The Black-Leathered Journal

[This story contains sensitive content such as sexual and physical violence and suicide.]

You had a bad day, you say? Wait till you hear about my day. In fact, you may have already heard all about it. Perhaps someone forwarded you a link to a news article, or you came across one while scrolling through your social media feed. I mean, if bad news travels fast, scandals spread like a pandemic. But just in case you are part of that one per cent of the human population who doesn't live for the likes and hearts of your followers and thus you don't have a social account, fasten your seatbelt because I promise you, you're in for a wild ride.

If you turn on the TV and go to the BBC Ten O'Clock News right now, you will see a handsome anchor telling you:

Today at 5.30 pm, the police finally identified the serial killer responsible for the deaths of six young male victims: Max Whitehead, 21; Daley Kemp, 23; Shawn Jennings, 23; Otis Craig, 24; Philip Mack, 25; and Norman Anderson, 25, all of whom were overdosed on GHB before being raped and murdered.

And in the right top corner, you will see a portrait photo of none other than ME! Now, before I get into the why of my photo being broadcast, I just want to point out that they chose the least flattering image of me, which does me no justice. I mean, come on, of all my publicly available Instagram photos, they had to choose one from at least five years ago when I was still fighting with my acne skin, and even I wouldn't want to have sex with me? Really?

The anchor will then request more information from his colleague reporter, who will inform you that DI Alaric Rowse, the case officer, has discovered in my possession a journal containing confessions of my obsession with watching drug rape pornography and descriptions of my acts of sodomy in the most gut-churning detail. According to the inspector, I, the sick criminal, had finally repented of my wrongdoing and asked for forgiveness.

Well, fuck you, Alaric! I’m not sick! And the descriptions of sexual encounters in the journals’ first entries are actually so steamy—so very, very hot—that I had to reread them in the seclusion of one of the office’s bathroom stalls. I had built up so much tension that it squirted irresistibly, which is why my DNA is all over those pages in addition to my fingerprints. I’m not sick; I’m just horny.

Your impression of me that you will form based on the words of my coworkers, flatmates, and neighbours interviewed by the reporter can be summed up in one word: creep.

Isn’t it strange that when people are asked about their alleged criminal neighbours, they always say they knew something was wrong with them? They don’t even want to consider that a perfectly normal and nice person is capable of doing unspeakable deeds. They have forgotten all of the favours you have done for them. I mean, what could Kate and Susan possibly know about me? The reporter will give the word to Susan:

He was somewhat antisocial and kept to himself. 

Duh! Of course, I would. I don’t want to interact with you. I don’t want to be your friend. I find you dumb and shallow, you stupid bitches. 

And my flatmate: 

He had a different date every weekend. If I hadn’t had a girlfriend (I have yet to meet this girlfriend of his), he would have probably tried to have a pass on me, too. 

Please, Alan! No offence, but there is a whole list of reasons why I get more action than you do: skincare, personal hygiene, eating healthy food, and going to the gym… Must I go on?

OK, I can almost hear you yelling at me the burning question: DID YOU RAPE AND KILL ALL OF THESE MEN? 

Sorry to disappoint, but I did not rape or murder anyone.

EARLIER TODAY, 8.10 AM

I sat on my favourite bench in the Victoria Tower Gardens, the one with the inscription “I LOVE YOU CHERYL” carved on its back, overlooking the Thames and the Lambeth Bridge. (It was the first time I didn’t care about who Cheryl was or tried to conjure up a mental image of her to put a face to the name.) Every morning before starting my tedious workday, I sit in the same spot and drink the same double Americano from Costa. Nobody ever goes there at this hour, especially if it’s raining. 

True, I was running late this morning because I realised halfway through that I had forgotten my phone, and running back caused me to miss the 6:44 train from Woolwich to Canning Town, where I usually board the Jubilee Line to Westminster. True, I had to wait for an internity in line at Costa, but at the time, I assumed whoever had left the journal on my bench had done so the day before, which is why I was surprised no one had noticed it.

At first, I tried to read a book on my kindle as part of my morning routine before going to work. But I couldn’t get my mind off the object next to me. But curiosity got the best of me. My hands inspected the journal’s wet leather cover(as would yours if it were you!).

I thought I heard someone say:

It’s not right, and you shouldn’t. 

