The Princeton Pisser-Chapters 2-3

**Disclaimer This story contains mature themes, including strong language, substance abuse, psychological distress, and graphic depictions of violence.

Chapter 2

I’d been racking my brain for days, deciding on the perfect time to strike again. It seemed like the days since I went viral, I couldn’t find a single moment alone. The house was always bustling with activity even past the midnight hours, and any attempt to slip away died before it even began. Campus was no better, with not a single corner left unoccupied. I grew more frayed by the day, losing days of sleep at this point. I’d lurk for hours in the fraternity halls waiting for the rooms to go silent, but the whores had an ongoing cycle of girls entering and exiting the house all hours of the night. My patience wore thin, and the carefully crafted persona I’d made over the years began to crack, my temperament and growing irritation escaping.

I’d decided to distract myself with Dominic since I’d run out of ideas at this point, and I was slowly driving myself mad. I figured our friendship was also due for the bare minimum maintenance at this point. Dominic was clingy in the way a wet leaf is clingy. We went through our usual routine: he talked endlessly about himself, I’d pretend to care, nodding at the correct intervals, and then we ate and played games, and I pretended as though I wasn’t rotting inside. Sitting in the common room, he suddenly paused the screen and looked at me with an extreme gaze of concern.

“Hey, Aaron,” he said, his eyes fixed on me and brows knitted.

“I know we don’t talk much about like serious stuff or anything, but you’re looking a little…” he hesitated, visibly struggling to find the words in that moment. My rage boiled over in that moment, his confrontation detonating something in me.

“Ya, you’re right, we don’t talk about that stuff, so why don’t we just keep it that way?” I snapped. “We’re not friends, Dominic. I talk to you out of obligation, can’t you see that? You parade your problems about like they’re tragedies instead of messes you created, and then you use me as your listening dummy. You’ve never given a rat's ass about me beyond what I can do for you, so let's not try and pretend otherwise”.

My ears felt hot with rage; the lack of sleep had obviously been getting to me. While I didn’t feel particularly remorseful for any of the things I’d just said, I worried for the implications this would have on my father. I could already picture his lectures, lined up like bullets in a chamber. I turned to apologize, in an attempt at damage control, but his face stopped me. He looked hollowed out, pale white, glassy-eyed, and tears on the cusp of falling. Not knowing how to react, I walked out. I knew it probably wasn’t the best response to have taken in that moment, but I didn’t exactly grow up with the kind of affection that would equip me for this situation, and I didn’t want to make things any worse. I didn’t talk to Dominic for years after that day. Part of me is relieved he at least had the self-respect to cut me off.

I walked around campus like a zombie, a shell of myself. I felt like I was going through withdrawals, chasing the high of that first video. My room decayed into a monument of trash, liquor bottles, and dirty clothes. Most days, I could barely find the energy to leave my room, let alone attend my classes.

With Dominic no longer in my life, my social interactions had basically ceased altogether. It didn’t take long before my grades started dropping and the calls from my father started rolling in. I let them all go to voicemail. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with him; I could barely even bathe myself at the time.

While scrolling on my phone, I saw it, a video of a student vandalizing the school’s “Head of a Woman” statue near Spelman Hall. I swiped through the comments, and the flood of praise and attention I received had been diverted to this imposter.

The rage I felt in that moment consumed me entirely. I destroyed my room that night. By the time I was done, it was impossible to see the hardwood floor; broken glass, trophies, and pieces of furniture were strewn across it like some kind of beautifully chaotic mosaic. Out of breath, sweaty, and in a disgusting state from the lack of grooming and hygiene I’d done in the past week, I stood amongst my destruction. My objective shifted. I was no longer chasing the high of their validation; no, I craved something else. I wanted the head of whichever bastard had the audacity to copy me on a spike, I wanted his entrails adorning his neck like crown jewels, and I wanted to keep his manhood as a trophy.

