Disturbia: Chapter 4(The jigsaw puzzle)

Ok Corey, are you sure you want to continue? We can always continue another day. I am fine Gary, I can finish this. Ok, so Corey, tell me what was happening in your mind. Ahem, ok, my mind was a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces were no longer linking. One piece was somewhere it was not suppose to be. I can see that you Gary love playing crossword puzzles. Yes, actually I do love playing those puzzles, how did you know? You always have a pen and newspaper with you. I scanned the notes you write in these sessions and they are mostly summarized into one word or a phrase. You always want to put the pieces to any story together; it’s as if you are solving a puzzle. You have a multitude of newspapers in your office and the last piece that cements my claim is that you always carry a crossword puzzle in your right pocket with the pen swinging effortlessly around your neck. I have been observing you Gary. Wow, I have to say I am impressed, you are quite perceptive and sharp Corey. I believe you were born like that. Actually no, I was quite passive in my childhood but as I grew, rejection and scorn turned me into a sharp and very perceptive person. I don’t like being taken by surprise. I like having the controlling stake in most situations. However let me tell you how it came to be. Gary, you being a puzzle man, have you ever put in a word into the puzzle that was wrong and it ended up spoiling the entire puzzle. Yes I actually have a number of times. Good then we are on the same page.


I grew up heavily dependent on mommy. My fathers influence in my life made me a very sharp, aggressive, manipulative, witty, shrewd, sick, twisted, and ever violent person. I became so caged up in myself that I developed a survivor’s instinct that was very selfish. I was a very confused person in my teens. I struggled with acceptance and hurt. I hid from society and began to brew the hurt in me into anger. I loved horror films! Every time I imagined it was me acting out the scenes in the movie. Making the people who hurt me bleed was a plan for my future. I did not trust in any person except my immediate family. I developed a split personality. A very dangerous one! The other personality of mine was a person heavily addicted to blood, sex, violence and unorthodox behaviour. In high school I was always mocked. But one day I proved them wrong.


I walked into class and bumped into another students table. He stood up with the intention of intimidating me. I put my bag down and turned with murder in my eyes. He attempted to strike me but I stepped back. Him thinking I was a woman; kept on coming for me but I stepped away. He quickly gave up and assumed I was not going to retaliate. I pounced immediately on his sense of security. My first blow hit his left eye, my second blow hit his stomach, and my last blow went straight onto his mouth. He fell back and covered his mouth. A tooth rolled from his blazer onto the floor. Then everyone was silent. I began to laugh with such a sinister tone. He uncovered his mouth and he had lost a canine tooth and blood was flowing down. I grew silent; my focus was now on the blood. I became amused at the sight of his pain and started to laugh. This time I was poking him in the head with my fist. Such a puny person he seemed. My first victim! He sat down crying and never went to tell the senior masters because I promised that I would finish him off. Nothing in my mind made sense. I was a psychotic episode at most! I loved playing mind games with people and manipulating their thoughts and emotions. I discovered that people underestimated the power of the human mind. But soon, it would be in the open for all to see.


I found myself talking to another person in me, getting motivation to do harmful things. The war at home got more serious. Each and every time my dad spoke to me harshly I would stand up and stare him in the eyes in rebellion. My hope was that he would throw the first blow and that would give me a good enough reason to kill him. My brother and I had our occasional sibling rivalry episodes and it would turn violent. My mother always intervened and cast down the foul spirit. Such a darling she was! I hated the time out sessions that followed such episodes. I was always banished to a stone outcrop in the yard that had no shade. The suns blazing arrows and the impenetrable surface of the rock made me feel like an egg in a frying pan. At least my sister would offer comfort in such times but not for long.


A time came when my sister had to go abroad for school. Seeing her getting onto the plane opened my eyes to the prospect that I was not going to see her any time soon. I felt robbed! My darling sister, my best friend was leaving. My other character was saying that she didn’t care; she didn’t love me and never did. Hearing that everyday as I looked into the mirror hurt me. I began to search for a female friend to fill the gap. I would isolate one and begin to monitor her without her knowledge. Following her home; taking pictures of where she stayed. Isolating her social habits and tendencies. If she lived in an unprotected area, I would try to get as much as I could about her room and anything that could be helpful. As quick as it started, I would find myself gawking at the pictures of the girls I was tracking. The desire to defile them became a hidden intention. The glitter of their smiles, the aroma of their perfume, the firmness of their breasts, the tone of their voices, and the shear sight of them made my imagination go wild. I found myself wanting to unleash my anger and hurt on them. Stalking girls became a pass time activity. Pornography became an addiction. My mind was a maze of pornographic images, videos and moans. I am glad that no girl ever fell into my hands because I would not be here talking to you right now.


