April 2, 2019

The time is 10:59pm. I’ve been watching the steady tick of the clock’s handle for three hours now. I hate the way it moves, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth; no understanding of why; no reason to work. I hate how its red grasp stares to me, stringing down lie after lie after lie as I stare right back at it. I’d screamed at this clock yesterday, you see. Cried at it the day before that. But now, as I stare into its gaze and it stares into mine, I do nothing but smile. Not a happy smile, of course—in times like these, for one to smile happily would be the same as for one to laugh at the snow—; but a smile all the same, reflecting back upon me, red at the night sky, cold as my own wintery gaze. 

I suppose I should actually start writing now, shan't I? That I should explore the reason as to why I have even begun writing such a thing. That I should linger in this notwithstanding shadow, reflecting from my gaze to the red ink in my hand, and stop my tears. That I should write, not just for myself, but for my sanity, within this journal. I suppose that this would not be that bad of an idea at all.

So, as I wish to begin In the simplest of words, this pen reads upon these shriveled papers because I have just experienced a first. And I don't mean a first smile or a first bike ride or even a first day of summer; no, what I mean is that the day before yesterday had been the first time ever that I saw something to which I believe both everyone and no-one should ever see. Something so mortifying that I had wanted to puke. And sing. At the same time.

A dead person, It had been. In real life. Right in front of me. Motionless. Speechless. Lifeless. The way their hands coiled upon the beret; the way their eyes shone with loss; the way their face glimmered with regret... it had made me wanna smile, of course. Smile and then cry and then scream and then rage and then whimper and then sob and then smile. And it is right there—in the whisper of this smile—that has brought me to write a journal entry, and that has brought my tears to stain this journal. I intend only to write one entry, of course, and so this entry will be my first, and my last. I suppose I would have written more had I not been planning to burn this. 

Oh, the smile! Here it comes, yet again upon my wrinkled face. My lips have curved upwards in spiraling motions, and an utter glee, I tell you, glee, has left me. The man’s hands had been horrifying, of course… however I had wanted to see more. I had wanted to get a stroke of his hair and a whiff of his nails and a souvenir of his shirt and a glimmance of his toes and—

—and to cry and scream and run and yell and whimper and cry and thrust. I had hated it, yes; however, I had loved it all the same! This man had died! Died! This man was no longer here, and yet his body had remained. For me to touch. For me to stroke. For me to steal. I had wanted to take his nails in that moment, and jar them upon my closet. I had wanted to cut his feet, you see, and bury them within my freezer. I had wanted to keep him and smile and dance and laugh and sing and yell and scream and whimper and sob and cry and linger in sorrow. 

And this is why I write. Out of fear, yes, out of horror, of course; but also out of joy. Because—as I suppose it often goes with journals like these—when nobody else understands, the writing will. And the clock will. And the ticking—not up, but down—of time will. And the blood splayed upon my hand will. And the ropes running across my neck will. And the oil running down my arms will. And the page, staring to me as I write, laughting to me as I cry, screaming at me as I laugh, will.

I do suppose it is now time that I burn this. Enough has been said. Maybe even too much. Or perhaps not enough. They say you will know what to write when you need to; and so either they were wrong, or I dont need to write. And I really do need to write.

One last bottle wont hurt, I tell myself as yet another gallon of poisoned rum enters me. It helps with the tears, you see. It swallows them up like the grasp of my mother had once done, all those years ago under the glimpse of moonlight. Its the smile, though, that remains. This same smile that reflects back at me form the ticking and tocking of that goddamn merrywether clock I had bought all that time ago. If I leave with one regret in life, it will be the clock.

oh, and the smile too, I suppose.

(Entry recovered from the scene of a fire. Writer had been found in his burning house, dead. Three people—two under the age of 12, and the writer himself—total had died as a result of this. The page, which had been wrapped up within his arms, had survived.)