Page 103 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

Bone.”

The room was bathed in red light as the effect of red water trickling down the walls behind him suddenly appeared, making it look like blood pouring free. Then the image of the teen was replaced by one of an arm, covered in cuts and scars. A stark image that gave me a visceral reaction, because that was a young man’s arm, just a boy. And with his booming voice, he asked,

“Does it make you proud to drag others down?

Smiling for the world while you hide your frown.

Your hate.

Your anger.

Your vicious bile.

How far would you go?

Would you walk a mile?

To ensure he hears every vulgar word.

Because you want to destroy him.

That’s what I’ve heard.”

He paused for a moment, and you could hear a pin drop in the warehouse.

“Words can hurt.

They can cut so deep.

We see it in the media.

When you all weep.

After driving them to take their life.

With words of hate that cut like a knife.

If we’d known the risk, then we’d do better.

We’d protect them, you say.

If we’d been kinder, they’d live to see another day.

Too little.

Too late.

Too broken,

to wait.

The ones who hurt the most are the ones who say,

I’m fine, I’m great, I’m doing okay.

And you accept it.

You’re glad.