Narrative Essay On Jeffrey Dahmer

It was a quiet late afternoon as I stepped out onto the front porch and felt the cool breeze of the fall wind; it was a perfect time of day to take a walk. Hurrying across the porch and down the steps I inserted my ear buds into my ears, pressed play on the music app, and tucked my phone into my sweatshirt front pocket. I listened to the voice of Adam Lambert singing ‘Time for Miracles’ as I strolled to the end of the driveway. Upon reaching it I took a right, which was my normal route whenever I went for a walk.
I walked for about thirty minutes when I realized that I was no longer on a street that I recognized. Shutting my music off, I spun around several times to view my surroundings, but nothing was familiar to me. I did not recall taking

a wrong turn at least I was sure I didn’t. So where was I? I began to walk back in the direction I had come only to discover it was now a dead end. Wait. This was the way I came was it not? I turned again and walked in the opposite direction only to find another dead end. Each time I turned around, which was about 5 more times, and walked in the reverse direction I would end up at the dead end; and each time there was the same old Victorian style home with a wrap around porch and a widow’s peak.
Realizing the effort to leave this neighborhood was impossible; I approached the white picket fence surrounding the Victorian. All seemed quiet. A stone path, surrounded by overgrown flower gardens on either side, guided one to the front steps leading up to the porch. I opened the gate and walked forward only stepping on the stones, avoiding any of the grass growing in between. When I reached the steps I carefully walked up and approached the old front mahogany door inlaid with a patterned stained glass window. It was cracked open so I pushed it. Cautiously I walked into the dimly lit foyer. Before me stood a grand staircase, to the right in the dark appeared to be a formal sitting room, and to the left a pair of 8 feet tall antique French doors painted in 18th century blue gray. Voices came from behind the doors and as I moved closer I began to say ‘hello’ repeatedly.
No response to my greeting only continued discussion from beyond. I slowly reached for the brass knob on the right, turned it and pulled the door open. Stepping inside I first became aware of the magnificence of the room; all four walls had floor to ceiling shelves filled with timeworn books and curved topped windows covered with shear white curtains. On the left side of the room, 4 burgundy-cushioned club chairs facing each other with a square rustic reclaimed wood coffee table in the center overshadowed by a massive stone fireplace on the wall opposite of me. On the right an enormous farm table lit with different size and shape beeswax candles and set for 7 guests even though the table clearly had enough room for ten.
I looked down and noticed that I no longer wore my favorite sweatshirt and jeans instead I was wearing a black dress pants with a white button down top and black flats. It was then that I was aware of the other people in the room. The people that were talking when I was outside the door and continued to talk while I comprehended what was happening finally looked in my direction in silence. They were all famous people. In the corner, leaning on the edge of the fireplace, wearing a long duster and his signature sugar loaf sombrero with wide decorative band was William Henry McCarty Jr. otherwise known in history as Billy the Kid. He was slender in build with an oval face, sandy blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and crooked protruding front teeth. His demeanor was intimidating since he was holding an 1873 Winchester rifle, the firearm of choice when he was in a gunfight. Standing in front of him and obviously fascinated by the knowledge he could learn from this figure in history was H.P. Lovecraft. He wore a suit with a black tie. Due to his dark brown hair being cut extremely short, it was evident that his facial features looked irregular on his face being either too small or too big. I wonder what kind of information Lovecraft was inquiring about, but then I was more interested in the other 3 people in the room sitting at the table. Sitting at the far end of the table dressed in an outfit from the Baroque era, but the fabric featuring more modern day vivacity and his face adorned with excessive makeup and a powdered wig sat Prince Poppycock, real name John Andrew Quale. To the right of him sat Kelley Armstrong wearing jeans, a pink button down shirt covering a white tank top and a jean jacket. Her shoulder length strawberry blonde hair was feathered back and she had the fainted touch of pink lipstick on. Across from Kelley sat Anne Rice in a black floor length skirt with a black long sleeve shirt. Anne had a sense of witchery about her with her short silver hair framing her face and her mysterious eyes. I stepped further into the room when I caught a sixth person out of the corner of my right eye. He was standing in the corner of the room pretending to be interested in the books in front of him. He was wearing brown khakis and a striped button down shirt. His short dirty blonde hair was in disarray from him running his fingers through it one too many times. He was tense and uneasy standing in this room full of extroverts. Taking my time as to not startle him, I approached.
“Jeffrey, Jeffrey Dahmer.” I whispered in his direction.