I was always very good with words and I had quite the flirtatious tongue. Girls saw my charm. My slippery words hid my obsession, my intentions, my sick and perverted thoughts; I manipulated girls, played with their emotions, inspired thoughts into their minds, pounced on their insecurity and enjoyed flirting. I had demented desires and lusts. Everyone had become a pawn on my chess board. My eyes were so sharp I undressed women down to their birthday suit just by setting my gaze on them. My mind knew of no direction in life; it only knew vile crimes and atrocities against mankind. I got into another fight at school and this time I had to be restrained by a teacher. During a science lesson, I was paying attention to the words of my teacher when a student behind me mocked me. While my teacher was writing on the board, I stood up and walked to the student and smacked him three times and went back to my seat before the teacher saw me. The teacher turned to face the class wondering why the entire class was cheering and roaring. He did not pay too much attention to it. Then he left the room briefly and the guy I had slapped came down to my table and commanded me to face him in a fight. I agreed. I stood up and removed my blazer. I went up to him and he immediately started swinging fists. I began to block his fists and I got filled with massive strength. I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and began to unleash right hand fists upon his face. He began to retreat but I pursued him. I began to use my entire body as a weapon. Some students tried to stop the fight but I pushed them aside and kept on pounding him. The teacher walked into a heavily disoriented victim and a pursuing mad boy. He grabbed a hold of me and held me in a bear hug. I tried to break away but he refused to let me go. The fight died down and then the teacher took a Bunsen burner pipe and ordered me to touch a table. I laughed inside as he began lashing me. I kept on laughing in my mind, I felt no pain. I was used to it! He then ordered me to sit down and I grinned hideously to the class who cheered me on.


I would find myself saying that this person was not who I was. But who was I to say who I was since I did not even know who I was! Even when I was in my most normal of senses, I found myself drifting into a state of denial. I tried to sort out my mind by introducing girls. A lot of them were just like candy without the sweetness but one stood out above the rest. I became so hung up on her that I chased after her for four years. She had given me a reason to wake up everyday. Getting her heart next to mine became my fight. Those were very happy days in my life. However I did too many things to get to her. I wrote letters, sent presents and even lied just so that she could feel sorry for me. One day I bumped into her and in a very cold voice she told me to “get of her case”. That shattered me; it cast a dark cloud over my hopes. After four years, my desire came crashing down on me. I tried not to listen but she insisted. I remember the feeling of rejection. I remember how it ate me inside. How it changed me for the worst. My old friend was back with a vengeance. Now all he wanted was blood. He wanted to bring his so called justice into action. If ever my split personality was to become an instigator of justice then I was doomed for eternity.

Disturbia: Chapter 3(Why I took it!)

Mommy always loved but she was very strict. She always enforced a spirit of working hard in us and always made us responsible for our failures and successes. When she would get angry, she would be quick to discipline and quick to hug the pain away. I would always remember the lesson she taught me not the pain that came with the learning lesson. My mother hated stealing and always taught us that we should be content with what we have and aspire to achieve more. However, Gary, have you ever taken something without asking? Yes, I have. How did it feel when you did it? It felt wrong at most. Right you are Gary, right you are. I had an uncle of mine. A very prosperous uncle of mine who I looked up to as my father. He got married and he would always invite me to his house for weekends so that he could spend time with me. He would always take me everywhere he went. I remember how he would come to get me when I am covered in mud and put me in his Mercedes Benz. He would take me to all the places he had meetings. He even took me to a meeting at the bank and held my hand as we ascended the stairs. One day he left me at his house while I was playing on his waterbed (I wonder how that bed survived my wrestling moves). I bumped into his wife’s gold watch. I looked at it and liked it, I tried it on but it was too big, obviously. I then looked at it again and smiled. I put it into my pocket. I kept it to myself for a week. I then called his wife just to see how she was doing and she asked me if I had seen the watch. I denied having seen the watch and then cut the phone on her. She then called my mother and asked her about the watch. My mom then searched my room and found it. My mother was very angry with me and disciplined me heavily. She then drove me to my uncle’s house so that I could apologize and give the watch back in person. I did so and then rushed back into the car feeling ashamed. My mother then drove us home and comforted me hoping I had learnt my lesson. My uncle did not think too much of it because he knew something was plaguing me. He continued to talk to me and offer comfort in my little 9-year-old world as if nothing had changed.

