Okay, I am writing this for myself...and that is all you need to know about me, right there.
When I cry, I am crying for myself. Not for you, or anything that has happened to you. And no, I am not a selfish person. I am a very giving, loving caring person. If it makes me happy to be so. I could also sit in one of your kitchen chairs, and watch you bleed out, because I had new tennis shoes on. As I eat a yogurt I got from your fridge.
Unless it benefited me somehow to save you. Even if it was just the simple fact that it made me feel good to do it. But you owe me some tennis shoes, fucker.
I actually hope that you 'don't get it'. Oh, I attract the odd psychopath here and there who enjoy 'fessing up'. They think they've found a 'kindred spirit' in me. People like me use people like them as thralls.
God made me, and it amused Him to leave a few vital parts out. I have had to attempt to jury-rig those parts, and through trial and error, I would like to think that I am very close to becoming a real boy. It is kinda like attempting to build a complex machine when you have lost the manual and the instructions. I have had more failures than successes.
The wife has become pretty good at reading me.She knows just before the shit hits the fan, it is on its way. She steps behind me, puts her little birds under her wings, and waits for me to unleash hell. Usually, the reptile part of whomever's brain warns them that here, here there be dragons. Usually.
If they don't, well...
The first time I ever saw one of those movie slo-mo CGI and bullet-cam scenes, I said to myself "Hey! I never even met any of these dickheads!" Because that is exactly what happens to me. A lot of people have told me that I write violence realistically. Uhhhh...guess why?
The room goes silent. I can see and hear everything. The drawn knife makes a snap as the clip becomes free of the pocket, the snap of a sheath opening...oops, bad news. Big knife in play. The slithery sound of a pistol being drawn, the less sound, the shorter the barrel, and the likelihood that the shooter shoots and carries a lot. Time to stop, drop, and roll.
Blam! That sound is gonna startle everybody in the room. Except me. Did you hear the sound of an ejected cartridge hitting the carpet? Or clinking on the linoleum? I'd rather deal with a (likely El Cheapo) auto pistol than a revolver...roll towards him as fast as you can, roll your body into his shins, reach up, grab the waistline of his pants with both of your hands, and pull him forward. As he hits the floor, spin over him like a wrestler, and decide which way you want to kill him. Just make it quick. There are other assholes alive in the room.
At some point, time will start again, so you will know that you are done.
Well, I'm boring myself, so I'll stop right here.