Post by xunpredictablel on Oct 31, 2010 18:24:19 GMT -5
Before you read, you HAVE to read this warning . It is absolutely required.:
This piece is rated R. It has truly disturbing images and thoughts and is truly a psychological horror. PLEASE do not read this if you are judgmental or if you do not believe you can handle this . I am telling you now : it was meant to be a HORROR story , it is not happy and it will not end well. It is not fun. Read it for the sake of reading it , or for the sake of humanity's horrific tendencies .
I can't tell you , and I can't help you, no matter how you plead. This journey gets the best of most - got the best of me . I wish I could help you, wish my story would give you hope, but all that's left on these empty pages is the epitome of the opposite. My thoughts are dead black , plagued with suicide and cutting, drugs and smoking. I want these deadly thoughts, they're like my best friends. But, the journey won again . I wish I could reach out and grab someone's arm, but the likelihood of me admitting that I'm wrong is nil. I wonder if I can see you right, if your actions really are as tainted as I'd like to think. Maybe then, you'd be just as wrong as me , and perhaps one day I could find hope in that.
Your eyes are kind of far away; black suits you . The black accentuates your dazed stares and awkward movements . Your nose is a little big, to be frank, but you're endearing , every part of your body hints at your clumsiness. Your lips are little bows, so pretty, so lovely when they're pursed (and you do that a lot, don't you?). Your hair is long and black, black like the very end of your being, like your eyes that are so supposedly the windows to the soul.
You grew up so prettily. You were the little baby girl that your grandparents marveled over , your beauty was rival only to the beauty of your mother , but her name is so accursed to you, isn't it? I saw the potential in your little eyes, from the moment you were born. I saw the potential to be great, and the potential to be so self destructive. It was curious, watching them open - like an omen to an everlasting deadliness that would haunt you to your grave. Your eyes - your very first enemies. Your arms reached out to me, but I was scared of you. Your mother held you so dearly. Your souls could have matched like puzzle pieces.
Good Lord, when you were two, you were the greatest. You were my whole world. You stumbled over your little feet so preciously, like the world was on your shoulders and you didn't quite know how much weight that was, and how much responsibility. I remember holding you up on my shoulders and you'd lean over into my face, play with the tendrils of my hair. How I loved that feeling, my darling, how I loved you for being so affectionate. I'd let you down and you'd run away as if you didn't notice how attached my legs were to you. I'd run just to be inches from you. Your eyes still plagued me so, though, and I was worried about your future.
Your mother thought so dearly of you. I remember she quit her job just to be close to you, no matter the strain it put on the family . She'd come to check on you as you slept, she'd pull the black hair out of your eyes and set it neatly by your chin. She loved your sleek, black hair. She'd brush it for hours just to see it shine. You'd sit between her legs on the floor and play silly video games with her. Remember? You'd hop up and down in excitement and squeal when you won. She'd let you win, your mother was fantastic at video games. You had so much brightness in you , regardless of your dark features. She'd pull you into the sunshine just to see you glow.
When you were five, your mother was ill. Dreadfully ill. I remember coming home every day to see her throwing up, plagued with dark circles under her eyes and the thin cheeks that come so easily with sickness. I'd pull you close to me as we took care of her, us, two, together, working so hard to keep your mother safe. She'd jerk out of bed in the middle of the night and hover, crying, over your crib. I think she knew her time with you was limited. Oh, God, how she loved you, baby girl. How she loved your pretty voice! I was almost jealous, I won't lie to you. Such beautiful girls, you two, so beautiful and dainty and graceful. I'd wish so dearly for a hope that you both would lie, side by side, forever. I'd hope so dearly that I'd die far before you two. But God has a funny way of working, I'll only admit that if you still believe in Him, darling, because my faith did naught but haunt me when I did something wrong.
