Kassandra Rose
Elder Member
There was something about Ted.
But, it wasn’t quite the “something” that you would immediately envision at those words. He wasn’t skittish or slimy. You’d expect him to be the kind of man that kept so very cut off from others; a man isolated to a world of his own. He wasn’t. Instead, he tugged upon the strings of our own world, like a puppeteer. Us people were merely disposabilities: puppets, dummies, dolls, whatever word you want to use. It was all the same to him.
He was exactly as his name implicated. The dark locks upon his head fell in tousled curls that resembled that of a child’s cuddly bear, and he had the button eyes to match. I’ve heard, many times now, them cerulean gems describes as almost ‘transformative’. Unlike most children, I was never one to believe in mood rings, and yet these eyes, these wretched eyes before me, served as living proof that my cynicism was so shockingly mislaid. You see, when he wished them to be, Ted’s eyes were the palest of blues that you had ever seen, reminded of you of the morning sky, liberating and caressing all at once. Yet, when he allowed the ‘other him’ in — that I would later learn that he described to Berlinger as the ‘other him’, the Hyde to his Jekyll — this was at once consumed, replaced with pits of deep, black holes ready to consume, devour, destruct.
I still feel them on me now, as I lay in bed, with my blanket pulled tightly up to my chin. I feel his eyes watching me, narrowed upon me in a judging glare that hisses, whispers: “You should not be here. You do not deserve to be here”. I feel his hand squeezing, grasping, clenching my arm, as I tug and tug and tug, and I heave with all my might. For, I know at once that if I do not then my might shall cease to be all at once. Yet, his touch was possessive, and why should it not be? He thought himself a God, the God, and his word was the world’s truth.
But, it would not be my truth.
I do not keep my eyes upon the decrepit ceiling these nights, not anymore. I always had trouble sleeping, though those worries seem so naive now, so young and almost carefree. When I am up and awake, I look outside. Although, this is not in search of him. He is long gone now, at least such physicality. I look outside because... well, I can. I used to believe that I wanted to die, but in that moment I had realised that nothing was further from the truth. I wanted to live to see the white clouds pass the sky, with the sweet melodic birds floating between. I wanted to live to hear the hushing lullabies of the sea upon the tanned, ribbed sand — to run my fingers through the almost powdery form and feel the grains fall through like a trillion shooting stars. I wanted to awaken in the morning to hear the birds sing, to lay with a lover in bed, to see the soft creases upon my mother’s nose as she laughed at my childish jokes, to hear my father sigh with relief as he gulped another mouthful of his morning coffee bew. I wanted to live. I did. In many ways, i have Ted to thank for that.
The nightmares keep me awake, and I’m often tempted to read back over them newspaper clippings that I kept. I don’t. Though I could find despair in my restlessness, I am not despaired. Similarly, nor am I exhausted. I wake up each day with a love for life that could have only been evoked by such flirtation. I’d once sat in a shrink’s chair, following my rendezvous, and he’d asked me, as one would speak to a small child, “can you describe how you feel about what happened with you and Ted?”
“Doctor,” I had replied, “no, I cannot”. Partially, it was because I wasn’t sure how I felt. It was explosive, almost an eruptive and volcanic consumption. Guilt, anger, fear, hatred, relief, a newfound love for life — I hadn’t known that I could feel so much, until I had realised that perchance I could no longer feel at all.
“Well,” he had concluded, as he sat across me, his white hair and judging glances almost Freudian. “Whatever it is that you feel,” he had summarised, “you are not just a victim, Carol. That does not define you. Do not let your feelings become you”.
So, I didn’t.
On November 8, 1974, Theodore Robert Bundy approached me, identifying himself as Officer Roseland of the Murray Police Department, and at once he told me that someone had broken into my car. He asked me to accompany him to the police station, to give a statement, and so naively I joined him in his car to go there. Funnily enough, I can recall that nothing was actually missing from the car itself. The police officer even smelled of alcohol, and he did not drive a police car but instead, a Volkswagen Bug.
However, upon questioning, he did not seem the least bit phased as I supposed a fraud would. Instead, he pulled out a fake identification badge and I was convinced at once that he was working undercover. It was a small mistake to make, but one that could’ve had high costs.
It all becomes a blur gradually, in spite of replaying through them moments at least a million times each day. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that these things happened, like a child’s fleeting paranormal experience, when they simply pull up the covers and mutter that it ‘must’ve been the wind’. It wasn’t the wind, and it did happen.
He had pulled his car up at an isolated high school building, and I remember thinking: wait, something is... wrong. This isn’t the police station. Nervous, I looked to Ted, and he turned to me, and grabbed my hand, and he said, “Carol, don’t you worry. My tires just gone flat. I just need to grab something from the back, switch it, and we’ll be right on over”. He was angelic. His face light, and I could scarcely believe that such a ethereal being could contain any ounce of wrongdoing. Then, I remembered... did Lucifer not fall from the heavens, before he took up a life of sin?
