Memories

It crawls around on your skin, looking for a way to get inside you so it can eat you alive...Memories.

 

The older I get, the more things I begin to recall, from growing up in a place that I wish would vanish from my mind.

I recall being around the age of 10 the first time I thought seriously about sex, life and death. I’m sure I thought about it even before this age, but not as seriously as I did that summer that I began letting older boys have sex with me, and I began experimenting with life and death.

I hadn’t started my menstrual cycle yet, and I thought I knew enough about it, that I would not get pregnant. I was curious. I wanted to know what it was like. So, I did it, not once, not twice, but more times than can recall. Death was the same. I wanted to know. I shot animals with my Dad’s 22 rifle, and then I would stare at them until they no longer moved. Curiosity overtook my thoughts one day, and after shooting a wild cat, I split open its chest so I could watch its heart beat for the last time.

There was only a few weeks left until school started back for the year, when I was caught by my father having sex with one of his friends at their house. I was sitting on top of him, when my father grab the back of my ponytail and pulled him out of me. I quickly put my pants back on as my father began beating him repeatedly with his fist. Blood covered his face and my fathers fist. My father continued to hit him, even after he laid there motionless. I ran to the car and hid under an old dirty blanket that was laying in the backseat. I closed my eyes trying to make the images go away, but it was as if someone had branded the images across an invisible glass directly in front of my eyes. 

I awoke as the car turned up the driveway to the front gate. I laid there quietly as I listened to my father get out the car and open the gate. He then got back in the car, drove through, and got out again to close the gate. I waited for the sound of him opening the car door to get in, but instead he opened the door where I was laying.

My heart began to pound wildly in my chest, as fear of what he was going to do, took over all other thoughts. As I laid there pretending to be asleep, I felt him uncover my body, and then his hands began feeling around between my legs. When I made a low moaning sound, he told me to be quiet so he could just check me to make sure I wasn’t hurt.

He spread my legs, and pointed a flashlight directly at me as he pulled down my pants and underwear. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, and pulled the blanket back up over my head. I could feel the warmth of the flashlight shinning on my body, as his hands began spreading me open. He then put his fingers inside and began feeling around.  After a few minutes he said, “I don’t think he came inside of you and you’re not bleeding, so you should be okay.” He then raised his voice and said, “I don’t want you telling anyone about this. I already took care of him, so it won’t ever happen again.”

The truth was I liked what the guy was doing to me, but I didn’t dare tell my father. Instead, I began crying, so he hugged me, and whispered to me that everything was going to be okay. In my mind, all I could think about was wanting to kill him. The visions of everything I had seen that night, slammed into my brain with such pressure that it was hard trying to force myself to continue crying. I wanted to take the 22 rifle and shoot him in the head, and as he laid there bleeding, I would cut him open, just to see what was inside of him. I thought about doing something horrible to him everyday for the rest of that summer.

Thoughts flood my mind even more today.

Pain is Inevitable; Suffering is Optional

There are moments when my mind misses a few beats, and days pass without remembering the events. I find myself in mid-step or mid-breath, feeling as if being delivered abruptly into my body after a long absence. Spent where, I couldn’t really say, it’s sorta like being in a long, dreamless sleep. I had one of those days today. Bad weather or not, I forced myself out into the world for a walk to restore my self and maybe find a little .... something.... I just don’t know what it is yet.


Let’s free the mind with a little nonsense writing, even if it will only make sense to some.


My Crazy Day

This morning when I first stumbled out of bed, I stubbed my big toe on the edge of the bed, which sent waves of unpleasant sensations throughout my already aching body. Blood immediately pooled under the nail, and then oozed out the corners onto the carpet. It was only a small dose of what my day would entail.

I sat in my dark bedroom, drinking my morning obese cup of French vanilla coffee, listening to Headline Morning News as I nursed my aching big toe, when the power suddenly went out. It was another random blackout that had been occurring daily for the past couple weeks. I cursed loudly as I blindly finished wrapping a large Band-Aid over the top of my toe, and then I carefully slip on my shoes. As I stood to feel myself along, the sound of the TV return and I could feel the fan blowing again, but I could see anything. The power was all back on, but I was partly blind, able to only see outlines of harsh images.

I experienced this moment of raw terror, and I felt around for the phone. I was feeling an overwhelming need to call work and let them know I would be late. Only, I couldn't remember the number. And, even if I could, I didn’t think I could remember the layout of the numbers on the keypad.

Fear of losing my job overtook my mind, because we all know what happens to people who lose their jobs, so I didn't hesitate. Fortunately, my purse and keys were near the front door, so I able to easily locate them. I then stumbled out my apartment door. I felt along the railing until I came to the stairwell and eased myself down along each step.

I was down about 8 steps when suddenly this thing slammed me up against the wall and licks me across the face. I open my mouth wide as I let out a loud ear piercing scream, and it jams its tongue right into my mouth. Gagging for air, I bite fiercely down on the tongue and feel metal with my teeth. My thoughts run to whatever this is, it was into body piercing.

I fight hard to free myself from this things painful clutches. The pain was mixing with the throbbing of my big toe, making my head spin. It’s nails penetrated my flesh as it held me firmly in place. It reeked of rotting meat, making me feel ill. Then, abruptly it jammed it’s tongue into my right ear and held me firmly in place. I could hear a weird noise in my right ear as if someone was playing a tiny drum set in a sewer pipe. Next, I heard what sounded like someone shooting a gun nearby, and the thing let me go.

