This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

Journal Entry #16

There’s nothing more frustrating to cope with than coping with yourself. Every idiosyncrasy that you have, you have to train yourself to hide from the prying eyes of the public; especially those people who “love” you, because their love is conditional on meeting their expectation of what is acceptable. It’s exhausting, and when the people who “love” you, cannot accept you, and let you know in passive aggressive fashion, then where do you go for solace? It’s a prison you’re born in, and it’s a prison you die in, because even though society is growing more aware of personality disorders, it’s not growing any more patient. Nor is it becoming any more aware of the monsters it creates by being unaccepting of and cruel to those who are different.

Take myself for example. Today I let the music consume me before I began the ritual. The gentle, light sound of the orchestra brought before my mind's eye paintbrushes on canvas with each bristle leaving behind a single drop of color, the sum becoming greater than the part. I closed my eyes to picture the work I wanted to create. I hummed softly and let my body sway, my hand gently tracing out each imaginary stroke. I wonder what I looked like under those fluorescent lights, all pale and fully removed of hair – even my eyebrows were gone. I wonder what I looked like underneath those unflattering lights, with my bloodshot eyes and teeth yellower than my skin. So hideous, I'm sure. Anyway, one of these days I will have to turn my ritual into art to share with the world. What I do now is for me, but maybe, at some point, I should share with society.

Today's unwilling participant was Mr. George Minor, who didn’t recognize me. They never do. He lay there staring up at me. I could see the terror in his eyes. I could smell the adrenaline coursing through his veins, widening his eyes, making him sweat and his heart race. His eyes darted around, surveying his surroundings which were covered in cheap plastic. He tried to move, but I had him tied to the work bench, wrapped ten times with rope around the torso and arms and ten times again around his legs like I always do. I don’t know how long I stared into that man’s eyes, looking for a trace of something that might make me steady my hand, but I never saw anything. They say the eyes are the windows into the soul, but I saw nothing; nothing that would give me remorse for what I was about to do. I decided it was time to begin.

“Do… you know… your sin,” I asked playfully as I booped him on his forehead and nose before I ripped off the duct tape covering his mouth, eliciting a howl of pain from my former teacher.

“What are you talking about you little freak? I’m a Christian man. I don’t sin.”

“Wrong,” I shouted like a gameshow buzzer, and slashed George across the face with my razor blade. I couldn’t help jumping around excitedly. My own adrenaline beginning to pump. “Whoo, that felt good! Let’s keep playing!” 

"You’re fucking insane! Let me go,” George demanded.

“Wrong,” the buzzer sounded again as I jumped on top of the work bench in a single bound and straddled him, laying on him as I gazed into his eyes, “Who am I,” I asked sweetly, chin resting on intertwined fingers.

“I don’t know who you are. You could let me go and I couldn’t tell anyone – I wouldn’t tell anyone,” George said desperately, his defiant tone reducing to a whimper.

“Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,” I screamed, driving the razorblade into George’s shoulder, and twisting it to watch the man wince, hear him scream. I pulled the blade from George’s shoulder and raised my hand with the enthusiasm of a young child seeking their teacher's approval. “Ooh, ooh, Mr. Minor, pick me, pick me!” Then I stopped the shenanigans and crawled off him and said with a bow, “George Minor, meet Martin Giles. I am Martin fucking Giles, now what is your fucking sin,” I screamed with the ferociousness of a Viking warrior in the old man’s face.

“Giles? Look Marty, I was just trying to toughen you up, prepare you for the real world,” George said, his words panicked.

I folded my arms and tapped the razor against my puckered lips as if pondering the possibility. “No, I don’t think that was it at all,” I say flatly, putting down the razor and grabbing the pliers. “What’s your sin?”

“What? I told you. I was trying to toughen you up; make you work harder to fit in and not be so weird,” he wined.

I broke George’s pinky finger and laughed an exaggerated laugh in his face, spraying him with saliva and invading his nose with my foul breath as he screamed in agony, thrashing against the ropes. I do it to the next finger, then the next, then finally, “Alright, I admit it. You were a strange little boy, and I took pleasure in humiliating you in front of the other students. I intentionally turned a blind eye to the fact that the other kids bullied and beat you, but you were supposed to work harder for everyone’s acceptance. You had to learn to fit in. People can’t go through life being shy and timid, keeping to themselves, they have to conform,” George spat, truly feeling justified in his actions.

“Ah, and the truth shall set you free,” I told him kindly, right before I picked up the razor and disemboweled him, throwing his intestines about like party ribbons. George wanted to vomit but couldn’t. He wanted to cry out but couldn’t. I could see these things on his face. All he could do was lie there and suffer. I make my way to George’s head and rest my chin against his ear. “I guess the truth didn’t set you free, but you can suffer for a little while. I suffered my whole life because of people like you.”

George Minor was my third kill, and the ritual of torturing people into admitting how they wronged me before killing them makes me feel a little less scared of the world around me each time. I can function in society knowing that I have a power over everyone else; the power to end their lives, and in that I find the solace I have sought in my fellow human beings.

                                                                                                           MG – 7/4/23

July 03, 2023 22:12

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