Fragments

Memoirs of a Psychopath is not an easy read, nor is it meant to be. It is, instead, a necessary one. Because there is a silent truth in every abused child who never had the words to speak up. Because there are realities no one wants to acknowledge. And because, from time to time, someone appears who does not merely tell them—he throws them in the world's face, without mercy. This is not the story of a monster. It is the story of a man.

I write these pages not for validation. Not for pity. But because every word was already written into me—with a belt, with a hose, with humiliation, with abandonment, with blood and urine. Because being understood never interested me; being read in silence—that is a form of justice I am willing to accept.

If you recognize yourself in these pages, that is your problem. If you feel revolted, perhaps it means you still have a remnant of conscience. If you are disgusted, then perhaps you simply have a weak stomach for the truth.

This is not the story of a victim. It is the cold anatomy of a functional psychopath. An individual born into a wrong world, but taught to use it. Do not expect remorse. You will not find it. Look instead for the truth behind the words—because everything here… has been.

My story begins. In fact, it began long ago. Here, I am only recognizing myself out loud for the first time.

Everything that follows is an invitation: to read, to see, to feel—not as I did, but through me.

First Day of School

A few days before school started, my mother had bought me my backpack, first-grade supplies, and the mandatory uniform, typically communist: black trousers, a black jacket, and a blue-and-black checkered shirt. A new day, a new beginning. And what a beginning... one impossible to forget, marked by an event that, in a strange way, changed my reality. I don't remember it only because it was September 15, 1986, but because that moment prepared me—without my knowing—for the next stage of my psychopathy.

The schoolyard was full of kids, each holding a bouquet of flowers, ready to offer it to the teacher—the one who would train us into obedience for the next four years. From fifth grade onward, we would fall into the hands of subject teachers, one for each discipline. But now, we were living through the communist opening-of-the-year ceremony. A national event broadcast with pomp on the single TV channel, where party propaganda was served daily—brainwashing the population under the orders of our great and beloved leader, a shoemaker with only a fourth-grade education, and his wife, an academician-doctor-engineer, a walking encyclopedia with fake diplomas she’d had made just to keep up appearances and cover the rumors that she had, in fact, only two years of schooling.

We were lined up, ten to a row, in neat formations—three lines for each class. Boredom had begun to choke me. I was burning with impatience to see what that school everyone had talked about so much looked like on the inside. I expected it to be nicer than kindergarten. So many things are waiting for me in there… I told myself. It was already taking too long…

In front of me was Razvan, the one who would soon prove to be the class bully. I was studying him from behind, without interest or intent—just with a restless agitation that needed to be released. I started kicking him in the heel, because I couldn't sit still anymore. After four or five kicks, he suddenly turned toward me. Angry and scowling, he hissed through clenched teeth:

“Hey! Stop kicking me!”

I waited a few more seconds, wondering: Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? Then I kicked him a couple more times, deliberately. He spun around in a flash and, without hesitation, punched me straight in the nose. Blood gushed out instantly. My parents had seen the whole scene, because Geo—the self-appointed protector—showed up immediately. He pressed a handkerchief to my nose, trying to stop the bleeding, while scolding the unruly Razvan for what he had done.

In the weeks that followed, day after day, the same spectacle was unfolding: the establishment of hierarchy among the boys. Everyone was trying to claim his place, to test his strength. It was nothing like kindergarten—law and order. School was a real jungle. Only those who knew when to strike and when to stay silent survived. Predators were turning into prey from one day to the next. Razvan was proving to be formidable. He had the toughness of a wild animal, but there was also something in his eyes that betrayed a different kind of suffering—a shell forged out of fear.

I found out later that his mother had been targeted by the militia and the Securitate because her husband had fled to the United States, trying to escape the communist regime. Treason, they called it. He wanted freedom. He wanted a better life for himself and his family. A chance at a decent existence. The American Dream was, for some, the only way out.

Me? I didn't want to be ‘the toughest’. I never stood a chance anyway. Being observant and analytical, I could see how the tough guys in the class were falling one by one, beaten in one-on-one fights and humiliated by their defeats. I had earned my place through attitude, not fists. I had nothing to lose, nothing to prove.

By the end of primary school, the hierarchy was already clearly established. Razvan had lost his position, and Matei had taken the lead—a tall, slender boy, the tallest in the class, but also the hardest to bring down. He had a strange calm about him. Analytical, fair, pacifist. He defended justice and those who were wronged with an uncommon maturity. A genuine leader. He knew how to lose with honor, when necessary, against another leader, in the fights that broke out in the school hallways during recess.