So, your mother died. Her pale skin grew even paler and the thinness of her face almost sickened me. She was all the more beautiful in death, darling. She was gorgeous. Her black hair framed her face, curled, Her eyes closed, thick black eyelashes tickled her cheekbones. Her lips were painted a bright red, her favorite lipstick, and she was dressed in all black, because we all knew how much she utterly cursed her own death. She was the last one to want to die, darling, and that plagues me to this day, because I can't seem to find the want to live.
Do you remember what she did the night of her death? She played her video games with you just like she always did. I don't know if you noticed, but she held you closer and kissed you more, and more playfully. She smiled and she glowed, baby, she genuinely glowed. I'd never been happier to sit there and watch you two, both glowing and tumbling through life together. We both knew she was going to die that night. Don't you worry about me, darling, I got my affection that night too, because she loved me with her whole heart when she had the time to, when she wasn't too busy spoiling you with her love. She held me so tight that night, strength knew her arms well, though she was so, so weak. I held her just as tight, and I cried silent tears into her hair, baby. I swear, the world lost it's light when she died. Tears wreck me now, just thinking about how utterly worthy she was of everything. She deserved you more than anyone, baby girl. No one has deserved you since. Just know that I have never deserved either of you. Your mother saw in me what no one else did, and she held me so dear, darling. She loved me more than she loved anyone, and I have been so blessed because of it. Never have I spent one second not thinking about her, or thinking about leaving her memory for someone more palpable. Even the memory of your mother can do for me what no woman could again.
When she died, you lost a soulmate. You lost half of yourself and your soul was shattered. I saw you, wandering so lost in this world. You didn't understand your father's blonde hair and blue eyes. You didn't understand his tall stature and muscular body. You didn't quite grasp how he was so different from you. And so wretched, darling. Such bright features were not parallel to his soul. He had such a dark soul, so plagued with wretchedness, depression, misery. His eyes were always cast downward, towards a hell he so wished to go, to accompany his wretched thoughts. You'd never understand that, not until far later, not until the monsters he faced started to grab you around the throat and suffocate you like they did him. You'd understand, oh God, but so wretched is that thought for me.
You were only six. I had so much trouble getting through your impenetrable shield. You didn't want anyone else in, baby. When your mother died, so did your ability to love, for a while. I wondered so desperately where the little girl who wrapped her arms around my legs was. I wondered where the girl who ran to me when I got home and wrapped her arms around my neck so I could swing her around and take her to my bedroom so she, her mother, and I could watch one of her favorite movies. I wasn't tired, when I got home. I was so full of life, to be even the slightest bit worthy of the two of you. Now, I get home and I fall into bed, attacked with weakness. Now, I get home and you're never there. It scares me, darling, so desperately.
When you were six, you were so sad. I let you pick out your own clothing and you always wore black. You could have gotten that from your mother , or it could be something you picked up. You understood that it was such a sad color, and you seemed so at home with it. You seemed to hold hands with a ghost with gruesome features. You'd look up at it without prejudice, thinking it was beautiful like the lot of us. I wanted to send you to therapy, but your mother would be so angry with me if I did. She would want you to be just who you were, and to never once change unless you so desired. I started coming home sad, and I felt the years wear on the bags underneath my eyes.
The years seemed to rush by. You were going to school and coming home, the days blurring together with such ambiguity. Such vagueness. They haunted me - drifted above my bed as I stared up at the ceiling, at them. I wasn't scared of them anymore, they just seemed like ghosts, just like the one that laid beside me. You grew up so fast, darling, that was the only thing that scared me. I was only scared of your hips that started to protrude, and your face so similar to your mother's.
Then you started to speak so much more. Asking me to read your poetry. I heard in your tortured words how the past haunted you. A mother you barely knew was like a lover to you - it was a wonder with your confusion how you continued to push through the days. You told me you had best friends that were girls, except you liked them more than you probably should. I accepted that so willingly, darling, it was so easy to just understand with you. Your words flowed so perfectly that it seemed almost like a sin to think badly of you. Your voice was angelic. I almost had to force myself to be strict sometimes. You grew to be utterly brilliant. You excelled in school as if it were kindergarden. You had colleges kissing your feet. You were confident and graceful. I don't know where the clumsy little girl went.
