I locked the Yeerk in a pencil box to writhe around as he starved to death. My excitement was electric. With a dorky grin plastered to my face, I spun around in anxiety, unable to stand still. I couldn't decide what to do next, but with adrenaline pumping, I felt like I had to do something exciting to celebrate this orgasmic feeling of victory. My sparkling moment, my glory and joy, was in the kill.

He moaned and begged with me to let him go. Coward. I never let him hear me beg as he did. I was stronger than him, and this was my proof.

But joy always fades, and after a few minutes, I needed more. Black shirt, dark jeans. Tennis shoes. Comfort, I thought. It must be comfortable. I threw some essentials into a backpack – pen and paper, a knife, the gun. Some spare pairs of socks, wallet, and brass knuckles. Cell phone charger, the remaining cigarettes I had in my desk, and four lighters. At the last moment, I grabbed a ski rope I had in my closet - the product of too much mischief.

The motor of the garage door started up. I muttered a few profanities as I glanced out my window. A red Neon. My mom.

She was always trying to tie me down and take away this ecstasy, always trying to get me to stop. She had been on my case ever since she found the rabbit's head in my dresser seven years earlier. It was a wild animal; it's not like I was after peoples' pets. Besides that, it was a hobby that kept me busy, out of trouble with the law. Since then I desired to move on to bigger game.

But I'm not stupid. "Getting away with murder" is synonymous with "impossible" for a reason. Though I felt a rush for the kill, I would not survive confined in a prison. Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with that problem right away; the Yeerk did not feel my desire for blood, so he had calmed down my nerves for the duration of my infestation. Now I was back, bloodlust and all.

"Hi, my name is Sam."

"Hello Sam."

"I'm... well, I'm a sociopath. It's been three years and ten months since my last petty kill."

Clapping.

I chuckled at the thought. A support group for people like me was a ridiculous thought. We would all try to kill each other. Besides, there are only an estimated 18 serial killers in the country at any given time, and we don't hang out. There's no reason to; we tend to be antisocial.

18 seemed like a high number. My colleagues were good at hiding… then again not all of them spark national attention in the media. Maybe ten of them were already in prison. I briefly considered what kinds of lives they lead. Some space their kills out significantly, maybe only killing one person each year or two. Others, once per month or more.

I wasn't technically a serial killer yet, not "a person who murders three or more people over a period of more than 30 days." I'd dabbled in dismemberment and dissection of animals… dogs, rabbits, even a swan once, but had not murdered anyone. But I had always known it was in me. I had always been thirsty and known only a human's life could quench my thirst. The opportunity just hadn't come up yet for me to take a drink.

"Baby, I'm home!" The bitch's muffled voice carried up the stairs and through my door. In one fluid movement, I lunged towards my backpack and grabbed the knife. She was going to get in the way. Kill her, my instincts growled.

But I was still on my Frodlin high, and I knew I couldn't kill mother. Not now. There was no plan to do it, and I couldn't operate without a plan. That's how people get thrown in prison.

I set the knife down and took a deep breath. Reached for a khaki blazer in my closet and threw it on over my black v-neck shirt. My hands rushed through my hair in a panic. Deep breath. Sprayed on a little cologne.

She opened my door slowly because it was unannounced. "Sweetie?" she called softly, looking through the crack between the door and it's frame. I turned to her and smiled, which was her permission to enter.

"My, you look handsome!" She entered my room and grinned at me, put her hands on my arms and shook her head. "Sam, where are you going?"

"I have a date, mom." I made sure to include a usual teen's disgust at their parent's interest in their love life.

"This early? It's 5 o'clock."

I turned away from her proud gaze and grabbed my backpack, then tossed the heavy lump into my closet. It was my version of nervous fidgeting. This would have alerted a keener mind that I was up to something, but mother was as stupid as she was idealistic. "My date's at 6; I have to leave at 5:30."

"I was going to make pizza."

That was one good thing about mother: she made everything. Mom believed that boxed, canned, and frozen foods were an atrocious affront to mankind's health, and so there was never a frozen pizza inside our house. She made everything from scratch, and it was almost always delicious. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for her nonsense.

"Will you save some for me?"

"Aw, of course, honey." Her eyes displayed a kind of vulnerability that made my hands twitch. I hated the pet names, the "honey" and "sweetie" and "baby." They were all put downs, making me into someone who was soft and unable to accomplish anything. Someday I would show her who her "baby" really was.

