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 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!