Chapter 3

I stalked every significant monument and statue on campus, waiting for him to show himself. The accumulating negligence of the life I’d cultivated and my academic standing at Princeton finally began catching up with me. Counselors lurked outside my frat home, leaving letters at my door as the incessant emailing showed no success in reaching me. I avoided them as much as I could and was rarely in my room anymore. I became a husk, no longer even bothering to keep up appearances, shutting out every single distraction in my life.

During one of my nightly patrols, I spotted him. I recognized the hoodie he was wearing from the imitation video, a video I’d screened repeatedly, with every single one of its pixels engraved into my brain. My heart raced, and yet I was the calmest I’d been in days. I followed him. I watched as he walked from the library to his dorm building, the shroud of midnight darkness as my cloak and disguise. My hand grew restless in my right pocket, wanting to jump out and slit his throat right there. I continued tailing him, memorizing every detail, from the gold chain around his neck to the socks peeking out between his sweatpants and Nike sneakers, the building, his floor, the turns it took to reach his hall, and the dorm number, 1224. His face, too. I retained the specific emerald-blue hue of his eyes, his soft jawline, his messy brunette hair, and the natural scrunch of his eyebrows, as if he were deeply concentrated. He wasn’t very tall, maybe 5’7, and his frame wasn’t one to instill fear, though at this point, nothing could’ve convinced me to stop. Every learned feature would help me deliver his retribution.

I prepared myself relentlessly. I acquired surgical tools from the anatomy lab to ensure every cut was smooth and deliberate. I purchased gloves and a rain poncho to prevent his filthy blood from soiling me. I procured a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the pharmacy and the chloroform from a shady dealer on the other side of town. I shadowed him constantly, committing his walking pace, routes, and routines to memory. He couldn’t escape me even if he tried. I was ready.

On that fourth night, at 10:30 PM, I began my hunt. His route was ingrained in me by then. As I followed him, I couldn’t suppress the smile that crept across my face. I used to think joy was what I felt with Ally, but no, this was true jubilation. I maintained a generous distance, allowing him to keep his illusion of safety until I took his wretched life, the only kindness I’d ever give him. He lived alone, so there was no concern for any roommates. During my preparations, I made sure to adjust every camera leading up to his door to prevent detection.

When he reached his room, I closed the gap. With my chloroform-soaked rag in hand and my pouch of tools slung over my shoulder, I waited for him to unlock his door and lunged. He had no strength to fight me off. I pressed him to the floor till his body slackened, then began my work. The door swung closed amidst our struggle, and I turned the lock before donning my rain cover and gloves. I stripped away his clothes and gold chain, preparing my work site.

With a gigli saw, I carved through his head, severing it from his body completely. My scalpel and forceps worked methodically, almost with a mind of their own, splitting his torso in half and peeling back the layers of skin guarding his organs, revealing the splendor of his abdominal cavity. Blood pooled as I extracted each viscera, leaving his body hollow enough to cram his skull inside of it. I sutured the cavity shut and draped his intestines around his neck like a grotesque garland. Diverting my attention to his lower half, I cut precisely, excising his member and sealing it in a glass box, the prize I’d earned for my efforts. I arranged him on his bed in anatomical position and scrubbed down my makeshift operating room.

Moving deliberately, I grabbed each organ and began placing them around this body in a ring. Standing back, I gazed at my masterpiece, the glory that was my creation. My gaze flicked to the clock, 4:17 AM. Only then did his ringing phone register in my ears along with the noise outside his door. By the time I finished, his anxious friends and the officers they summoned were already outside.

I learned later that my unfamiliar voice and the smell of blood were what had betrayed me. I stood in a daze while they broke the door down. I showed no resistance; I’d gotten what I’d wanted, my divine justice. They cuffed me and led me out of the room past his horrified friends, their faces twisted in grief. I looked at them and grinned, satisfied with my work. They sentenced me to life in prison without parole. I rotted away in my isolated cell, with rats scurrying around me, not an ounce of sunlight, and the smell of decay engulfing me. Even while they confined me to these walls and restrained me with cuffs, this was still the freest I’d ever felt.