I can barely remember who you used to be. Now I saw this tortured young woman in front of me, you grew to be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. God, how I cursed that last age. I didn't want you ripped from my grip. I felt like an old man, clinging to the image of his wife with such desperateness. I didn't voice any of this to you, because I would have hated myself for holding you back. You could achieve so much, and I would not be the one to dissuade you from seizing your future. So, you moved out.
I looked at you for one final time. You were going to be gone for so long, going to your favorite college to double major in English and French. You loved French. Sometimes I'd ask you to speak French to me just because I loved how the words tumbled from your tongue like they were liquid. I looked at you for the last time in a long time. You were so tall, you came up to my shoulders, then. Your jet black hair was so long, extending down your entire back. You were pale, almost wretchedly so, and you had a body to kill for. I only saw hints of it outside of your clothing, and only when I barely noticed. Obviously, I didn't want you, darling. I loved you to the end of my soul, but only as you should have been loved. Your eyes were as black as ever, and they looked more comfortable in your head now, not as big and so much more tortured. I understood your torture, darling. I reveled in mine.
So I hugged you and then I let you go. I turned away from you and I walked to my car. I didn't look back at you, not even once. I was scared I'd turn off the car and run back to you, pull you back to me, cry into your hair (something I hadn't done since your mother's last night), and beg you to stay with me. I'd beg you and say you looked so much like your mother, I just needed a woman's touch around the house, the gentleness a woman obtains through her life is nothing a man could recreate. I was so needy of you, darling, and it was so hard to unattach from you. I drove the whole way home in tears, five long hours. I opened the door, locked the house, and fell into my bed, exhausted from depression and fear.
That was a milestone in my life, like I guess it is for everyone. I didn't know what to do after my only child had left me, all alone, to the dreadful memories of a woman who would never exist again (as I believed) or exist again only in another form (which she swore by). I needed something, so I'll be honest with you, darling, I turned to cigarettes, alcohol. Everything I could think of but drugs. Being young, I could still blend in at bars. I went, I brought women home and I used them. I was so wretched, and I thought it would beat back the demons, but oh Lord, it only fueled them. I would lie in bed at night and I would emit this scream, it was a scream only the most wretched of beasts could create, and I was horrified with myself. I'd cry myself to sleep every night. I'd wake up every morning and taint my breath with vodka. I'd go to work, inefficient, and I'd nearly get fired. Then I'd be imbued with a sense of hope - that I could find myself and recreate myself without you, without your mother. I went through a period of making myself up. I made myself a character that I could write about - a plagued character. After all, putting yourself as someone else makes so much more sense. I got a tattoo - a black, cloaked figure. It looked far away, engulfed in this fog. I felt like it was the exact definition of everything I was. I was a mystery to myself - something I couldn't exactly grasp for the life of me. I felt like everything I was was far away and untouchable, unreachable . It tortured me. I was at least something when I was with you, and I was a full person when your mother was alive. Now, I was just this being, not quite human, almost dead. Practically mute, deaf, and I couldn't remember the last time I laughed.
Then I met this woman, darling. It was so curious, because I didn't understand for the life of me how I stumbled upon such a woman. She was what they called a hippie, so engulfed in nature. She seemed so happy, and she was so bright. She had platinum blonde hair, longer than yours, and she wore a dark green headband around her forehead. Her bright blue eyes were always wide open, drinking in the sights around her as if they were breath, vital to her existence. And they were, darling, which I could never understand. She depended on nature. She would sit beneath a tree and stare up at its branches as if they were protecting her, and as if she were watering them with her tears. She cried so much, but solely of joy. She knew nothing of misery, and knew not why I was so horrified with everything around me. She was everything I could never be, and maybe that's what got me hooked on her. She moved in, and I provided for the two of us. She could walk outside and be her dreamy self as I went to work. And when I came home, she was always there to hold me 'til I fell asleep. Oh, my darling, I was filled with this satisfied ecstasy. She was the answer to my prayers, I thought. I swore by it. I swore she would be my savior.
