Reading serious literature lights me up. Darkness does the same. I went to the river at midnight with a torch. I took a book.
Better to be out in the dark and know I was there than to wake up in the morning and not know. Not remember.
Sitting reading in a corner. Tall fences behind me, but far enough behind me that that I could not have heard a voice from the other side.
I heard a voice.
I knew that there was no-one there. I would have seen them walking. Even wrapped up in the tiny pool of light, alone with the book – I would still have seen them.
The voice told me that JB has to go. I start preparations now.
There is night time and then there is darkness. My nights are shrouded by something blacker than the absence of sun.
They call it impulse control. I have none. I am giving in. There are urges that I do not understand. I do know that these impulses call to me under the cover of night. I do not remember what they tell me. I just hear the echoes of their whispers.
You do not want to experience waking up in the morning on the sofa with no clothes on. It is not appropriate for the climate. My skin was blue. A hot shower helped with the shivering but the rusty-looking water falling into the bath disturbed me.
Then there is the matter of the washing machine. I needed to wash towels. The machine was already full. I did not fill it. I did not wash those clothes. I did not empty the detergent so that there was only enough for these towels.
Why is the machine making this grinding noise? What is caught in the mechanism?
I need to watch myself more closely. But how?
There is a darkness in Justin Beiber’s eyes. He claims that he is not afraid to die. What if he were to disappear into his own darkness and never again emerge? Should we mourn or should we say that he has gone to a place where he feels more at home. I pray that he loves himself more than he seems to. It would be a shame if the dark and lonely path he is on ends in silence.
If I had a pill to take away the shadows …
It happened again last night. I almost never used to dream. Just a scatter of shattered images in shades of red and black. I tried to turn on the light but it became darker.
If I could only take a sweet medicine …
The shine of her eyes with the mask of my face reflected in them. She seemed to want it even more than I did. She didn’t struggle. Her face haunts my dreams more often now.
If there was some way to stop.
This is a darker dance. We turn gracefully, now with eyes closed and fall in slow-motion as the floor swallows us. Pray you never experience the fall. Pray hard my friend.
I begin to suspect that I am a sleepwalker.
When I showered this morning I found a dark-brown substance crusted around my fingernails and deep scratches on my face. Part of me hopes that the two are directly related, but the fact that I have no nails speaks to some other explanation.
I have no memory of anything but deep, dreamless sleep.
I trust you understand me.
The bang in the study was late tonight. It is usually midnight when I hear that crack in the corner of the room. It was later than that as I sat on the bed waiting for the noise.
When it came it echoed strangely in my head. It took me back to when it started.
Her skull was more fragile than you would have thought. Who would have believed that there could have been so much blood.
When I open my eyes and see her again I lick my lips. I see her again. And the corner says ‘broken, broken, broken.’
I have made you watch me. I have scoured the internet for you and I have brought you here to watch me. There is now no escape. You are compelled and you can not stop yourself from watching me.
I am now so powerful that dozens and dozens of you people are now glued to my words. I could type a rude word and you would still be there.
See – I still have you.
Just know that I watch you too because I know where all of you live.
My mother did not smack my bare bottom for nothing.
Ten fun things to say when you are trapped in a lift (translation: elevator) with someone cute. This is especially fun when it is you who has cut the power.
- (bodly) I am feeling rather peckish – may I lick your eyeball?
- (coyly) You will not mind – I need to sharpen my butcher’s knife.
- (savagely) There is not really enough air in here for both of us.
- (meaninglessly) Of course I did not kill her. Well, not intentionally.
- (angrily) Are the the girl who cut in front of me at the lights?
- (softly) Knives, knives, knives, knives, knives, knives, knives …
- (spitefully) You people do not deserve to live after what you did.
- (menacingly) Out of the two of us who do you think I should kill?
- (piously) Her liver did not taste as nice after I had been to church.
- (lovingly) You know, if I were you I would starts screaming now.
I find myself musing gently as to whether there is a club where psychopaths can go, to meet others of their ilk. Maybe to have a drink, unwind, discuss the day and all of that.
Or maybe there is an open forum online where serial killers can chat and exchange tips.
The easiest way to remove blood for example. Which brand of detergent to use and the best cycle on the washing machine – that sort of thing.
It would be nice if people could be more accommodating towards psychokillers. Everybody needs love after all. Surely one bloody club is not too much to ask for!
Had a jolly old time this evening walking behind a young woman at dusk along a quiet road whistling Psycho Killer.
You remember – the song from the nineteen seventies by Talking Heads:
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away.
Well, obviously she had never heard of it because she did not turn around to look. Except for once – right at the end, just before the road went into the darkest, loneliest place where the only company is trees and undergrowth.
But by then it was too late.
I had already turned off along a side road.
I had seen her get her mobile phone out. Modern technology is such a bane.