I stood back and shook my head, and that was when my eyesight returned. I looked around and saw no one or anything, and decided to go onto work. I made it in the front door just in time to see the boss standing near the time clock. I casually stroll his direction, and he eyeballs me in a strange way. I freeze, expecting him to say something, but he makes a grunting sound and walks back to his office.

I clock in and then go to my cubicle and sit down in the overly stuffed office chair. It feels foreign, or unreal like. I look around and notice I don’t recognize anything or anybody. I can’t shake the feeling and quickly make a beeline to the bathroom. I see myself in the mirror and I look horrible. The front of my white blouse was spotted with blood as if I had fallen on a bed of needles. A gel like substance oozed from my right ear, dead leaves were stuck to my shirt, and other various small pieces of debris was stuff into my hair.

I cleaned myself the best I could, and then returned to my corner. I couldn’t believe the boss didn’t say anything. I work my way through lunch without a break, and then stayed a little past five until everyone had left for the day. By the time I was ready to go home, my right ear finally stopped hurting, and the gel substance stopped flowing from inside.

So, as you see it’s been a fairly normal day, apart from the vomiting fit which kicked in just after I got home. I spent half an hour vomiting up blood, and once again, there were those little white spiders mixed in that run around in circles shouting the words crazy. The right side of my face is now numb, and I can still feel a couple of the critters crawling around somewhere behind my eyes. I think they are painting something hateful. It's really annoying as hell,and it's driving me crazy.

Except that I won't go crazy. That's one thing that's become plain. Nobody goes crazy. They just are or aren’t. Stone cold sanity. That's what we endure.

HOW FAR WILL SHE GO?

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Final Ending

She sat alone in front of the computer, trying to talk herself out of the latest thoughts that were consuming her mind. But she realized there was no hope. No matter where else she tried to take her mind, it ultimately led her back to the only option she felt remained. She would have to die for what she did.

She silently scanned through all the family photos, stopping occasionally to recall fond memories of past Christmas get-togethers. Tears rolled down her pale face as she revisited her favorite photos from the past 20 years. To calm herself, she reached for the bottle of Tequila and poured the last shot into her glass. With one swift motion, she threw the liquid down the back of her throat and swallowed the last of the intoxicating brew.

She wiped away one last tear as she stood up to throw the bottle away. Immediately she felt the effects of the alcohol as dizziness overtook her mind. She tried to shake off the feeling, but she knew death was lurking around, waiting to lead her off into the afterworld where she would finally find peace. In the back of her mind a tiny little voice began talking in rhyme.

No one will see
When the last breath leaves me.

She stood silently listening to the voice, swaying back and forth on unsteady legs. It was almost midnight, and she had already cleaned everything, put things into their proper place; it was now just a waiting game. On the computer she had already written her last words.

To Whom Every Reads This

I won’t be alive when you read this because I’ve set this blog to not post until 2am, and by that time my life will be over. I just wanted to post this so I could say goodbye to everyone, and to tell a few last secrets before I go.

First of all I must confess that my father’s death was not due to a medical condition. I tainted his medication in a way that it caused his death. I’m fairly sure I got away with doing what I did, but there are still days when I feel like I’m still running away from what did so many years ago.

Committing murder is scary even after years have passed, you always wonder if the police are going to discover the real truth. Still, I know I did the right thing. He deserved what he got. He was not a good man, and he couldn’t be allowed to continue doing to others, what he had done to me.

To Trooper Mike
You finished smashing any remaining hope I had. You took that last spark I had, and once that was gone, there was no more fire inside me. I felt dead. If I could go back in time, I would burn your flesh until it turned to ash. Instead, I turned the anger inward on myself, inflicting open wounds on my body. I can’t do this any more.

Now, this must end,
There are no more undamaged areas on my skin.

I can no longer take what all this, and more, has done to my mind. I’m tried of trying to make the voices in my head stop arguing. I just want quiet. People say I’ll go to hell for what I’ve done, and what I’m about to do, but I believe I’ve already been living there for years.

To Law Enforcement
First, I’m sorry for all the trouble I’m about to cause you, but it couldn’t be helped. What I did had to be done. I won’t go into the long explanations of why I did what I did, but just to say I had my reasons. Next, in the backyard there are several graves with bodies of those around me that I killed. I buried my family and those damn fucking dogs that they loved so much. I also killed my neighbor and her dog, mostly because they just got on my nerves. After that you need to go to my sisters, brothers, and my mom’s house. I didn’t bury their bodies, so you might want to get to them before they start making a bad smell.

There’s no one left to grieve over my death, I didn’t want anyone to worry about feeling like they were being left behind. I killed anyone who might have cared.

At 1am tonight, I shall die like all the others. Maybe we will reunited in the afterlife and discuss the option I took. See you all in hell.

Goodbye

She looked at the last few words, “See you all in hell.” Anger consumed her body, and out of frustration, she began repeatedly hitting the wall. She began screaming and picked up the empty bottle of Tequila and threw it against the wall. Pieces of glass shattered everywhere, some bounced back and cut her face and hands. More landed at her bare feet, and when she stepped forward, shards of glass penetrated the soft flesh of her foot.

She picked up another half empty bottle of liquor and began pouring the liquid down her throat. It burned like gasoline going down her windpipe, but she didn’t stop until the bottle was empty. She stumbled as she threw it against the wall, shattering it into a hundred pieces.

