Voice of Reason

4/7/1969

I am running. No, not running. I am galloping. I am galloping at high speed. Trying to escape these monsters behind me. Beads of sweat pore over my brow. Then, suddenly, I am in a chair. It is not a comfortable chair, but then why would I be comfortable? My head is spinning, I do not remember sitting down. I reach up to wipe my forehead but my hand will not move. I am duct-taped to the chair. My mind is foggy. My head lolls over and I feel a sharp pain in my neck. A man stands in front of me with white gloves on. He tosses a small metal object into the red waste bin to the right of him. "A perfect subject.", he whispers with hot breath. My eyes close and everything is black again. I wake up. The sweat on my face must look awful and I lumber over to the bathroom. These dreams keep coming back. Sleep is for the weak apparently. My legs and back are dredged in perspiration. I lean hard on the marble countertop. My face is spotted and red, watermarks from those night terrors. It will go away soon. Everything goes away soon. As I analyze my dreams, I find how choppy and ridiculous the events are. They make no sense, just as the reality of a Schizophrenic makes no sense. Manic fog is only a time killer. The only mercy they receive is that they do not analyze it into oblivion. As this is a diary and I have never been one for that "Dear Diary" nonsense, I will write this as I would write anything else. So, it is 3 A.M. and I am lying on top of my sheets. Just as I have done for the past two months. My dreams never seem to leave me. All I have discovered about myself during the night is that I am a coward. I think about them for too long and even then it's not enough. I do not want to go back into the dream because I am too afraid. There are things that stick with you even when you are awake. The rapid breath, deafening pulse. The number of pills you take to forget. They all stay for too long and their welcome is nonexistent. I guess that my nights will stay shadowed and nameless for the time being. I am too much of a child to live without the lights on. This reality gets to me. The darting figures in the corners of my room. The writing that blurs just beyond my field of vision. I can not speak of these things to anyone. They would not understand, it makes me feel strange to have a secret. I feel like a child. One that is too afraid to walk around the halls at night for fear that something, anything is lurking in the ominous doorways and under chairs. I will sign off now I suppose. Maybe tomorrow I will not have to write in this wretched journal.

4/13/1969

Here we are again. I think I should try to be positive about this experience, but how I hate this blasted journal. Merely a product of my insomnia, these stories are crude and lifeless. As an avid reader, it seems to me that I will never fulfill my dreams of becoming the next Stephen King. Maybe I can be a sad ghostwriter. I hope to God, the Universe, whatever, that I will either be rid of these sleepless nights or vanish off the face of the Earth. My own sick dreams are enough to incite a witch-burning. These ramblings may be interesting to some, but here in this house of horrors, I can never escape them. My head is hurting so I will take some sleeping pills. They make my dreams disappear. They make everything go away. Well, good night. I hope I never see you again.

4/20/1969

Something is happening. Something deep and ominous. It has not happened since I was a child. The twitches and rapid movements. I know something is off. It can not be this way again. The light who was my very best friend makes me shy away and throw my hands over my eyes and rock back and forth. My wrists and plunged into the divots where my eyes should be. The detachment I am feeling is grotesque. There are more figures joining me in my bed. They are dark and writhing. Their cold fingers trace my face in a cloud of nebulous mass. Their mouths open and close slightly in a silent vigil to their host. They wish to consume me. I wish to be consumed. I have had no more dreams since they came. Only the feeling that someone was with me and someone cared enough to stay. I will not be here for the dawn. One thought echos deeply - I will be in the darkroom soon. I will be there soon. The photos will develop in the red light and I will be there too. Help will not come to those who need it. I was not one who seemed to need it. As my mental state dilapidated over the course of these few days, I seem to feel heavier. The creatures on my back whisper sinister instructions. Maybe I will listen to them. The darkroom. The darkroom. Their mouths send out a stench. "Something very likely dead." was it? I want to go with them. I need to be with them. They do not need me, just as everyone in my life has told me, but I need them. I crave them. I wish to be rid of this mortal sack of muscle and old bones. Let it rot in place where I leave it. May my eyes loll back and echo down my throat like marbles and my teeth chew away my tongue. Let the voices inside my head escape and haunt the innocent children I once knew. The parasite I was will become who I am. I will become the monster. Let them fear me. I want nothing but shadows.

Good night.