He turned and looked at me in terror. Who would think a man who seemed to have no fear when it came to luring in young men and killing them would be so uneasy in a social setting. Yet, I had compassion for him knowing his childhood was to him a rough path.
“Please, come sit down with the others. Tonight there will be no judging based on character.” I said as I reached out my hand to show I was not afraid.
After a moment of scanning the others in the room and then myself, he took my hand and together we walked over to the farmers’ table and sat down. He sat next to Kelley and I next to him. I reached for a large pitcher of ice water and poured us both a glass.
“Would you care to join us?” Prince Poppycock said to the Kid and Lovecraft.
“Don’t mind if we do.” said the Kid as he made his way over to the table and sat next to Anne with Lovecraft right behind

him.
“Would someone care to explain why we are all here?” said Anne.
“I believe I can shed some light on that subject.” I said. Taking a sip of my water to moisten my lips I began to explain why each person was most likely here because of me.
The western era had always fascinated me and the legend of Billy the Kid was an intriguing one. Orphaned young boy turns to theft, finds work as a rancher and bodyguard for a man who is then murdered, he craves revenge and joins “The Regulators” who are deputized to serve warrants for arrests. However “The Regulators” rebel due to they feel the justice system does not work. The curiosity of the entire story is the final mystery since his death seems to be to simple of an act for someone so sly in escaping the law; this is the real reason why I am drawn to his being.
I then explain that my favorite holiday is Halloween, for it is the only holiday that I decorate for.

My idea of decorating is NOT cute black cats and ghosts holding hands in a circle, I prefer graveyards and 6 foot animated horror story characters with smoke weighed down by dry ice to give it that eerie feeling. Body parts left in puddles of blood and insane asylum characters screaming at the top of their lungs. This is why H.P. Lovecraft, Anne Rice, and Kelley Armstrong are present. All 3 incorporated the supernatural in their writings. H.P. Lovecraft, the father of modern horror, combined supernatural horror with imaginative theories of Science fiction. Anne Rice, the gothic writer, whose Vampire series focuses on the lifestyles and beliefs of several unusual vampires. Kelley Armstrong whose, otherworld series concentrates on the werewolf and the family structure of this

being.
I turn to Jeffrey Dahmer, who looks pale and uncomfortable sitting between Kelley and myself, neither of us giving off any signs of fear.
“Serial killers, the human mind, and psychological state that causes the tragic ending have always peaked my curiosity.” I said looking directly at Jeffrey. “Your tragic story caught my attention as I followed it through television, newspapers, and magazines at the time of your demise.” He said nothing just a nod that was so slight I barely even noticed.
Finally, I turned to Prince Poppycock and explained that his courage to express himself to the entire world in the utmost unique manner was hopeful for someone who was an introvert. Just then several men and women dressed in black pants and white shirts came through a door behind Prince Poppycock carrying several plates. They placed them down on the table between our place settings. There were stuffed mushrooms, scallops wrapped in bacon, deviled eggs, mini meatballs in a sweet sauce, and chicken wings. As we each took something to eat, Lovecraft began to ask questions about Kelley and Anne’s writings. They discussed the supernatural creatures they wrote about and the context in which they wrote them. At one point Kid interrupted to understand why someone would eat mushrooms, but the conversation continued.
About an hour into the conversation, the men and women wearing the black pants and white shirts returned, placing a meal of mashed potatoes, green beans, and bacon wrapped steak filet in front of us and clearing away the empty plates and dirty silverware. A new conversation began one concerning death and killings. Prince Poppycock looked bored and continued to enjoy his meal while the topic began to take a turn for the worse.
“So, you are a serial killer,” said Lovecraft in the direction of Jeffrey. Jeffrey looked up from his meal but didn’t say anything.
“Enlighten us on what you did and why,” said Lovecraft. Jeffrey again didn’t say anything just continued to eat his meal. It was then that I realized I was sitting next to a man who had a steak knife in his had and diagonally across from a man who had a rifle by his side.
“Let’s talk about something else.” I stated.
“I want to know what he did; tell us” said the Kid. The hairs on my arms stood straight up and just then I could tell Anne, Kelley, and Price Poppycock also did not want to be at the table.
Jeffrey stood up from the table, silverware including the knife, still in his hands. “I believe I have already confessed to my sins and have paid for them, so I do not have to justify my actions with any of you.” The Kid chuckled and all of a sudden his demeanor changed to one of anger. “Tell me what horrible things you did to be called a serial killer.”
Getting out of his seat and raising his rifle, the Kid pointed it at Jeffrey.
“I have found God and death even a second time does not scare me,” said Jeffrey. Kids short temper took hold and within seconds the rifle was fired. Jeffrey’s body fell back hitting the floor with a loud thump as his chair went sliding out from under him and behind me. I looked back and there lay Jeffrey with blood pooling around his head. Anne, Kelley, Prince Poppycock and Lovecraft had all darted from their seats and were already headed out the door of the room. I stood up and looked at the Kid.
“He was already dead and besides what is one more death on my record,” Kid said as he smiled. I slowly backed away from the table and headed for the door myself. The Kid didn’t make a move just stood there looking at the man he had just killed. As I entered the foyer, I turned and walked quickly right out of the house since the last person had left the door wide open. When I got outside I realized that I was dressed back in my favorite sweatshirt and pants and I was now standing on the street in front of my own driveway. Did I hallucinate the entire dinner as I walked? I was not sure what had just happened, only that I wanted to head inside and have a couple of shots hoping to forget the whole experience.