My father came into my room the following morning and asked me why I had taken the watch. I replied “I wanted to wear it”. He looked at me with such disgust and closed the door on his way out. I had replied just to buzz him off. I never really knew why I took the watch. I never knew why I chose to take it and keep it to myself. I remember how I would stare at the golden bracelet of the watch. How beautiful it was, so pure and fine. My reflection bounced off its purity and its colour shined so bright in my eyes that I never wanted to let it go. Why did I take it? I wish it ended there. However, I did it again. This time my siblings and I went to visit my cousins. We got there and spent the day watching TV and horsing around. I went into my cousin’s bedroom and saw a $100 dollar bill. I took it and went and bought fast food for everyone in the house. I was so pleased to see everyone happy. After the weekend, we came back home and my mother had spoken to my aunt her sister about the money I had taken. My mother was disappointed but not angry. She told my father hoping they could all ascertain the problem that was causing this. My father being black took to his usual and beat me up. I ran away and he followed me and stripped me naked and continued to beat me up like a dog. My mother could not say a thing because she was silenced. I looked at my father, tears flooding my eyes and I began to hate him. I began to hate him so much at the age of 10. The hate, so real that I could taste it. So real!

Looking at him filled me with so much rage, an uncontrollable desire to want to unleash upon him the atrocities he had unleashed on me. I could not stand to be in the same room as him. I became confined to my bedroom. I only spoke to my siblings and my mother. I hated that man, I really dreamt of his death. I hoped my mom would divorce him and leave him to eat the dirt that he deserved. Talking to him was hard enough. I remember when we went on a family holiday my mom had been saving for, for most of her professional life. I remember how cold the place we were staying in was. My father would sit in the rocking chair in front of the fire and I would sit far away from him even though I was freezing. My mother knew that there were issues and she would ask me to play checkers with my father. I would refuse then she would persuade me and I would end up playing because she asked me. Those were painful moments. Was it that he never cared or he stopped caring when I came along. I always used ponder about why I took the money, why I took the watch. It’s not that I wanted to gain materialistically but I just did not understand why.

That man scared me, he scared my heart, my body my soul. That man, that man, oh how I hated him. His sight was as repulsive as the stench of a skunk. His eyes hidden behind the sophisticated look of spectacles made me view him as nothing more than a snake rolling on its belly. Even in high school, he would beat me and beat me and beat me. But now it was different. Every time he lashed me I hated him more. My eyes would grow red with anger. My heart would be burned with rage. My soul would cry lustfully for his blood. Everyday, I had to endure torment at school and torment at home. Everyday I was called a sissy at school, a woman. Everyday I hated the person I was. I blamed him for all of it. Everyday I would stare into the mirror, everyday I would get more and more carnivorous. I took what I took because I wanted appreciation. I wanted to experience appreciation and also give appreciation. All that he had taken from me was all I tried to regain. He lashed me for it, for trying to regain what I had lost. He lashed me for desiring something he was not man enough to give. He got all of his desires, alcohol, money, a loving wife and three kids. Why did he rob me of my desires?

Disturbia: Chapter 2(Pain so real)

Do you want some water? No, I am fine Gary, I am doing just fine. I did not want to go to school that day. I was forced to and I remember what happened in class that day. My teacher told the class to sit down and as I tried to sit down my body refused to be in contact with anything. Even wearing a boxer short was painful. My classmates quickly noticed my pain and started laughing. Oh their laughs, their cold heartless laughs. My teacher automatically knew what had happened and silenced the class. Tears had already lined my cheeks and I was cursing my father. How dare he do this to me? What wrong had I ever done to him? I was only six years old. Why was he never there when I wanted him, why, why, why? I refused to talk about it and kept it to myself. Such a monster I became because of that. Every time a classmate fell into a dilemma, I did not restrain myself. I laughed until he or she started crying. I would continuously laugh and laugh and laugh until he or she would refuse to come to school. It brought so much joy, a debt repaid I thought. I kind of believe mommy now when she tells me that I used to be a bully in pre-school. Each and every time I walked into the school yard, kids started crying and clutching on to teachers for protection. It’s hard to believe such stories when you are grown up you know!