One day, I came home and found her on our bedroom floor. I cried out and ran to her, panic struck me like a bat across my head. I was terrified, please oh PLEASE don't let my angel be dead. I swear my words ran together and I screamed her name through the house. She rolled over and woke up , came to, just barely. She mumbled something incoherently. I rushed her to the hospital. It ended up being a drug overdose. I knew she had done them, darling, but I was terrified something like that would happen again. I began to get more demanding and almost abusive. I'd grab her arms so hard they'd bruise. I'd come home to her cowering in a corner from me instead of glowing at my arrival. She would cook and clean, silent, so I would not get angered. She stopped wearing her headband and she got her hair cut into a clean bob so it would be more difficult for me to drag her by her hair. I was horrified at what she had done, and I felt that she deserved this punishment. I felt that every woman deserved this for not being as perfect as your mother. I was enraged by her. I would get a knife and make crosses on her wrists, so she would begin to believe in my God, since she had not before - she had only believed in her nature. She wouldn't go outside anymore, because I had plagued her with so many bruises and she didn't want to answer the innumerable questions that were inevitable from strangers. Instead, she'd sit by the window and weep, darling. I had never seen such a drastic transition. It was as if I had taken everything perfect from her and replaced it with tiny monstrosities. I hate to say it, but it felt damn good. I felt like I had taken something just like the world had taken something from me. I had taken her dearest happiness just like I had my perfection taken from me. I didn't regret what I did, not until that wretched day.
I came home and I passed out on the couch, darling. I was exhausted from a long day at work, and my rage had known no bounds. I woke up delirious from my pain and anger. I even saw these colored spots in my vision, it was almost terrifying. I would have gone to the hospital if I had been truly there, in my body. But I wasn't. I went to find the object that I so easily, so rottenly took my anger out on. I went into the pitch black bedroom. The anger was sapped from my body as I saw the outline of… her… on the floor. I was horrified. I fell to my knees and crawled to the light switch. By the time light flooded the room, I was wrecked with sobs. I turned and I saw the most horrifying sight I had ever seen. I have not seen something more horrid to this day. I saw the woman that, even through my anger and self-hatred, I had held so dear. She was slumped onto the ground. A pill bottle was inches from her outstretched fingertips, and the pills were scattered everywhere. I turned her and her lips were utterly blue. Her gorgeous blue eyes were bloodshot. I hadn't noticed how little she had eaten until now - her skin was stretched taught from jaw to cheek. Her beauty was sickening , since she was so utterly dead. She was naked, darling, just adding to this utter perversion. She was naked and there were drastic, long cuts down her chest, her hips, her thighs, her calves, her wrists. I couldn't even see skin under the cuts on her wrists. She had cut along every bone - every rib, every hipbone, every bone in her leg. I was horrified at the amount of pain this surely must have caused and I threw up , right beside her. I cried such wretched tears and pulled her into my arms. I hated myself so deeply, at this point, that I almost killed myself the same as her. I raked my fingers through the pills, stopping to put a single pill in my mouth. They were sleeping pills, and I was unafraid. I took a second, single pill. I held her so tight in my arms and I passed out so quickly.
When I awoke, it was the middle of the night. I got sick again, throwing up in very nearly the same place as I had before. I threw her from my arms and started crying. I knew I had to call an ambulance… Perhaps she wasn't quite dead. I knew what a fool I was after I thought such a thing, for she was very, very dead. She made very certain of that. Darling, I was wrecked with such a rotten depression. I knew it was my fault, completely and utterly my fault. The ambulance came, and they took me in the front seat. They noticed easily my delirium. My eyes were stretched wide and my face was one of utter horror. I was raking at the skin stretched on my forearm, and the EMT literally had to hold my wrist to keep me from scratching. I was sick from the pills (since they were so strong and I had taken so little medication before) and I was very obviously insane from my experience. They swore to hold me at the hospital, or some other mental hospital, until I was better.