The voices returned and began shouting that it was time to leave. She slowly made her way to the front door and unlocked it, so that it would be easier for law enforcement or medical personal to get inside, then she drunkenly staggered back in front of her computer.

The time was 12:34, leaving her less than thirty minutes before the time she had chosen for her death. She smiled as she looked around the room. It was spotless, other than the trail of bloody footprints and broken glass. One of her many voices wanted to clean the mess up right way, but there was no time left.

She picked up a lighter and lit a candle, then a joint. As the smoked rolled passed her nose, she watched the flickering flame of the candle dance in the darkened room. The alcohol, the full bottle of pain medication, and now the joint, sent her mind into another place, and she just laughed at the thought of finally having power over those who have only cause her pain throughout her life.

This was it. She put on her favorite late night slow music, and waited for the darkness to surround her body and take her to another world. As the police drove past her window one last time, she smiled and closed her eyes knowing she would no longer have to deal with psycho thoughts.

December 21, 2012

Just Breathe

The other night I sat alone at one of the parks and watched the local pd as I debated on laying open my flesh. As I held the blade tightly between my fingers, I flashed back to what it was like the last time a had to have stitches in my arm. I have cut since then, but only small rips at my skin that needed little or no attention. These wounds are minor compared to the normal 7 stitches that it takes to close one of my usual ‘accidents’.

I knew the officers that were on duty, and of course they all know me, so I really didn’t want to get caught doing something that is believed to only occur in teenagers, not to women over 40. After all these years of cutting, I still sometimes can not stop myself from inflicting pain to my body, but if I put myself in the right position, I will write instead. That was what I decided to do this time, write about what it was like the last time I cut myself deep.

This story mixes a little reality, with a bit of fiction.

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I’m standing outside a heavy steel metal door, with only a small thick glass window that looks into a tiny five foot by twelve foot room. I focus in on a dimly lit image standing towards the back of the room near a metal toilet with a sink attached on the back. I press my face closer and open my eyes wide trying to make the image more defined. I can tell that it is a person, and I think I recognize them, but I can’t seem to remember.

She is tall and a rather large woman with dirty blonde hair, and she is wearing a blue tee-shirt. She has her back to me, but I can make out that she is doing something with her arm.

I wipe a tear from my eye, blinking several times until I’m able to focus more clearly.

The woman is standing near the toilet with her arm leaning over a metal sink. She holds something shiny in her right hand. Something sharp. I wonder what she is doing? As she turns partly sideways I can see her left arm covered in fresh red blood. It is dropping steadily into the sink, splashing the sides until the blood flows down like spilled paint. Blood covers the razor sharp cutting edge of the blade that she holds tightly in her shaking right hand.

As the blood slows, she makes another slice deeper into the wound, filling it with fresh blood. It begins to drain down her arm, making a big mess, splattering onto the floor. She uses toilet paper from the back of the sink to wipe up the large droplets of blood from the floor. She uses more to slow the heavy flow of blood dripping down to her elbow.

I stand there, mesmerized by her actions, when without warning an almost familiar force grabs me around my throat and like a tornado, it sucks my dead mind through the tiny window. I now stand side by side the woman with the blood soaked arm, watching her lean over the sink to avoid making a mess for others to clean. In her eyes, I see the shame and disgust at what she has done.

I reach out to grab her arm, to let her know she doesn’t have to continue cutting. The wound is deep enough. As our eyes meet, I see the deep pain, I understand, but now we have to get help. Our hands touch and slowly mix together, until we become one.

I am now her. I am in control. I look down at the bloody blade that she held so tightly in her right hand, and my eyes open wide as I look at the open oozing new wound. My eyes stare widely at the steadily dripping blood, and I realize it is my arm that is bleeding heavily into the cold steel metal sink.

“Oh shit!” my voice trembles and my right hand shakes with the bloody blade. My whole body flushes with a surge of adrenaline and I begin to awaken. “Fuck! Who cut my damn arm? Why? Why do you do this?”

A voice from far away whispers, ‘She did it. She’s always the one who cuts.’ I hear the voice of the others arguing, fighting. They are the voices that feel like they don’t belong to me.

I cautiously sit the sharp blade on the back of the sink as a rush of sadness consumes my brain, squeezing it until tears swell from my eyes. It blurs my vision until I squeeze my eyes tightly and let the tears cascade down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away, and then use the remaining toilet paper to wipe up the blood that has once again dripped onto the floor.

I think maybe I can hide the wound, but it won’t stop bleeding. I need more tissue. The weeping voice inside me is hurt. The others fight about who’s fault it really is, and why one of them doesn’t step forward before she cuts.

With a sudden tear-jerking jolting shock, I realize where I am, and that I’ve got to stop the bleeding. I turn on the water and wash the blood from the open wound, letting the water stain a light rose color. The bleeding only becomes worse as the cool water stings the open wound. I carefully inspect the laceration that shows the fatty tissue underneath. There is no pain, just a slight stinging sensation, but the blood continues to pour from the wound.

I realize I will have to go to the emergency room, but I hate going to the ER. It’s always embarrassing trying to explain that I ‘accidentally’ cut myself, but this time others will be with me. I can not use that excuse. Along with all the stares, there is always at least one person who will make me feel even less of a human than I already do. They know what happened, but they don’t want to do all the paperwork that comes with committing someone for cutting themselves, so they won't say anything.

Maybe I should just cut a little deeper, and then lay down and go to sleep. A part of me struggles with what to do.

