What I do know is I can fuck the woman who claims to love me and leave her before the sweat’s even dried on my skin, knowing she will cry herself to sleep. I may be one of those people/psychopaths. I don’t have feelings the way most people do. That’s why they lack the ability to connect, to care.
There are theories that serial killers have this cold spot. Where most people have activity, a hot area giving them feelings, emotions and enabling them to love, there are a rare few who have a cold spot, affecting their ability to feel emotions, empathy. They say some people are born with decreased activity in the brain a cold spot in the front central lobe. My mother couldn’t wait for me to be out of her womb, expelling me too early from her body with the cord wrapped neatly around my neck, almost robbing me of the life I’d been gifted by a drunken fondle in the back of a truck. I go by Blake now it’s my middle name, chosen by the midwife who brought me back from the dead. I can still feel the impression of her fingertip where her nail broke the skin. “You’re the devil’s son,” she would spit at me, pointing a shaky finger in my cheek in a drug induced haze whenever I refused to bend to her whim. Fitting, really, or so I’m told by the woman who named me.
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