“Ted...” I had began to shuffle, my hand feeling, frantically, along the door for the handle, as my eyes remained wide upon him like a small deer thought in the gliding headlights of a hurtling truck. The door flung open. My belt hissed off. I flew for my freedom. He grabbed me, pulled me, nearly had me. With all my ounce, all my might, I pull back, I pull and pull until I heave upon the tarmac ground with a THUD!!! I let out a shrill shriek, or at least I think I did, though I didn’t realise at the time. For, when I turn, he had a gun. He had a gun and he was coming for me.
Clutching my side, which had took the brunt of my fall, I ran. I ran, and I ran, and I ran, as fast as my legs could carry me. Even when my shoes slipped from my feet, I continued on like a mad woman, until I reached the main road, reached civilisation, and I hailed a passing car. “Step on it,” I told them. “Quick. He’s got a gun. We need to get the station”.
They, the critics, claim that these shows, these documentaries, films and books... they only serve to romanticise Ted Bundy. That is not true. If Theodore is romanticised, that is because he does not fit our criteria for a monster, and in part because he did not want to. It is because we are very much infatuated with the face he had to show the world. Ted had wanted to be the Governor of Washington, and had he not indulged in a criminal lifestyle, or at least not gotten caught, we would’ve voted him in. He had the Kennedy charm — and why did we vote him in? He was young, handsome, thriving.
Hell, even the judge of his trial succumbed to Bundy’s charm:
“Take care of yourself, young man. I say that to you sincerely. It’s a tragedy for this court to see such a total waste, I think, of humanity that I have experienced in this court.
“You’re a bright young man. You’d have made a good lawyer. I’d have loved to have you practice in front of me, but you went another way, partner”.
What I am trying to emphasise — as I lay here on my bed, flat on my stomach and scribbling down these words before they fade into the abyss of my mind — is that: I wish for us to use the fleeting flirtation that I had with death to learn. We must learn that the mask, the physicality, that is shown to the world, is not what is important. It is what lurks beneath, the monster within the crevices of our outer shell, our bodily wardrobe that matters. And that... well, it could very well be anyone. Unfortuantely, we have seemingly not improved, transforming to a generation that cares much only for Kardashians, or Victoria Secret angels.
I just hope that it doesn’t take another death’s flirtation for each individual to realise the truth.
Monsters are not beneath our beds, our parents were not lying when they say as much. They are behind steering wheels, within our schools, teaching our children, studying at our universities, passing us with a “happy holidays” upon the street.
But, it wasn’t quite the “something” that you would immediately envision at those words. He wasn’t skittish or slimy. You’d expect him to be the kind of man that kept so very cut off from others; a man isolated to a world of his own. He wasn’t. Instead, he tugged upon the strings of our own world, like a puppeteer. Us people were merely disposabilities: puppets, dummies, dolls, whatever word you want to use. It was all the same to him.
He was exactly as his name implicated. The dark locks upon his head fell in tousled curls that resembled that of a child’s cuddly bear, and he had the button eyes to match. I’ve heard, many times now, them cerulean gems describes as almost ‘transformative’. Unlike most children, I was never one to believe in mood rings, and yet these eyes, these wretched eyes before me, served as living proof that my cynicism was so shockingly mislaid. You see, when he wished them to be, Ted’s eyes were the palest of blues that you had ever seen, reminded of you of the morning sky, liberating and caressing all at once. Yet, when he allowed the ‘other him’ in — that I would later learn that he described to Berlinger as the ‘other him’, the Hyde to his Jekyll — this was at once consumed, replaced with pits of deep, black holes ready to consume, devour, destruct.
I still feel them on me now, as I lay in bed, with my blanket pulled tightly up to my chin. I feel his eyes watching me, narrowed upon me in a judging glare that hisses, whispers: “You should not be here. You do not deserve to be here”. I feel his hand squeezing, grasping, clenching my arm, as I tug and tug and tug, and I heave with all my might. For, I know at once that if I do not then my might shall cease to be all at once. Yet, his touch was possessive, and why should it not be? He thought himself a God, the God, and his word was the world’s truth.
But, it would not be my truth.
I do not keep my eyes upon the decrepit ceiling these nights, not anymore. I always had trouble sleeping, though those worries seem so naive now, so young and almost carefree. When I am up and awake, I look outside. Although, this is not in search of him. He is long gone now, at least such physicality. I look outside because... well, I can. I used to believe that I wanted to die, but in that moment I had realised that nothing was further from the truth. I wanted to live to see the white clouds pass the sky, with the sweet melodic birds floating between. I wanted to live to hear the hushing lullabies of the sea upon the tanned, ribbed sand — to run my fingers through the almost powdery form and feel the grains fall through like a trillion shooting stars. I wanted to awaken in the morning to hear the birds sing, to lay with a lover in bed, to see the soft creases upon my mother’s nose as she laughed at my childish jokes, to hear my father sigh with relief as he gulped another mouthful of his morning coffee bew. I wanted to live. I did. In many ways, i have Ted to thank for that.
