Men and women see things on a daily basis that they desire. Things they want, sometimes even things they need. Some of these things are out of their grasp, understandably so, and other things lurk just beyond the grasp of their mortal perception. Some desire God, some desire wealth. Some desire happiness, love, there are a myriad of material and less tangible things humanity seeks, day after day.

I desire things too. I want things just out of my reach, I want things that I will never have. I want things that no matter how I grasp, my fingertips will never brush.

I expect for my societal duties to someday involve a child. My flesh, my blood. A creature entirely dependant on me, with no defenses of its own. Probably even a child that will blossom like a rose, with emotions and happiness. Sociopathy did not run wild in my blood. None of my relatives ever were caught, or revealed, to be like me. I have never had anyone to rely on, never had to rely on anyone but myself.

No mentor, no parent. No one to hold me close when I was afraid. But then again, I was never afraid. I never needed to be held. When my world got rough, I read. When that wasn't enough, I found a patch of dark, and I became one with it. I taught myself things about nature, about animals. About pain, about pleasure.

But back to desire. When I desire a woman, there are few times when I don't have her. When I desire a good meal, there are few times I do not find myself that meal, whether I cook it myself or I have it made for me. When I desire a genre of music, or literature, so too do I find that for myself, or make it available to myself.

So what, then, do I do when I desire a companion? Not a mate; I do not believe in love. No, I simply desire a companion. Someone like me, someone that can understand me. Most animals fear me. Dogs cower, or snarl. Cats growl, but usually warm up to me, because cats are snarky and they desire nothing more than attention, much like one of my kind. So I can not find my companionship in a hound, like in stories of old of man and his best friend. I cannot show myself to any of my normal 'friends,' because then every action they've ever done for me, or around me, would suddenly come under close scrutiny. 'Did the manipulations of xxx cause me to behave this way?' or 'Did I do that because xxx wanted me to?!'

I must confess, I've grown fond of my mother as I've aged. While at first, she was equal parts lost, confused, and bewildered at parenting, I do admit her strength, albeit worn ragged and not very copious to begin with, is admirable. Raising a monster is hard, raising one to be as socially acceptable as I've maintained my glove... that takes class. But could I ever tell her what I am? I doubt it, because just as my sister betrayed me, my sister betrayed my mother. To lose both her children? To me, that is as natural as plucking a hair from my scalp. No true, tangible loss. That is the gift of monsterhood. But if I had, instead, the gift of motherhood? Perhaps it would destroy me. Regardless, it would destroy her, to know that she lost both her children.

There lies my issue. To admit to sociopathy, is tantamount to death. Why is that?

Does that even matter? Not to me.