Dear, Diary
Walking around, deprived of my sleep for two days, my anger and ill natured mind become more awake than ever. I look around for a place to calm all of these collected thoughts that lie deep inside of my fevered mind, yet I can’t seem to ease that desire to complete them.
Walking around in circles inside of a candle light room with nothing but a pint of alcohol left in an old gin bottle that has collected dust for months on in, endless obsessions of writings tacked all over my walls from obituary sections in news papers, evident homicides and suicides, bizarre deaths collected all over the internet to please my morbid fascination of death. Along the floor all of my notes and writings that pen pon paper has collected of all of the mental signs therapy would have for sure saved the destruction of these two hands that plan to complete again this evening.
Beyond all the papers of endless gibberish writings of sorrow, confessions, anger, hate, satanic literature and poems, are all of my empty glasses and molding plates of food thrown everywhere carelessly among the floor, mixing in with my dirty clothes scattered about the floor, the television set to some telemarketing traffic, constantly repeating throughout each and every day. Stacks of unopened bills and letters that have been collecting in the corner for weeks, cockroaches and maggots fill my clogged sink, and my molding shit stained floor is nowhere to be seen.
I go to the rest room and look into my stained mirror, all I see are a killers blood shot eyes that look back at me penetrating where my spirit should be, my body is numb, hair is a mess, haven't shaved in weeks, skin is so dark because I dare not use the shower only because of what rests inside of my bath tub that completely stenches the air fouler than me, inside of my ravished apartment.
Cindy lies soaking inside there with me, a once polite twenty-one year old had everything in front of her, working on a degree in business trade, a brand new Silver Corvette, starling dresses, dazzling looks, an engagement, and a two year old beautiful daughter.
I look at poor Cindy, and feel shameful that she has to leave everything behind her, oh of what a life someone would kill to have in a world such as the one as we live inside of. What envy many other girls would scream for, a vibrant look along with personality and a talent of getting whatever she wants because of her wealthy family.
Now look at poor Cindy, nothing is to her name, in a few days her daughter will be waiting at the door for her, her fiancé has already eractly been calling her cell phone, and in a few more the who town will do an investigation on trying to find her where a bouts, having this shed of hope that she is somewhere, well just misplaced, alive and well.
In reality Cindy is just cleaning off and getting prepared for the rest of my sick fantasy that goes about my head time in and out a day. What people didn't know about Cindy was the level of dependency the girl had inside of her, the fact that she was turned down her internship because of her hidden appointments with her and the rich white man drug. She was always complaining about how unhappy she was with her life, and always wished she had more and more. Yes, yes everything else in her life was well but she made a few choices that didn't seem to withstand the judgment anymore that would have her living to this day. Leaving her daughter in her home to starve every now and then because her looks, materials, and addiction were all far more important to her.
I remember it was like yesterday when I crept up to her door steps, rang on her door bell, and introduced a crescent wrench deep into her skull, drug her into the back of my car and drove off. When she awoke several hours later fighting for air in the death that she lies in now, it’s fun when I do deaths work far better than death itself.
Poor Cindy, what is going on through her lifeless body, when I look again into those milky blue eyes that just stare back into mine with her last bit of fear that she had on her last life on earth? It will always remain a mystery for her, and I got far more projects to pursue so it is time to move on from her.
Drain the bath water, and drag her water logged body across the floor into my stale death smelling bedroom. Strip her of her values, and struggle her into a body bag I rigged to hang on coat hangers like a new suit I have just bought to hang with the rest of the lifeless decomposing friends that I have inside of my closet already.
I change my clothes, grab my keys, and wait for the darkness to come to load up my vehicle for a trip to the river.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
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Submission Name: Doing Deaths Work (A Serial Killers Diary)