Anyway, home was home even though. Living with my father’s siblings was a nightmare. They made life very unpleasant for the sake of hating my mommy. My father’s mother never wanted my father to marry my mother. My father’s siblings wanted to stress my mother to breaking point and the best way to do this was to mess with the kids. This hurt me a lot and I would threaten to stab them with a kitchen knife. My father was never there to stand up for us. He would never listen when we told him what was going on. Ignorant as he was, his blindness was such a burdensome curse. He was so blinded by his mother and siblings that he could not see his own children. My mother put all three of us through school, put food on the table, clothed us and put us to bed all by herself. Where was my father, I do not know. Lost in the hypnotic aroma of alcohol or his deepened affection for his mother I guess.

My mother worked hard all day and made sure she was home before the sun set. She would help me with my homework and let me play with her hair afterwards. Winters were often cold. I was afraid of the dark and I would often sleep on my mothers lap in front of the fire. Each time we heard my father at the gate, it had become a custom that we would extinguish the fire, switch off all lights and rush to bed. Not long before that, I used to be enthusiastic about seeing my father when he came home. I would wait for him at the door and help him to take off his shoes. I would sit with him by the fire and try to make sense of the testimony of his day. Now, my father, freezing from the cold outside and the alcohol in him would find wood drenched in water simmering in the fireplace and the distant voices of the people who were sitting there earlier. He would just sit there alone. Gone were the days were I would feel the urge to comfort him. Now I was starting not to care. My mother would tell me of how he used to take me places when I was still a baby. I asked “what places mommy” and the first place she said was “the bar” and she highlighted how happy I would be. I wonder why he stopped!

My brother and I also had our issues. We shared the same bedroom and always argued about space. Fighting was a daily routine for us. I remember when one fight got physical. Oh what a day it was! He slapped me and I ran to my sister who came, all engines blowing at my brother. She was holding a cricket bat and threatened to hit him on the head. I ran out of the house while my brother was in hot pursuit. My sister was pursuing my brother with the cricket bat in hand while our maid was pursuing my sister. I ran into the garage and got a broom. My brother followed and picked up an axe. I stopped and began to stalk my brother. I lashed out and struck my brother in the head with the broom. He attempted to strike my leg with the axe but our maid grabbed it and took it away from him. I continued to hit him before my sister restrained me.  I admit, I always had a nasty temper, I guess that assured me that I was my father’s child. Sibling rivalry was not a major concern for me; it was mainly a tool of getting my mothers attention. Of which she did not really pay attention unless there was danger. My brother had an affinity for getting me into trouble. He always sought for ways to make my life miserable. At most, he always focused on my schoolwork. For a seasoned intellectual I surely did not like school. My class exercise grades where always hectic even though I passed my critical exams superbly.

My father did not tolerate failure, if he saw failure he would opt to lash before ascertaining the cause. Had he been a medieval king, he would have been renowned for acting before thinking. My mom had always suggested that my father was that way because his father was the same to him. He believed that instilling fear built upon earning respect. It sounds like such a misguided and childish concept for a grown man. At times, I would find myself wondering if at all, my father had any sense of moral fibre in him. Did he not even see that he was a distant star in the lives of his children? Did he acknowledge that he was a burdensome curse in the lives of his children? His actions alone were so hard to believe that tears seemed to be the only comfort and assurance that things could change. My brother was a highly reserved person, very talkative when he was with the people he was used to but very silent in the midsts of strangers. One day he was shouted at by my father and he was very hurt. He ran out of the house and hid in the backyard tree house. My mother got worried when my brother was not home for dinner and started panicking. She called my father who came home fuming. He called my brothers friends and he drove around the neighbourhood but could not find him. Out of desperation, my father took a walk in the yard and found my brother shivering in the tree house. My father dragged him out and brought him into the house. He then, he then. Ahem, he then beat up my brother and then sent him to sleep. He then set his attention on me and accused me of aiding my brother in his attempt to run away from home. He then beat me up until I was chocking in my tears and sent me to bed. Kids do wrong but why? Why was it so hard to look at the man who was my father? I hardly knew anything about him, even his favourite colour. When he was home, he would be all serious and moody that no one would dare share the lounge with him. I tried, I would get my spelling book and ask him to help me with spellings but he would turn me away. That lack of interest in my life hurt so badly. I felt as if I was a failure in his eyes and redemption was not a possibility.