“Fuck!” I shout loud enough to vibrate off the walls. Nobody has this many accidents on their arm. Nobody. My arm is a battlefield, and each scar tells a separate story, many of which I would rather forget. Worse my mind questions, how do I explain this to those closest around me? How am I once again going to hide the wound?

Blood drains down my arm to the floor. A voice inside me is urging with me to get someone’s attention. ‘You need help’ a tiny voice whispers from somewhere far away. I shake my head in shame, and ponder how does one ask for help when they are locked up alone behind a solid steel door? Sadness gathers deep in my chest and I try to swallow.

I hear heavy footsteps coming. A voice steps forward, she’s the one who always has to have everything neat and tidy. She just wants more tissue so there won’t be a mess. A young man looks though the small thick glass window and sees what she has done.

I sit down on the small cot and take a deep breath. I know within only a few moments others will come. Later I will feel the familiar calmness that overtakes my entire body after I cut. It is that calmness that we seek. Afterwards we will sleep long and hard. Our mind will rest peacefully. But even as I do sleep soundly, one of us knows it hasn’t been a good day.

They know the hard part will come later, when I have to hide the latest cut from those I don’t want to know. I question myself if it was worth the few hours of feeling euphoric while I sat next to the officer baby sitting me as the they put seven stitches into my left arm to close the deep laceration. Maybe the next day will be a better day. This I know, she will not have to cut again for a few months.

To Kill Again

I was with him longer than any man I've ever been with, so I suppose he had to die. He wasn't the most talented man in the world, matter of fact all he could do was work a eight hour shift, and then come home and lay down. Never able to do any of the manly things that I thought a man should be able to do. Like being able to change the oil on the car, fix the leaky sink, repair the carpet, or even doing little chores around the house. He didn’t do anything of these things. If it was to be done, I had to do it all.

I have days where all I want to do is take my life, just to save myself from all this pain and misery. I yearn for a sense of purpose that will define my place in this world. But I yearn for too much. Hope and expectation cloud the mind before delivering bitter disappointment. It is a lesson I have been taught time and again. It is a lesson I keep having to re-learn.

I remember when I first met him. He was thick, but in shape with a nice muscle tone underneath, but I hated the fact that he acted like he knew it all. Still, it was easy to take advantage of him. All I had to do was show him the pussy and he would give me anything I wanted or desired.

I never really seemed to bond well with others when growing up, I mostly prefered to be alone. I would spend hours alone, thinking about ways to inflict a slow death on some small creature I had caught. At 12, I broke down, and told my father that I could kill somebody and not feel bad, he beat me with a belt and sent me on my way. Taught me to keep my mouth shut.

Now here I sit, past 40 years old in my own house, hidden deep in the woods, far from prying eyes, with another fresh corpse sitting next to me. I guess it was partly my fathers fault. Maybe if he hadn’t sexually, physically, or mentally abuse me throughout my life, my life might have went a different direction. Maybe it’s the voices that I hear in my head, that makes me commit these crimes. Or it might be the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the sexual turn-on, or the high that I get from killing. Whatever it is...I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.

Some people might think that I’m sick, a freak, a inhuman creature, or insane, but I don't. I don't feel that it's a normal thing, but I feel completely numb about what is happening. Mostly I enjoy the sense of power that comes from terrifying victims, and confusing the police. I always wanted to prove to myself that I was capable to taking another persons life, but only one thing kept me from carrying out this nasty deed for years when I was young, I didn't want to be locked up for the rest of my life, rotting away in some stinking jail cell. Whether I admit it or not, I do value freedom, but I have become smarter.

I wouldn't do anything really sick, like fuck a dead body, but the thought is still there. I thought about it a lot when I was little, and afterwards I would lay in bed and secretly masturbate. Maybe I am sick, maybe I‘m just willing to admit to my heinous thoughts. I'd like to believe that I'm like a lot of other people, but that's only a fantasy. I’ve even been told that I’m as normal as the girl next door, but the truth is ..... Well, no one knows the real me.

Everybody has the power in themselves to kill another. I remember sitting alone in the big barn behind our house when I was young, with a black cat in my arms, thinking I could take its head and crush it with one quick show of strength. Or I could throw it on the ground with all my might and stomp it to death. I suppose talking about killing an animal is wrong, but I can’t help thinking about the feeling of warm blood splashed across my skin.

Things weren't easy for us when I was growing up. We weren't rich, so most of the time I found myself going without, while others would be proudly showing off their trinkets, I stood alone in the background. We grew food in the garden in the summertime, and hunted down and killed any other food we might need to survive. There wasn’t much, but at least we had a roof over our head, (that leaked when it rained), and food to eat every night (even if it was the same food two nights or more in a row).

At 17, I was out on my own. I bought a car, got an apartment, and supported myself in my own way. I suppose others would feel a sense of accomplishment in having their own apartment, I didn't actually care. I never needed much space to live in, just a small kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms; one room to sleep in, and another to put my collection of souvenirs. I lived like this for years.

Then he came along. Sex with him was great. I couldn’t seem to get enough of what he was offering. He would hold doors open for me, enjoyed going out to a fancy restaurant, or just spending a quiet evening at home entertaining me. Eventually he moved in with me, and we then we moved to a bigger place. Things changed. I changed.

It's been said that people don't care anymore, but I tried. People just never gave me the same respect that I was giving. Were they too dumb to understand? So fucking stupid that they didn’t understand that when you treat people like dogs, eventually they become the meanest dog you’ve ever come across.

