a euphoric state, I didn’t care about the consequences of my actions. At such a young age, I lost my life and freedom completely after all three of those bastards were consumed. Didn’t they deserve it? I recount that story to my deceased father every single day. I drew a picture of him as well. Isn’t he handsome? Within these walls, as I’ve mentioned before, there isn’t much else to do. Just like those bastards who killed my family, I too am being consumed. Before leaving for the day, my father tells a a story, just like most of all of the other voices! He calls the story “The Hybrid Outcast.” All of these elements are interconnected, fitting together into my twisted existence.
THE HYBRID OUTCAST
I am not feeling well today. I am unsure of what to do or say. The last thing I remember is engaging in a fight. I couldn’t identify what it was until it was approaching me. It had dark, hollow eyes and it seemed to be staring right through me. It appeared to be so me kind of animal. It was something that I had never recognized before. The next thing I knew, it bit into the back of my neck. But instead of killing me or tearing me to shreds, it suddenly left. I couldn’t help but wonder why it spared my life. And now, I’m experiencing new visions and saying things that I would never have normally said. Why is this happening? I cannot understand why the only color I can see now is red. I haven’t seen the creature again. I quickly learned the consequences after being bitten. I am still overwhelmed by ice-cold sweats. I can no longer sleep at night. A new hunger for something has emerged. All I dream of is red rivers. There are irresistible urges for a bite, but what is causing this pain? Every time I try to eat something normal, it makes me sick and agitated. Why is this happening? Why do I constantly feel the urge to act violently? I have never experienced these feelings before. This all goes against my will.
My hunger only intensifies. I cannot wait a moment longer. I am unsure of my identity. What I desire will dictate my fate. I desire power. I thirst for blood. I yearn for dominance. I long for the other side of the sun. Alas, I am a new creature. What I once was is now shattered with my past. What am I? I am unsure how to find out. I am currently consuming my feast by tearing into its intestines, savoring every bite. Blood has coated my body, adding to the delight. As I slurp down the intestinal tract, I cannot help but appreciate its natural flavor. The thought of consuming raw flesh and human blood will be unsettling to most, but for me, it is necessary to appease my insatiable cravings. If I were to deprive myself, my stomach would ache terribly and I would be plagued with uncontrollable vomiting. The urge overcomes my common sense; all that matters now is the taste of the flesh. I still cannot sleep at night and cannot recall my last beautiful morning, not even the sight of it. All I can do anymore is eat and kill. Eat and kill – that is the ultimate fate. What is this curse?
Why was it placed on me? I am enraged. I will never be the same. I have drastically transformed into something scaly without any trace of my humanity. There are only minimal indications of my former self. I now see my lizard-like skin. Whenever I gaze into a mirror, I am reminded of my name. I still don’t know what I am: a reptilian body with a sub-human head, my tongue now a tentacle tasting the air. I am always looking to feed, coldly staring as I hunt for
human cuts of meat. I have come to accept that I will never be a part of humanity again, this curse is so unforgiving. I kill over and over to satisfy my urges, an innate desire that was inflicted upon me by a cursed entity. However, I no longer wish to be consumed by this role of a murderer. The concept of choices seems irrelevant in this existence. This is not the life I wanted or envisioned for myself. Yet, with each taste of blood, I find a sickening sense of satisfaction. The sight of red rivers flowing brings me intense pleasure. I will never know precisely what I have become. I can only imagine my previous human existence. I am aware that my humanity has disappeared. Allow me to introduce myself; I am The Hybrid Outcast.
—END
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