Going to visit my cousins felt as if I had been liberated from jail. I could spend the whole day playing in mud or on the swing or horsing around with my cousins. Back at home, the only time I had to play was when mommy was around or when the lion was at work. As soon as I saw his car at the gate, I would run inside and go to bed even at midday. I just could not stand being around him. It was so hard to love him, no matter how hard my little heart tried. Mommy was easy because she was always there and she was open and fun to be with. My father was just something else.

Disturbia: Chapter 1(The Beginning)

Ok, hmmm where should I start and what should I call you? Start at the beginning and just call me Gary. Ok Gary, can I lie down then? Oh yes please, take any position you are comfortable with, I do not mind. However, before we go far, state your name and surname for the record. Ok my name is Corey Adams.  Can I start now Gary? Yah sure, and take your time on this.

Hmmm ok. Wow, I do not know where to start. I lost the beginning in the middle of the story. The end was so evident because it almost consumed me into an eternal pit. It is the last memory I have of a life that almost went wrong. Speaking is such a burden, the memory of the weight of the hurt and pain is so real that it makes my eyes heavy with tears. My eyes used to burn when the smell of blood touched my mind. I am glad I can breathe now, I do not remember the last time, the last time, the last! Ok Corey you do not have to rush things, I can see you are opening up for the first time. Take it easy Corey! Ok Gary, I want to tell you this, really I do. Ok, as I was saying, I do not remember the last time I had the peace as I have now. It hurt to be the person I was, to be so vile and monstrous. Look out of that window Gary. All you see is grass, trees, people and buildings. You see nature; you see creation. Imagine if what you are seeing was your story. Imagine if what you are seeing now is what almost consumed you. Imagine if it spit out its most horrible plague upon your life and there was no cure in sight. How would you feel? I do not know Corey, can you answer that question for me? I will gladly answer it Gary.

You would feel void inside. You would feel alone, distant and hurt. A lingering darkness would consume every fibre of your existence until you have lost yourself in hatred, vanity and mental disorder. You would no longer know who you are. All you would know is that you do not know who you are. You would get into a place where your own voice is your everlasting curse and the sight of your own face is like looking at the flesh of a rotting corpse. All the life would be sucked out of you and you would become an empty vessel. No life would exist in you! All that would be there to see is hatred, anger, lust, schizophrenia, twisted desire and lack of affection. Insecurity would become your best friend; vengeance would become the only shoulder capable of bearing the weight of your voidness. You would want to end it all; you would want to give back that which you have been given. You would want to show the fruits of the seeds that would have been sown into your life. Your mind would feel like a complex jigsaw puzzle while your heart would feel like it is being stabbed by a razor sharp dagger. No peace would exist in you, none at all! You would be all by yourself, no one would understand. No one would choose to understand but most would choose to judge. You would lose yourself Gary and the chance of coming back would seem so bleak that the darkest star seems to be the brightest sun in your life.


Have you ever looked death in the eye Gary? No, I have not Corey but I take it you have! Yes, I have Gary.  What a sight she is! She is such a seductress. Her beauty, her covetous body, her tongue! When she kisses your cheek, your body burns and when you feel her body, you become so trapped in her softness and warmth that you will never notice her deception. When she kisses you on your mouth and delivers the kiss of death you will do whatever she says, you will kill for her. Your own silent mistress, such a liar! Everything out there has the ability to destroy you if you allow it to.  Only if you allow it to!