Sometimes, I don’t mind being treated like trash, but at times I want to be treated like princess.

Now, I enjoy lurking in the shadows, watching other people, madly laughing to myself, making people wonder what I’m going to do next. I get off on the pure joy of telling someone something so bizarre that it fucks with their mind.

I love being around certain people. But what I love more, is when the people like being with me. I was a social recluse for quite some time, now I can never get enough of people. Maybe this is what drove me to do what I did. Maybe not. Society is warped, I see it all the time, but I can't blame society for all my actions or re-actions.

When I'm tired, I can be very disrespectful. "Fuck off," is mild for me. Don't get me going, because once I start, I'm not going to stop until something really bad happens.

They never understand my moods. MOODS. What a strong word, more powerful than most. Perhaps it's the fact that I have different personalities at times, so there is always a different reason for what I do. Hell, I'm still trying to figure that one out myself.

I hate it when he yells and threatens my life, telling me I worthless and good for nothing. I don’t know how many times I’ve told him to leave, but he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stand there like a fool and argue. I face reality and realize I can find another person just like him. He just makes me so crazy that all I can think about is killing him, and burying his body in a deep hole in the backyard.

Sometimes I get in this weird mood where all I want to do is listen to sad, dreary and depressing songs. Not happy songs. He hates this, and only wants to listen to his favorite type of music, calling my music nothing but crap, and giving me this look of hatred when he turns mine off and turns his on.

You know the letter 'y' in the word 'happy' makes the word look happy. Happ. That looks better. Like someone was trying to say 'happy' and their throat was slit in the process.

I could easily break someone’s bones, because the sound of the snapping bones drive me over the edge and sends me into a frenzy of inflicting pain. I want to make them curl up in the corner, and beg for their life.

I could easily cut a person. Blood doesn't bother me like it does some people. I've sat for hours, putting scars on my legs, arms, and stomach with one of the many blades that I own. I suppose that I'm rambling again, but I'll be strong and not apologize for it, because then I'd be weak.

He yelled at me, and read me like a book. He saw right through my moods. Saw the inner me. I don’t like that. I don’t want people to know me like that. We’ve been together to long.

What is the problem? You really want to know? I just wanted him to shut up, and stop telling me what I did wrong, over and over again until I want to throw up. I‘m not a dumb ass, I know I fucked up.

Then later, when I’m still mad, I didn’t want him to make believe everything is okay, and then tie me down to the bed and fuck me with all his strength...well maybe that was okay. I just wanted a word or two about how ‘the house looks nice’, or ‘dinner was good’, ‘your hair looks nice’, ‘don’t worry, I’ll take care of things’, that’s what I want him to say at least once.

The gun barely made a sound when it went off. I had put on the latex gloves, and wrapped a pillow fully around the gun before I placed it against his left temple. I was expecting a much louder noise, and at first I worried that it didn‘t really go off, and he would wake up shouting at me to leave him the fuck alone. But then I saw the blood beginning to pour from his mouth and quickly soaking into the sheets. I knew he was dead.

The blood meant something. It meant it was over. I didn’t have to deal with the way he treated me, ever again. I could move on and find someone new, someone better, someone I wouldn’t want to kill.

It feels good to scream, loudly. I felt like a God, standing in my big house waving the gun around in the air. Maybe I went back to some primal instincts of kill or be killed. I took the first step. There are no tears. I feel nothing.

So, now I sit here writing this, and I’m beginning to realize what I’ve done to him. He was my life for the past 20 years, and I've just altered that way of life forever. His death will mean my freedom again if anyone finds his body. But he has no family, no close friends, he won‘t be missed for a very long time. It will be time enough for me to move on, to begin again what I started so many years ago. I can’t let anybody find out. It has brought back all the old memories of when I killed years ago. Once again I am free to go out and freely kill and fuck at will. Some people might not understand this, but it is a part of me.

After I buried his body in a deep hole in the backyard, I took a long hot shower, blow-dried and straightened my hair, and now I'm deciding how to finish this story.

If a murderer moved next door, would you know it just by looking at them? Could you tell from your interactions with a person, that they were capable of committing unspeakable acts against other human beings? Could someone you love and have regular contact with, be a serial killer without you suspecting a thing?

The room he was in, now smells different. It's not the usual smell of his body odor, or his cologne that I bought for him last year at Christmas. It smells strange, and I feel like I don’t belong here any more. I cut up the mattress and buried most of it with him, but the smell of dead blood lingers, like dust in the air after a storm.

A gallon of bleach and a bottle of pine-sol should do the trick. I like to be clean, I hate it when things are dirty. Everything has to have its own proper place, and it is a must that things smell nice. Smell is very important to a woman. But they wouldn't listen! I'd like to take their words and shove them down their throats.

I figure people kill themselves because they feel they have nothing to live for. Nothing. Their life was wasted early, and that affects them later. So, they sit in one place, and look at all the dirt and filth around them, never finding happiness until the day they die. Nobody cares for them, and they don’t care for anybody. That's the reason. Maybe. I know how they feel now. I know, I understand.

My life is wasted, but his death fixed that.

I kissed him lightly on the forehead before I dumped his body in the hole. It sent goose-bumps through me, and made me wonder if I had done the wrong thing. Was it time to begin my plan? It felt like the first time all over again. The adrenaline rush like I got from my first kill was back. I had quit so many years ago because I was no longer getting the thrill that I had received the first time I took a life.