So I jumped up and looked around, expecting to see someone looking accusingly at me, but it was just my guilty conscience playing tricks on me. As always, there was no one there but me—the dorky guy. I sat back down and sipped my coffee, not taking my eyes away from the black diary next to me. 

What sort of secrets do you keep hidden between your pages? 

I telepathically addressed my inanimate companion and imagined it responding with a teasing whisper, inviting me to browse through its contents—an invitation you wouldn’t have been able to resist either. So, succumbing to it, I took the journal and placed it on my lap. Turning to the last entrance, I found just one phrase under today’s date, Monday, 21 March:

Nobody, not even you, could ever forgive me! 

Whoever had written this was there this morning. Coincidence? I think not! 

But, boy, was I intrigued! I was curious as to who owned the journal and what exactly he was apologising for. Well, that’s two things we’ve learned so far: a serial killer repenting of his crimes. But to whom was he referring? Was it possible that it was I whom he was seeking forgiveness from? 

Don’t roll your eyes at me. We’ve all had an ex who, we wish, would come back to us one day, saying how sorry they were and how they have found no one else like us. We all want our love, compromises, and pain to be recognised and appreciated. We see ourselves as victims, and justice is all we want. Anyway, the point is that I was hooked on the journal like a desperate lower-class housewife and a mother of two hooked on prime-time TV shows. Now, hold your horses there before you call me out. I’ve just been convicted of multiple sexual assaults and murders, so give me a break. I get to be critical. And after all, if the said housewife were middle-class, she’d be watching Netflix, and if she were upper-class, she’d be out of the house at a cocktail party, gala, or some other networking event. Point made. Moving on.

9.00 AM

No matter how intrigued I was, I had to go to work. So there I was behind my desk, snooping through the private life of a stranger whose journal I found in the park. He, for he was definitely a man (who liked to write a lot about his dick!), was cautious not to reveal any personal details about his whereabouts. His only concern seemed to be his unhealthy obsession with younger men, whom he would drool over at the gym.

He talked a lot about how he felt guilty about being attracted to younger men. I could relate to him as he tried to suppress his emotions. I remember how it felt to be in the closet before coming out. Although I’ve learned that coming out isn’t something you do once in your life; it’s something you have to decide every time you meet new people or go to a job interview. Coming out, however, is the easy part. Accepting yourself in the first place is what doesn’t come pain-free. And that man was far from being happy with what his soul longed for.

I put down the journal after my eyes devoured that particular scene that sent me running to the men’s room. Well, I didn’t actually run for it because everyone would have noticed my bulge but instead waited impatiently for the lunch break. 

1.00 PM

Once with my pants down, I took out the journal, already hard and drooling in anticipation of the climax I was about to experience. It was as if reading an MM novella in which the protagonist finally loses his virginity in the showers at the gym. 

He’d occasionally jerk off in the open showers after a workout, and one day he got caught. To his surprise, the other guy began masturbating as well. Our “hero” then summoned the courage to approach his 

partner in crime, exercising constant vigilance, ever so slowly, one step at a time, in case anyone was coming. 

It was their moment, for they were alone.

1.30 PM

I ate my pre-maid lunch on the same bench where I found the journal. I continued reading what followed to be his contemplation of the preceding day’s event. He felt filthy and vile as a sinner. He didn’t go to the gym the next day, the day after that, or the following day. No matter how many times he washed his hands and brushed his teeth, he thought he could still smell the other guy’s scent. 

Eventually, though, he convinced himself that he had control over his desires and that such an incident would never happen again. So there he was, back at the gym. 

To be honest, I was rooting for him to either succeed in controlling himself or to accept his true nature because there’s nothing worse than beating yourself up over something you can’t control. Fuck, I thought, if only I knew where his gym membership was. Of course, remember, at the time, I had no idea his true nature would turn out to be that of a serial killer.

2.00 PM

I’ve learned that we exhaust our willpower in the same way we exhaust our muscles at the end of a workout. The more decisions we make throughout the day, the weaker our willpower becomes. Perhaps it was this decision fatigue that betrayed him. But it was definitely this second incident in the showers that turned him into a predator. 