She smiled sweetly and touched the side of my face. Her thumb ran over a small portion of my hair a few times as she looked at me in that sickening way. This was torture. I was a recovering alcoholic at a frat party.

I turned my head and one of her hands fell to the side. "Mom, please, I have to finish getting ready."

She replaced her hand on the side of my head and tilted it down, so that the top of my head was facing her. Kissing it firmly, she made a loud "muah!" sound. "I know. Good luck."

"Can I take your car?" I asked.

As she walked towards the door, she replied, "keys on the kitchen counter." I reassured her with a smile as she closed the door.

Exhaling, I looked at my backpack, then at the slug covered in a cup on my desk. Lucky she hadn't seen it. Lucky she didn't notice my fidgeting, or notice the clanking backpack and ask what was in it. Way too lucky. I realized the rest of my escape plan had to be meticulous.

I opened my window, removed the screen, and dropped my backpack down one story into the yard. It clanked when it hit bottom, but I knew she wouldn't hear it. She would be too wrapped up in her cooking.

As I scanned the room for anything else I might be forgetting, my phone rang. It reminded me to grab a charger, and I did so while answering. "Hello?"

"Sam, dude, are you coming to Matt's tonight?"

I couldn't prevent the grin from filling my face. This was perfect.

"Of course!" I replied. "I'm coming with Jared. We might be a little late."

"Okay, cool. I need a beer pong partner."

"Just don't start before 11, and I'll be there," I vowed. This was a great alternate story. My mom would think I was on a date, the guys would think I was at a party, and I knew of another couple stories to pull. When there are conflicting stories, people believe nothing.

If I only told my mother I was on a date, and she found out I wasn't on that date, she would have no choice but to believe I was up to something else and lying on purpose. However, if there were three or more conflicting stories in circulation, everyone would simply be confused and resign to not having any idea what happened. That was the goal: confusion and resignation.

"Great, see you then."

"Bye."

I hung up and dialed Jared, my best friend for more than ten years. He was a watered-down version of myself – my personal diagnosis was that of a psychopath, but not a sociopath. A psychopath exhibits antisocial behavior and believes actions are amoral; a sociopath does these as well, in addition to lacking all social conscience. Put simply, a sociopath is a social psychopath.

It's only fair to mention that not all sociopaths are killers, or feel the need to kill. Some simply lie habitually, or manipulate people relentlessly. Many never get caught; many go undiagnosed. In fact, the average person is on good terms with three or more sociopaths. Think about who you know and get back to me. What three people in your life are manipulating you?

Jared and I had a great friendship, because we helped each other out. We both lied with ease, and did it because we knew the other would return the favor. Please understand, we were not covering each others' backs because of "kindness." We did it knowing it would benefit us in the future; knowing that, if I lied for him when he needed it, he would do the same for me when I needed it. This was the best arrangement two crazy kids could hope for.

"Sam, what's up?"

"Jared, I need you to show up at Matt's party tonight."

"I was already going."

He sounded very mellow. Probably just finished a joint.

"I need you to swear that you brought me with you. I need you to convince other people at the party that they saw me, and were just too drunk to remember. Make up stories, be convincing. Break a glass and tell everyone I did it; prove in their minds I was there." I knew he could handle this. He'd always been an excellent cover.

"Where will you be, man?"

"The world needs to believe I was at that party," I insisted. "Just do it."

"All right," he mumbled. But I wasn't done.

I was leaving, and once Jared realized I was gone for a couple weeks, he might decide it's not worth keeping up the lie. After all, he lacked social conscience, so there would be nothing to make him continue the lie. Unless I made it beneficial for him.

"I'm going away for awhile," I said, "But if you keep everyone convinced for two months, I'm sending you a thousand dollars."

"Really?"

"Keep them convinced. I'll make it worth it."

"Thanks, man."

I looked at my watch. I had twenty minutes to get out of there before mom started getting suspicious. "Look, I have to go. Be there by 11."

"I was gonna show at 10. Is that ok?"

"That's fine. In fact, that's good." The more apparent overlap with my "date" the better. "And Jared? It was just you and me. I did not have a date tonight, or anything else going on. I just went from school to home, hung out until you picked me up, and we rode to Matt's house. Got it?"

"Yeah man, you know I got your back."

"Thanks, I owe you."

"A thousand bucks."

"I'm counting on you."