My mother was a kind but firm lady, more like the first lady of an Italian mafia. My father was a laid back, extremely silent and contemplative human being. One would think he is a typical American non-socialite. I came along last in a family of four. Well three actually. The first-born died when she was two months old. At times, I wonder what she looked like. She must have loved candy because I do. I joined the rest of the clan in 1987. Three years later, we moved and settled in the house we live in now, the house I like to call the “funeral parlour” because of its shear size. At the age of three, you do not get to see and understand much. The day you discover what sugar tastes like is like the day you meet the love of your life. However, the little you see sticks in your mind like the stench of a skunk does in your nose.  My father was, well a father! He went out in the morning and came back home in the evening after a pit stop at the bar. Hmmm, I am sure he did more pit stops than Michael Schumacher did in his entire racing career, but anyway. I remember seeing him walking through the front door. The first thing he would do was to shout for my mommy and then he would try to kiss her good evening but then mommy would get all shy because all the kids are around. God knows what happened when all the kids were asleep! My father seemed to be such a gentleman and such an educated character. However, the day I really saw my father was the day I saw him angry. What a vision! His voice grew loud, his eyes popped out and his hand was poised to strike. The whole house quaked at the ascending magnitude of his anger. Tears filled the face of my siblings and I while my mother looked at us with love as she could only try to calm him down. It felt as if being a kid was so wrong, there was no room for error and childhood nonsense. Leaving the house just to go to school was like going to heaven on a chariot of fire. No care in sight, just other kids. When the time to go home came, the harsh reality of fear would settle in. Was he going to be happy today, was he going to be angry, was he going to bring me chocolate or he would be holding his belt? Such suspense is poisonous to the mind of a child. The sight that I would welcome any day was the sight of my mommy. Oh my mommy, such a lady. We would be waiting to ambush her at the gate. The theory was to ambush her, pillage all the candy we could from her handbag before she caught us. There being three kids, working as a unit would help to feed the multitude. One would run and give mommy a huge bear hug, while the other two took the handbag and searched it. Worked like a charm. Well until she learnt to hide her handbag. At times, I had to criticize her intelligence!

Whenever I heard my father at the gate, I would rush into my blankets and try to get to dreamland as fast as I could. I wanted to see the best in my father but it was so hard. He was never there; he was at work, at the bar or at home but never there. He was in a distant world of his own where his mother and his siblings were all that ever concerned him. At times, I would wonder if my siblings and I were really his children. I grew up knowing that my mother was my mommy and daddy at the same time. If I ever wanted something, I would ask my mom and if she could not give it to me then I had to go and get it myself. It takes a moment of overactive hormones to become a father but it takes a heart to be a daddy. That heart my father lacked. I remember one time I was performing badly in first grade. My teacher spoke to my mom about it and my mom then told my father. My father came home fuming with the stench of alcohol in his breath. He grabbed a fan belt from the car and lashed me repeatedly until I was chocking my tears. I ran into my room and he followed me. I was trying to get into my blankets, for some strange reason I thought they would be a safe refuge. He caught me by my feet, lifted me upside down, and walked back to the lounge with me hanging in his hands. All this time he was still lashing me. He put me down after mommy said it was enough. I ran back to my room and buried myself in my bed hoping the tears would go away. Mommy followed and tried to comfort me but I did not want to talk. My body was aching; my back was so alive with pain that it felt as if it had the pounding rhythm of my heart. I cried until I could only cry in my heart. I dosed off and woke up the following day. I woke up only to realize that the pain had only begun. The belt had scarred my body so much that I could not sit anymore. Trying to sit was like trying to swallow a substance on fire. I could not sit, it hurt so much. My body hurt, for what, for what?

Disturbia: Cover and Preface

The testimony of a boy who almost became a serial killer.


To all my heroes to whom if you never existed I would have never known that change is possible.



 It takes a moment of overactive hormones to become a father, but it takes heart to be a daddy. This is an uncommon testimony of a boy who grew up in fear and silence. His father beat him and pulled him through hell. He did not know where to turn. One day his fear turned to anger and rage. He named his life “Disturbia” because it was a very disturbing life. Walk with him as he tells the full story for the first time. You are his guest interviewer in this ever twisting story. See what he saw, feel what he felt, taste what he tasted, hear what he heard and think what he thought. This is the story of how God saved a boy who almost became a serial killer.