One other thing had shocked me the most before I got to the point where he started describing all his crimes. It was this remark of his: 

He let me have him raw and didn’t stop me when I came inside of him. My wife would never let me have her from behind. Not that I have ever asked her, afraid she might become suspicious.

That motherfucker’s got a fucking wife!

2.30 PM

I snapped at one of my coworkers for no reason. It was one of those days when everything and everyone irritated me. Only the black-leathered journal and its seductive pages were helping me to pull through the tediousness. The journal owner’s life has become a rollercoaster ride. He would spend hours cruising in parks and public restrooms, but the gym was his favourite place. He hasn’t mentioned his wife again. Who was she? Have they got any kids? I wanted to know everything. Fuck work! I needed a break.

3.00 PM

When I finally discovered the journal owner’s true nature, there was just one more number between the five and the little arrow of the clock on the wall. His first victim was another mate who was cruising around a park. The boy, for he was considerably younger than him, made it clear he was not into him, but the writer persisted:

I knew we were looking for the same thing—someone to have a quicky with.

Another block came, and the two went on with their business. They didn’t mind me watching. They both climaxed—the block inside the younger chap!—pulled up their pants and parted in opposite directions. What would it be like to penetrate his well-lubricated hole and deposit my load into it?

I followed the arrogant young man. For a second, I thought he would let me have him when he stopped and turned around, but he only told me to fuck off. I reached out and grabbed his crotch. If only I could make his cock erect, he won’t be so hard to get. Everyone is easy when horny. But he slapped my hand and turned away from me. That’s when I grabbed a rock and hit his head. He fell unconscious on the ground. How heavy was he to drag behind the bushes!

And let me tell you, there was a moment there when I thought of throwing the journal away. The problem was not in the language but in the lack of consent. The psychopath then left the young boy’s body lay there after he was done with it. This was way too hard-core even for me. 

But I kept reading and discovered that he had followed the news, and fortunately, there had been no mention of police finding a dead body in a park. The young guy was still alive!

4.00 PM

There was an hour till five o’clock when I could finally call it a day. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—put the journal down.

We’ve all read The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. It is on the exam syllabus of four out of six GCSE English Literature qualifications providers. I felt a sense of foreboding that, just like in the story, so would in the journal, the darker impulses of the writer would overtake him, and he too would transform into a monster-like figure devoid of moral conscience. 

I was not mistaken.

He morphed into a real predator, succumbing to his primal drives: the urges to hunt, kill, and copulate. After doing his research on the effects of different date rape drugs, he would spike his dates’ drinks, dishonour their bodies while they were still alive (or not!), and then dispose of them in a dumpster.

The image still makes me shiver.

5.00 PM

Earlier today, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution alerted the Metropolitan Police at around 10 am to reports of a body on the bank of the Thames near Westminster, central London. The body was recovered by officers from the Met’s marine support unit, and a man was pronounced dead at the scene. However, the victim’s formal identification had not taken place yet. The police do not suspect foul play… 

So the live news, which I always check on my way out of the office, came on. I was then sure the man the police had recovered was he—the serial killer. It all made sense to me at the time; his last journal entrance was nothing but a suicide note. I had to go to the police with his journal as evidence.

I should have called the police and told them about the journal, but I did not. Instead, I decided to go to the crime scene and turn in the journal to a police officer. It was, after all, right next to the tube station; a 10-minute walk from where I was.

I refreshed my feed on my phone to see if there was any new information. My heart was racing. What an adrenaline ride! I was oblivious to my surroundings, and I didn’t see the car that hit me.

10.15 PM

I told you my day was worse than yours, didn’t I? 

Here I lay now…

…on a bed…

…in a fucking coma! 

I’m not even sure I want to wake up from it. The police believe the journal belongs to me, that I am the serial killer. 

My mum sits beside my bed, holding my hand in prayer. She looks devastated, but she is here; she still cares about me. Perhaps they hadn’t told her about the journal. I doubt she would have been here if she had known I was a rapist and a murderer. A mother can only love her child so much.

But here it comes the moment of truth, for the police enter the room.

“We are sorry to disturb you at this difficult time for you, ma’am. But I’m afraid the body that was recovered from the river earlier today belongs to your husband.”

I can’t possibly leave my mum to deal with this on her own. It is just not an option. She has got only me now.

I open my eyes.

Bloody hell! What a day.