The nightmares keep me awake, and I’m often tempted to read back over them newspaper clippings that I kept. I don’t. Though I could find despair in my restlessness, I am not despaired. Similarly, nor am I exhausted. I wake up each day with a love for life that could have only been evoked by such flirtation. I’d once sat in a shrink’s chair, following my rendezvous, and he’d asked me, as one would speak to a small child, “can you describe how you feel about what happened with you and Ted?”
“Doctor,” I had replied, “no, I cannot”. Partially, it was because I wasn’t sure how I felt. It was explosive, almost an eruptive and volcanic consumption. Guilt, anger, fear, hatred, relief, a newfound love for life — I hadn’t known that I could feel so much, until I had realised that perchance I could no longer feel at all.
“Well,” he had concluded, as he sat across me, his white hair and judging glances almost Freudian. “Whatever it is that you feel,” he had summarised, “you are not just a victim, Carol. That does not define you. Do not let your feelings become you”.
So, I didn’t.
On November 8, 1974, Theodore Robert Bundy approached me, identifying himself as Officer Roseland of the Murray Police Department, and at once he told me that someone had broken into my car. He asked me to accompany him to the police station, to give a statement, and so naively I joined him in his car to go there. Funnily enough, I can recall that nothing was actually missing from the car itself. The police officer even smelled of alcohol, and he did not drive a police car but instead, a Volkswagen Bug.
However, upon questioning, he did not seem the least bit phased as I supposed a fraud would. Instead, he pulled out a fake identification badge and I was convinced at once that he was working undercover. It was a small mistake to make, but one that could’ve had high costs.
It all becomes a blur gradually, in spite of replaying through them moments at least a million times each day. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that these things happened, like a child’s fleeting paranormal experience, when they simply pull up the covers and mutter that it ‘must’ve been the wind’. It wasn’t the wind, and it did happen.
He had pulled his car up at an isolated high school building, and I remember thinking: wait, something is... wrong. This isn’t the police station. Nervous, I looked to Ted, and he turned to me, and grabbed my hand, and he said, “Carol, don’t you worry. My tires just gone flat. I just need to grab something from the back, switch it, and we’ll be right on over”. He was angelic. His face light, and I could scarcely believe that such a ethereal being could contain any ounce of wrongdoing. Then, I remembered... did Lucifer not fall from the heavens, before he took up a life of sin?
“Ted...” I had began to shuffle, my hand feeling, frantically, along the door for the handle, as my eyes remained wide upon him like a small deer thought in the gliding headlights of a hurtling truck. The door flung open. My belt hissed off. I flew for my freedom. He grabbed me, pulled me, nearly had me. With all my ounce, all my might, I pull back, I pull and pull until I heave upon the tarmac ground with a THUD!!! I let out a shrill shriek, or at least I think I did, though I didn’t realise at the time. For, when I turn, he had a gun. He had a gun and he was coming for me.
Clutching my side, which had took the brunt of my fall, I ran. I ran, and I ran, and I ran, as fast as my legs could carry me. Even when my shoes slipped from my feet, I continued on like a mad woman, until I reached the main road, reached civilisation, and I hailed a passing car. “Step on it,” I told them. “Quick. He’s got a gun. We need to get the station”.
***
They, the critics, claim that these shows, these documentaries, films and books... they only serve to romanticise Ted Bundy. That is not true. If Theodore is romanticised, that is because he does not fit our criteria for a monster, and in part because he did not want to. It is because we are very much infatuated with the face he had to show the world. Ted had wanted to be the Governor of Washington, and had he not indulged in a criminal lifestyle, or at least not gotten caught, we would’ve voted him in. He had the Kennedy charm — and why did we vote him in? He was young, handsome, thriving.
Hell, even the judge of his trial succumbed to Bundy’s charm:
“Take care of yourself, young man. I say that to you sincerely. It’s a tragedy for this court to see such a total waste, I think, of humanity that I have experienced in this court.
“You’re a bright young man. You’d have made a good lawyer. I’d have loved to have you practice in front of me, but you went another way, partner”.
What I am trying to emphasise — as I lay here on my bed, flat on my stomach and scribbling down these words before they fade into the abyss of my mind — is that: I wish for us to use the fleeting flirtation that I had with death to learn. We must learn that the mask, the physicality, that is shown to the world, is not what is important. It is what lurks beneath, the monster within the crevices of our outer shell, our bodily wardrobe that matters. And that... well, it could very well be anyone. Unfortuantely, we have seemingly not improved, transforming to a generation that cares much only for Kardashians, or Victoria Secret angels.
I just hope that it doesn’t take another death’s flirtation for each individual to realise the truth.
Monsters are not beneath our beds, our parents were not lying when they say as much. They are behind steering wheels, within our schools, teaching our children, studying at our universities, passing us with a “happy holidays” upon the street.
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