Monday, June 12
I hate New York. The stench of the metropolis fills my nose and I
can't help but grimace as I hold back the screaming. I hear the
screaming in my head. This dark place is my home, it says. It
tells me that the wet, damp corners of this shit hole of a city
is where I am to spend my days. I disagree with the voice, but it
is hard to fend off. I manage, though. I don't know how, but
sometimes I'll do something, or say something and the voice will
just become a memory.
Today I was riding on the subway. I hate the subways as much as I
hate New York. I was forced to stand, grabbing onto the metal
poles that line the long underground train cars. Sitting opposite
to me was a man. He was incredibly obese.
Disgusting.
He took up two of the chairs. I could have sat in one of those
chairs, if he had lost some of the weight he had. Incredibly fat.
Stupidly fat. I told him so. "Excuse me sir, but if you lost
some weight I would be able to sit there." He looked up at
me, narrowed eyes amid the flabby skin and cheeks, furrowed
eyebrows and gleaming brown eyes. He screamed at me like there
was no tomorrow.
I thought I was doing him a favor.
At my stop, the obese man got out of the car as well, and I
watched him as he waddled his way up the stairs, moving towards
the open gloomy city, with it's dark clouds as if the factories
had burned the sky. He went into the light and walked his way to
his home. I followed close behind.
The voice came back. The voice that screamed in my head. It told
me things, screaming at me, telling me I was worthless, that I
couldn't amount to anything. I was too scared to tell the man
off, it told me. The voice was angry. It said the only way I
could redeem myself was to kill him. To cut out his throat with a
long serraded edge knife. To let his blood spill along the
sidewalk. It told me how to kill him. Where to cut. I was scared
out of my mind. If I didn't do it, it said, I would never be left
alone.
"Will the knife in my jacket pocket do?" I asked with a
creaky voice, sounding like a young boy after being whipped by
his mother. The knife in my pocket would do, it told me. I always
kept it there for protection. New York, the ugly city, the rotten
apple, was dangerous. I needed protection just like the next
person did. We all needed protection. I needed protection from
the voice in my head.
Kill.
Stab.
Enjoyment.
Kill.
Stab.
Enjoyment...
The voice rang through my head, yelling. Screaming. Angry at me
for not having killed the man yet. I gripped my temples, not
knowing what to do. I ran. I knew I couldn't run from the voice,
but what was left? I ran until I was out of breath, far away from
the man from the subway. The voice screamed at me, but I yelled
back. A mental push. I didn't know what to do. I went home for a
hot meal by myself. Myself and the voice. Together.
Tuesday, June 13
The noise of the alarm clock normally wakes me in the mornings.
But today, my alarm didn't wake me up. The voice did.
It had spent last night screaming at me. It told me to punish
myself. To hurt myself. To take a hammer and crush every bone in
my feet. To cut off both of my pinky fingers. I had wanted to. It
could be so demanding that sometimes you couldn't help but give
in. I tried to remain strong. I nearly made it through the night
without harming myself.
I say nearly, because last night I threw myself into a mirror. I
cut my feet on fragments of glass, my face covered in scrapes and
cuts. The voice laughed. Bad luck, it told me. For years and
years it is going to be the source of my bad luck. I shuddered at
the thought before taking some sleeping pills and going to sleep.
Sleep, once thought to be my only sanctuary. I was wrong. The
voice invaded the dreams I dreamt. It woke me up, rattled me
awake with its screaming. Its horrific voice. It shouted at me,
made me cry, made me bleed.
It made me want to die.
The voice was still angry with me. I didn't complete the task. I
hadn't killed the man. I thought it would slip by without him
remembering. I pictured tomorrow as another day.
I was wrong.
It reminded me of what happened. It called me a disobedient slob.
It cursed at me, and every syllable it said made shivers fly down
my neck, made my hair stand on end. But I had to get to work. I
had to ignore the voice. I knew I couldn't, but I had to.
I had to try.
I work on Wallstreet. I make a fortune that I don't spend, but it
doesn't matter. Work is a joke anyways. But I go every day, walk
up those stairs, go to my office high above the ground with a
view of the rat-infested city and I make what I can. I survive.
But why does the voice follow me there?
Work was boring as usual, but not much else can be expected. The
account I work on shouldn't be taken seriously, but I do my job
and get out of there. All the while the voice pounded in my head.
I couldn't pick up a knife without it taunting me to take my own
life. To slit my wrists and write letters to my family in blood.
To play with them. To see how far I can go before I snap. But I
made it through the day, barely. I was on the brink of insanity,
and it all came at once.
I went to the Subway, same time as usual. I wanted to get to the
safety of my apartment. Away from the city. Away from those that
could set the voice in a rage of fury and anger. And as I went
into my car, the same man sat on the seats from yesterday. I
tried to make it out of the car, but I didn't make it on time. I
waited. I heard my heart pump blood through my veins. I heard the
voice pouring into my blood, poisoning my heart. And I waited and
waited, hands in my pockets, fingers stroking the hilt of the
serrated edged blade in my pocket. I thought of cutting. I
thought of stabbing. I thought of ripping his intestines out and
using them as a clothes line.