Society is going to hate me as much as I hate them. But I’m going to do it anyway, and not anybody is going to know the truth. Even if there was somebody who KNEW how I was feeling, what I'm thinking, and what I did, I would still deny it. It's like a disease, and it's not stoppable. Afterwards, I will feel bad, but right now, I don't care anymore. I feel alive, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster.

Who gives a fuck anyway? I should die. I am a sinner, and no one can save me now. What I’ve done is sick, disgusting, immoral, and I should die for my crimes. If somebody else had done the same thing, I would not hesitate to kill them. But, I am me, and so I am above the laws? No, I should die, and die I will by the hands of another...someday. That almost sounds poetic. I always wanted to be a poet, or a writer, but I don’t have the talent. I could have, but people are always telling me how much better they are than me, and how I'll never be anybody. People with more talent, more ideas, more feelings...normal people. People I don’t like. People that need to die.

This next weekend might be a good time to start this planned thought. Planning is important part... I don't want to make a mistake. Maybe I'll wait until my court date and explode in a violent frenzy, and not stop until I take my last breath.

If there is a hell, then surely I'll be there,

laying in my bed of hot coals, staring aimlessly at the ceiling,

unable to sleep.

Scary Stories you Don't Always Hear About

Halloween is all about scary stuff, but really how do you scare someone who has changed a newborn’s diaper? I'm a Mom!! I'm not afraid of monsters in the closet or witches riding brooms. In fact, I’d probably ask that witch to step off her broom and help sweep up those Goldfish cracker crumbs, or start yet another load of laundry. So, what scares a mom? Here, for your Halloween terror, are my scary stories.

1. Back in 1990, after running errands in the car with my firstborn son, who was only a few weeks old at the time, I saw, to my horror, that he had ridden the whole way home without the seat belt fastened in his child-safety seat. My sleep-deprived self had forgotten to buckle him in. Instantly, visions of all that could have been ravaged my already-fragile mind. That one still scares me.

2. My second son scared me half to death when he was about 6 months old. Earlier that day, he had managed to cut his mouth on a Zweiback biscuit while he was with a baby sitter. Later that afternoon, while driving to Grandma’s house I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my baby’s face covered in blood. It was like something out of “Carrie,” half of his face was bloody! I thought he was hemorrhaging or throwing up blood or something equally horrifying, so I made a quasilegal U-turn and beelined for the emergency room at quasilegal speeds. I frantically ran into the hospital with my bloody child, big brother in tow. When I finally saw a nurse, she pretty much laughed at me and my hysterical mommyness. It turns out that mouth cuts always look worse than they really are. Most folks manage to swallow the blood when the have a cut in their mouth — most folks who aren’t babies, anyway. Oh.

3. Once, when I was backing my car out of the driveway, after dutifully checking my mirrors and watching out the rear window, I felt the car bump over something. Immediately, I hit the brakes; the only thing that stopped faster than the car was my heart. My thoughts went something like this: OMG!!!, I just killed something! Oh, please, don’t let it be a person! Or the dog! Please don’t let it be the cat! What did I just do? I checked. I looked and there was nothing there! What did I hit?

OMG!!, did one of the kids come out of the house? They were supposed to be inside with their father! How did they get out here so fast? No, they couldn’t have. OMG! Did I run over someone else’s kid??? I waited for my heart to start beating again, albeit not regularly, and managed to haul my paralyzed-with-terror self out of the car to witness the carnage. Ready to rush in the house and call 911, I looked behind my car and truly felt like an idiot — it was a plastic baseball bat. I ran over a baseball bat, and I killed it, too.

Murder Was the Case

Other than my neighbor Jenny, I am the only person who knows that she is innocent of murdering her husband. As Jenny is to be put to death by lethal injection in less than an hour, she will take this knowledge to the grave with her. When her body signs slowly fade from her body, then I will be the only one who knows the true identity of the actual killer of James Smith.

She will be pacing the cold confines of the condemned cell, as the minutes slowly and sadly tick away, indignant and outraged by the injustice that put her there. Perhaps she will beat the unyielding walls and scream her innocence to the world. No one will hear her though; only the correctional officer standing outside her door, and he will have heard it all before from other ‘innocence’ people.

Eventually, as her final moment approaches ever nearer, she will quietly lay on her hard bunk, and anger will be replaced by a far greater emotion: terror. She will know pure liquid fear as her mind enacts the ultimate moments; the trembling walk to the room to be strapped down, the strong arms supporting her at both sides as she takes each faltering step up to the platform, the blackness as a mask is place over her head and steals her last sight of the world around her. Will she be one of those that stand firm and proud as she feels the rough sting of a needle being placed in her arm? Defiant at last in the face of the inevitable, determined to make her exit dignified and ladylike? Or will she succumb to basic animal panic and have to be dragged kicking and screaming, begging and pleading, weeping and crying, to end her days as a cowardly wreck?

Jenny will be praying now, praying as she never has before, praying desperately for the last-minute reprieve that will never come. Every tissue of her being will be fervently hoping that the true guilty one will step forward, remorseful, and conscious-stricken that another is being punished for her crime.
But it will not happen.

A woman in my position must be seen to be above reproach, to be beyond criminality. I must adhere impeccably to the law. The scandal would be enormous shout it become know that it was I who kill James.