I don't remember much after that. In fact, a month of my life was spent in that delirium. I didn't remember how I got to the asylum, I didn't remember how many times anyone had visited me, I didn't remember what I had said or done or anything. I noticed new scars down my arms and stomach. I noticed a new burning sensation in my throat - they said I got acid reflux and ulcers from the emotional stress. I stayed in a padded room, apparently, because I was very self-destructive. I think they told me, once, that you had tried to visit, but you couldn't. They wouldn't let you. I felt a sick feeling upon remembering that, and I don't want to remember what I did. It was a complete chunk out of my life. I don't know why I snapped out of it, but I think it's because I finally forgot the image of that dear girl lying on the floor, dead, suicidal, because of me. I didn't remember, even, what she looked like. I didn't care to remember how the cuts looked, or how her face looked so peaceful, finally, finally. The therapist I was seeing finally determined you could come see me.
The strangest thing happened. You came into my room and you looked at me with wonder. It was as if you had tumbled down a hole you had not before recognized or understood. You held my hand very tenderly and didn't act as if I were a burden at all. You clutched me, you seemed the slightest bit sad, but you seemed as if you were utterly in awe with me and what I had gone through. You knew better than to ask questions, which I praise you for now, darling. But I was so curious, then, what was going on in your head. You acted as if I were a specimen you wanted to observe for hours on end, even offered me to move in with you, since you were well on your way as a writer, now. I declined, as someone in my position always should. After all, I had a long way to go in this place, and I was in no shape to determine whether or not I should leave.
The rest of the time was largely unimportant, just therapists getting to know me and determining what the best plan of action was. Determining when I should move on with life, when it was acceptable to let me leave. It was quite obvious I wasn't a threat to society. I still had so much to live for, if only you and the memory of your mother. That other woman so haunted me though, and I swore I saw her spirit in my room every night in that asylum. Perhaps it was my craziness looking and seeing hallucinations, but I swear I saw her. Every night. Lingering over me, holding out her hand as if she wanted to touch me, but her wrist was so stiff, as if she were certain she would not. She cared for me so much, and that only added to my depression. I didn't know why I had hurt her…. I felt so confused within myself. I had been so innocent before that - so untainted by the violence so prevalent in this world. Now I was a murderer (or so I avidly believed myself to be) and I did not take it well.
Finally they let me out. I made a promise to take my medication that I never, afterwards, touched. I made a promise to call you if I needed any more mental help, I never once told you when I was aching. I made a promise to come back to therapy, I never again made a therapeutic appointment. I retired from my job at such an early age, I wasn't scared that I wouldn't have enough money because I had plenty for me to live off of for the rest of my life. I lived in my library after that, darling, immersing myself in novels of people as fucked up, or more so, as I. I hovered over books 'til I had to light a candle to read. I read far into the night. I woke up early just to read again. I worked up quite the collection of novels and biographies, as you can imagine. It made me feel better to know that other people were hurting and harming just as much as I did. I isolated myself from everyone and ignored many of your calls. You were a diligent lover to me, constantly calling and coming over to check on me. I didn't once enjoy your visits and I always tried to get you out of my house as soon as possible. Instead of my angel, you were my devil, my ghost. You haunted me like the memories that were so harmful to me. Every time I saw you, I got sick to my stomach with want for my wife. I found no solace in others, either. They were all just stupid, to me. I didn't understand their playful ways and difficult antics. Laughing over silly matters and complaining about such pitiful things. I was so worried about vital things, like if I would ever see my dear wife again, or where I would go upon my death. I was worried about suicide and why people did such things, why people harmed others, why people lived their lives in misery as I did. People made small talk of 'how are you's' and movies and television and video games. I only had one movie and one video game. Your favorite and hers. Others were just an annoyance to me. God, I could not begin to tell you how their typical lives bothered me. They were so senseless, worthless, and insurmountably wasted. I was so upset that so much intellectual potential was wasted with every moment spent watching television and every moment speaking of such horrid pleasantries.
