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The serial killer gene is REAL!!! #truecrime #crimejunkie #serialkiller #psychopath #psychology #fyp
[Video description: A woman in a warm sweater with a cup of coffee sits in front of a color-coordinated streaming setup. She leans in to the microphone as if speaking conspiratorially.]
Captions: You’ve probably heard of “serial killer genes” before—on TV, like in Riverdale, or in movies, trying to explain just why someone would commit horrific acts of violence against their fellow man. But as it turns out, scientists have discovered that the serial killer gene is actually real!
People used to think that the serial killer gene was a chromosomal abnormality called XYY syndrome. Sometimes a random mutation means that a male will have an extra Y chromosome, leading to increased testosterone, body size, and risk of learning disabilities and behavioral problems. However, the risk is relatively rare.
But then, the MAO-A gene was discovered—also known as monoamine oxidase A. A certain inherited version of the MAO-A gene has shown to cause a massive increase in antisocial behavior and violence, especially when combined with adverse childhood experiences. Isn’t that scary? You could be a carrier for the serial killer gene and not even know it.
59 Comments
Dayla
oh my god that stupid rumor has been DISPROVEN for YEARS!! STOP SPREADING MISINFORMATION
I don’t remember much after that.
I remember …
Mom’s tight smile as she studied Dad and me both, attempting to determine what we talked about while she wasn’t there.
Responding to questions in front of the cameras, though I can’t recall what words I used or what the questions even were.
Sitting on my bathroom floor and counting to twenty, because impulses only last for twenty seconds. Counting to twenty again, and then again.
When my brain gets stuck on violence or a detail of the past, that’s one thing. It’s bad, really bad, but I can grit my teeth and crawl through it. It’s like crawling through broken glass, but I can do it.
It’s just when it gets stuck on touching, on wanting, on letting a man do something to me and there’s no way to make it stop—
That’s the worst.
That evening, Mom and I watch a dumb movie in the living room as it gets dark, and I text Felicity. It’s simple: We’ll be going to the penthouse, we just need the key card first, and I can get the key card, easy. After the movie, Mom pours us both shots to help us sleep.
“What did you talk about?” she asks. “You and your father?”
“Fuck off,” I rasp, sliding the empty glass back across the counter and into her waiting hand.
Everything else between is blurry, scratched, incomprehensible, but that doesn’t make it easier. It’s all stuck. Mom dead on the couch, Alyssa strangled to death underneath me, Daniel leaning down to kiss me, Dr. Reich staring at a strip of exposed thigh, Dad putting a hand up a shirt from the kid’s section of Macy’s.
None of it happened. None of it is real.
I don’t want it, I swear to god, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.
Wanting it makes more sense than all of this, though.
Alyssa
I saw your mom’s post, you went to see your dad?
are you okay?
I put her on mute.
Mom agrees to let me stay home Thursday, and she even bothers to tell the school I’m not showing up. This is the one kindness I’ll be allowed this year.
I spend most of the day in my bed, in the dark. Avoiding her, yes, but also because I can’t do anything else. I can’t get up, change my clothes, or brush my teeth. The idea of showering and having to be alone, undressed, under the water, is repulsive. The most I can do is open my phone, scroll through my bookmarks, and put an hourlong video of the Silver Line on loop.
While I curl up into a miserable, exhausted ball, Mom putters around the house. She quit her dream job as a PR consultant when I was diagnosed—I think she likes to frame it as a sacrifice—but she stays busy. Probably to avoid facing the gaping maw of her existence. When she’s not drinking, she’s watching another one of Hexagon’s shitty documentaries, attempting a bad Instagram recipe, or in the recording studio that used to be Dad’s home office, complete with a stern text telling me to shut up so I don’t ruin any of her takes.