I thought of killing.
Flashback. Yesterday. I watched as the man told me off after I
told him to loose weight. I recalled the voice. The picture was
hazy. I was scared and I was furious.
Realtime. I held the knife in my hands. I was stalking after the
man as he walked home, cutting through backstreets and waddling
across sidewalks. I couldn't remember leaving the Subway, but it
didn't matter. I was going to shut the voice up about the man.
He walked into an alleyway and once I saw it was uninhabited, I
ran after him with my knife tied up in my fist. He heard my
footsteps and turned around just in time for him to see me slice
open his belly. I watched as his shirt became soiled and bumpy
from his insides spilling onto the inside of his shirt. I laughed
with joy as the voice gave me praise, and I kicked the man,
bleeding horribly, unable to scream from sheer terror, in the
face. I stabbed him in the chest, and when he attempted to cover
my target with his hands I ended up slitting his wrists. When he
was on the very edge of death, I sat him up and put my knife to
the back of his neck like an executioner would do, and severed
his spinal cord from his brain.
I left him beside a barrel and a bunch of empty bottles. I walked
home covered in blood, whistling to myself as I always do.
It was a very cheery tune.
Wednesday, June 14
I found myself relaxing the next day. I took the day off and
stayed home, enjoying the peacefulness of being by myself. The
voice didn't intrude on my rest and relaxation. I was extremely
thankful. After yesterday, it decided to die down. The delight
that I felt was unbelievable. It felt as if a weight had been
lifted off my shoulders. I couldn't help but smile.
I laughed.
My condo smelled of hot chocolate and baking pastries that tasted
wonderful. This was how I intended to live my life. I grew up,
knowing I'd be living the American Dream some day. I was
commended for my grades. I got a well-paying job. I could eat
like a king. I could dress like a king. I could be a king.
This was spoiled. This was ruined. I was forced to become what I
was. The voice wouldn't shut up! It wouldn't go away! No, my
parents didn't beat me. No, I wasn't raped, or sexually abused
when I was younger.
My altar ego. My hidden brother.
Swine.
Asshole.
But now it had. I was alone. I sat down and pulled out a book
while soft piano parlour music played in the background, a fire
lit in the gas fireplace. I flipped through the pages of the
book, finding where I left off last time. The last time... that
was months ago. The last time I was alone. The last time I had
some peace and quiet.
Maybe death comes like this.
If death comes on swift wings, I want to fly.
I hear the ringing of the oven as I stand up and set the book
down to get one of the flakey pastries out. The book is an
autobiography.
Jeffry Dahmer lead an interesting life.
Thursday, June 15
One day of grace. One day is all I got. I woke up again to the
voice, though it was calmer now. Subdued, mainly. I made my
breakfast, able to block the voice's satisfied comments when I
picked up the knife to butter my toast. It was hard... but I
managed
I had an office meeting at work today. There sitting in front of
me was my competition. The only person in the office to nail the
accounts I had been dying for. The ones that were challenges. The
ones that would bring me to the top, to a promotion. Armani,
pinstriped, double breasted bastard. He robbed me of my chance.
He took it all away.
The voice doesn't intrude in meetings normally. Well, today it
did. As soon as I glanced at that fruitcake, it screamed. It
thrashed within my cranial walls. It violated me. And it told me
I required another victim to silence it. There I was, drenched in
sweat, white dress shirt stuck to my back. My gaunt face flushed
bright red. I couldn't stand it.
I blacked out. Flashback to when we first met. Success seeped
from his pores, envy spewed from mine. The proper handshake, the
jokes that got the laughter that drove me nuts. The automatic
laughter...
Back to reality. Stalking the man into his office. The corner
window office. Lunchbreak. Everyone on this floor is gone out to
their fancy restaurants, $1000 dollar meals in their $1000 ties.
I looked in my hand. A knife. The voice told me to let the knife
sing. Let it serenade the little bitch. What was his name again,
I asked myself? Ludrick. Thomas Ludrick. Fillet Ludricks neck.
Slash, stab, rip the flesh from his face. I went to his office.
Got the smile, then the frown. Heard the self-satisfied words
that I didn't look to good. I gave him a punch to the nose and
felt it break under my fist. As he squeezed it to avoid the blood
from dripping onto his Italian Leather Office Chair, the knife
lashed at him as if I weren't controlling it. It cut along his
ear, removing it easily. Oh, medical knives and their wonders.
The ear fell to the floor. He didnt have time to scream. I had
stabbed him in the neck, sending a gurgle of blood down his
throat. He stared at me as I took the knife and sliced one of the
eyeballs, then the other, letting the remains drip down his face
and into his open mouth. I whispered in his good ear that I
always hated him before cutting that too. And then with ease I
cut out his tongue and left.
The voice laughed with glee. Another kill. Another win. I had a
score to settle with the world.