I had to take his life. If only he could have been content to let our affair remain a secret. I thought that I had convinced him that it was for the best that we continue as we had for all those months. However, that night, that last night, when we met at his house while his wife Jenny was attending one of her many late-night sessions at a local bar. No amount of reasoning or persuasion from me would sway him; he loved me and he wanted the world to know. He was leaving Jenny. He had even written a letter telling her so. What could I do? How could I allow it to be discovered that I had been conducting a long-standing affair with the husband of a local well-known politician.

I am noted for my calmness and passivity, it is necessary in my work, but that night when James showed me the letter with my name in it like an accusation, I snapped.

When the police arrived at the neighbors house, they found Jenny standing over the body of her husband spread out on the bed, and the stocking I used to strangle him still clutched in her hand. The evidence against her, though circumstantial, was damning.

At the trial, the housekeeper and other witnesses revealed the graphic details and the constant bouts between the couple and Jenny’s violent behavior toward her husband after coming home drunk from the bar. When it was further exposed that she had been conducting an affair (one of many) with the bartender, from whose bed she had come home that night and with whom she had often discussed how much she despised James, the jury had little hesitation in finding Jenny guilty. No one was aware that the real culprit was viewing the whole procedure from the back of the courtroom.

It is almost time now. The door of the condemned cell well be swinging open to admit the escort who will accompany Jenny on the long walk to her final rendezvous. What exquisite dread she must be feeling. I know I wouldn’t wish to be in her shoes.

“We’re ready for you now, Ms. Smart.”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry officer, you startled me; I must have been daydreaming. I was just giving the equipment a final check. Everything seems to be in order.”

“Oh, I’m sure it must be, madam; I’ve never know you to make a mistake. Very professional you are, if you don’t mind me saying so. Though I couldn’t do your job for a million bucks. Dirty work it is, being the one who put’s the needle in someone’s arm.”

“Why thank you, officer; that’s very kind of you. You’re right, it is dirty work, but you know what they say; someone has to do it.”

“I suppose so, madam. Oh well, it sounds like they are bringing Jenny in now.”

Dirty work indeed, but I make sure Jenny Smith’s execution is as clean as all the rest. One should always take pride in one’s work.

Sometimes the Best Help is no Help

When I was a little, around the age of 9, I acted more like a tomboy than a girl, mostly because I enjoyed doing the things my brothers were doing. I like going hunting, fishing, poking dead things with a stick. I played outside without shoes on, I was always digging in the dirt, I enjoyed climbing trees, and doing all the other unladylike things that a country girl would do.

Back then, and I guess still today, I feel there is a way to make the world a better place. Nothing too big; just a helping hand to someone in need, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, even $5.00 to the drunk guy on the corner, because I feel even people like him, sometimes need a little a little help.

But how do you know when the help has gone to far? At what point to you step back? And realize you are causing more harm than good.

At 9 years old, I figured this out. It was a hard lesson taught, but one I have never forgot.

It was a warm spring day, and we were out of school for summer break. I was out wondering around the 1200 acre property, in the woods behind our house, when I heard a chirping sound coming from a small tree just a few feet in front of me. Being the curious kid that I was, and a part of me fearing that something was wrong and I would somehow be coming to the rescue of something in need, I quickly shimmed my way up the tree.

In the middle of the tree, close to a v-shape branch, sat a nice, newly built birds nest. Inside I could see 3 small eggs, one of course was where the noise was coming from. In my heart I felt the bird was crying out to me, asking for my help to free it from the confines of its shell. The mother or father bird, was no where in site, so I felt I had to help. I gently picked up the egg with the birds beak sticking out and began removing pieces of the shell.

I quickly removed all the shell, doing all the work for it, and when I did the bird stopped chirping. I was happy, thinking that I had just saved it's life. I gently sat it back down in its nest, but it just laid there. I didn't understand why it wasn't moving. I had freed it from its struggle. I continued to watch the baby bird for almost an hour, poking at it occasionally to see if it would move more, but didn't, it just laid there, and I finally had to walk away.

The next day I returned to find the baby bird laying dead on the ground near the tree. In the nest above I could hear the chirping of the other two birds that I had not helped. Later I found out that it is necessary for the baby bird to struggle out of the shell alone; that is what makes them strong enough to be able to one day fly.

Some people tend to forget this lesson in life, or never learn this one, but sometimes we have to let other people struggle alone, if they ever want to fly.

Tea for Two

It had been unsettlingly easy to get hold of a gun, Sandy thought. The new gun laws were supposed to stop people like Sandy from owning hand guns, but all she had to do was go to one of the seedier areas of Tulsa, find an alone pawnshop owner, and show a little cleavage and the gun was hers.

The shop owner hadn't asked any questions or for any identification and within minutes, after letting him squeeze her breast, Sandy had left the shop with the gun weighing heavily in her coat pocket. What had just happened and what was yet to come, weighed heavily on her mind. Her friend Anna of course was there by her side. There was no getting away from Anna, or her actions.

The cold steel of the weapon felt alien beneath Sandy’s strong, yet petite fingers, and contrasted strangely with the warm color and texture of the wooden hand-grip. Sandy slowly turned the cylinder of the revolver, her fingers brushing lightly over the head of each bullet in turn until she came to the chamber with the spent round.


"That's four hundred dollars well spent little darling,” the pawnshop owner had said as he handed the gun towards Sandy and placed the money in his pocket. Sandy had reached for the gun but Anna had picked it up.

"That's a sweet forty five.” he said grinning as Anna slowly loaded the pistol. "Just like "Dirty Harry had in the films." Anna thumbed in the last bullet and spun the cylindrical chamber.

"You shoot someone with that young lady and they won't cause you no more trouble,” the pawnshop owner said smiling. Anna had smiled to. Then she raised the gun and fired.

“No more trouble,” Anna mumbled and put the gun in Sandy’s coat pocket then she reached over and recovered the money, now damp with the pawn shop owners blood.

"We should leave now," she said with a grin and hurried from the shop taking Sandy with her. All the way to her car and for the rest of the drive home to her apartment, Sandy listened for the sound of sirens telling her that Anna's crime had been found out. But there had been none, and as the door to her apartment closed behind them, she had finally relaxed enough to allow herself to think about what had happened. Anna's laughter rung in her ears as she leaned over the toilet vomiting violently.

Sandy laid the gun down on the bedside table and walked across to the window. The darkness outside seemed to huddle in corners, away from the street lights as if trying to shelter from the heavy rain falling upon the city. The water poured down to one side of the window where the gutter was blocked with muck and filth. Storm clouds gathered overhead as if promising that this was just a sample of the dark times ahead. Anna smiled as the first of the lightening cut through the sky.

“This is my kind of weather,” she said with a big grin. Sandy just closed her eyes on the scene.

"Why did you kill that pawnshop owner Anna?" she asked, her voice no more than a whisper containing no emotion, just a great sense of weariness. Anna snorted in derision.

"You know exactly why I did it," she muttered. "I did it because you couldn't."

"But why Anna?"

Anna sighed in exasperation. “Because he was scum Sandy! The dregs of humanity. All the stuff in that shop, all the rings, the watches, the televisions, were stolen. Either stolen directly and fenced through that slug or stolen by him for a pittance from people who couldn't afford not to sell. The man was a leech, a parasite. He deserved what he got!”

Sandy sighed. She found it so hard to argue with Anna sometimes. All to often when she looked inside herself she found that she agreed with the sentiments, if not the methods.

Sandy reached out and drew the curtains closed, blocking out the world outside for a while. Moving over to the bed she laid down and stared silently up at the cracked and crumbling ceiling above her. Slowly her mind sorted through the events of the day again, searching, questing, probing for what? For something, for anything that she could hold up before Anna to stop what she knew was coming, but there was nothing.

Anna was right. The pawn shop owner got what he deserved. And as she decided this a tear gently rolled down Sandy's cheek and she wept for her own morality. Sometimes she really hated Anna.

Sandy turned to look upon the gun. Anna’s instrument of retribution. It would be so easy she thought. So easy to reach out and take the gun. To take the gun and kill Anna. But she knew she would not. Sandy knew that in Anna’s death lay her own demise. They were together now as they had been since Anna had first appeared in Sandy’s life. A day that would burn forever in her mind.

The jeers of the other children had rained down upon her with almost as much force as the fists and feet that struck her. She had tried to flee, to escape the torment but had been tripped and as her head struck the concrete they had closed in with the eagerness of the ignorant.

Then Anna showed up. Most of Sandy’s tormentors fled with minor injuries. One had received a broken arm. Two others had been hospitalized. Sandy had been expelled. Anna went with her to her new school though. And again to the next after a similar incident. After that there had been no more trouble. Rumors about Sandy began circulating around, and all the time Anna kept Sandy safe from harm.

“They deserved it too, Sandy,” said Anna her voice perhaps a little softer for just a moment, then back to its normal harsh self. Sandy sighed. Anna always knew what she was thinking.

"They were evil," yawned Anna, as she turned towards the gun. Reaching out a hand Anna caressed the cold metal and smiled darkly as the weapon glittered in the light of the bedside lamp.

"That's what they said about you after what you did to them," accused Sandy but with little conviction. This conversation had played through to often and she knew both sides of it by heart. But then, deep down, she always knew what Anna was going to say. Anna just laughed.

“That isn't what they said and you know it,” Anna retorted with a wicked grin. Sandy lowered her gaze from the gun.

"No," she breathed, her voice no more that a whisper. "They said that I was evil. No one ever blames you."

Anna shrugged. "Can I help that?" she asked with a smile. Sandy fell silent.

For several long minutes there was silence. Anna reached out and picked up the gun. “Time to get started,” she muttered, her voice suddenly serious.

Sandy rose from the bed and walked over to the window and peered out through the crack in the curtains. "Why us?" she whispered, staring out at the rain soaked streets as another round of thunder rolled across the city.

“If not us, then who?” growled Anna, her voice low and menacing. “The law doesn't work and the police can’t deal with the spreading evil.” Anna raised the gun. “Only you and I know how to fight evil, and that is to fight it on it's own level. Our evil against the evil out there.” Anna gazed out of the window, her eyes looking like pits of darkness in the shadows of the room.

Sandy sighed weakly, again feeling the weariness of her spirit, but knowing there would be no rest for her now. Slowly she moved over to the mirror and gazed at her reflection.

“I won't kill,” she said with a voice that was resigned but resolute.

“You won't have to,” replied the reflection of Anna. “I'll do it for you.”

“As long as we are clear on that,” whispered Sandy with a nod at her reflection. In the mirror Anna nodded back.

“Agreed.”

Sandy reached out with her empty hand, picked up her coat and put it on. Anna removed a bullet from the pocket and replaced the spent round with a new bullet. Sandy pulled up the collar. Anna put the gun in the coat pocket and smiled. Sandy took one last look around the dingy flat. Then Anna stepped out into the night and Sandy went with her in silence.