I grew to hate the human race, darling, everyone except you. Though, even you held some distaste in my eyes. You seemed to immersed in your new family, your gorgeous daughter with her black hair and your two sons - twins, with black hair, as well. It was almost as if you were spreading your darkness, your inevitable misery. I felt a need within me to end your line, your generation, because you were spreading this disease like wildfire. I was ashamed to call you mine. It was horrendous, but so easy to hate you when you weren't there. When you were with me, I'd melt like every father does. My daughter, you, hold such a large place in my heart, but I found no love for you for many years. I felt like you found joy in your tainted family. Your husband had such dark hair… And all of you, ALL OF YOU had black eyes. They haunted me, above my bed, as I slept. I dreamt about them. I was terrified. I woke up every morning, out of breath and sweating, a scream tumbling over and over in my throat, muted. I dreamt of you all, pale and thin cheeked, walking so slowly towards me, dressed solely in black, reaching your hands towards my throat to suffocate me. I spent my days paranoid, when you knocked on my door, I ignored you. Your beautiful face turned sad every time I didn't answer the door, and I almost ripped the door off its hinges to greet you, but ultimately, I could not bring myself to face you. I wanted you out of the world, with your mother. At least she had bright blue eyes, darling… Or was that the other one? I can't remember. I can't remember anything anymore - my everlasting hate, love for you resides too close in my passions to remember anything.
I couldn't imagine you living, finally. I lived in this fake world where I'd think you as dead. When the doorbell rang, I didn't hear it. I would tumble over my feet to get to the kitchen. I barely kept myself fed. I didn't want anything to do with you, and I forgot you for a long time. I'd cry at night over senseless, practical things. I got a job again, just to be able to not think. Spend hours listlessly occupied. Eventually your face faded from my memories, and I felt like my demons hid forever. But there was always this ominous cloud… Always…
Then one day, you banged on my door so loud. I ran down the stairs to come and see what was happening. I had been asleep and it was dark outside. It was pouring rain. I was terrified when I saw the lightning light up your enraged face. You were gritting your teeth. You reminded me so deeply….
I opened the door. You reared your hand back and slapped me so hard I couldn't even see straight for a moment. You screamed. How dare I. How dare I. Leaving you to rot. Not answering my phone. How dare I. Grandchildren asking. Husband worrying. You never taking your thoughts from me. I could have been rotting, dead, in my house for all you knew. You broke down crying halfway through your lecture. Never once did I invite you inside. I just stood there, emotionless, never once thinking about how hurt you were, or the little girl you used to be. The little girl my darling wife loved. I hated you for daring come to my house. Your black hair stuck to your face, soaked. I hoped the rain was acid and it'd seep through your skin. I hoped it would soak into your eyes and disintegrate them. I wasn't scared of you dying. I wanted you dead. So desperately.
One day, I wasn't scared anymore. I invited your whole family to a supposed cookout. I laughed, scoffed at the thought. Like I'd invite such horrid people to my house for a good reason. Oh, I had no good reason. I had no good intention - not one was left in my brain. I was horrified by everything you and your family were. I couldn't stand the sight of you all. I had to steady myself when I saw you. I excused myself to the bathroom and vomited. Your dark eyes… You all had dark eyes… So haunting… So plaguing me. You wanted me to die. You all secretly wanted me dead. You were planning it, I know you were planning it. Just like the demons. You WERE the demons. I could see the tint of red in each of your eyes… In each of your hairs. I could see the red rage in your very soul. Like the day you slapped me… I could see it all so clearly now. You all wanted me dead. Even the little ones… I saw their hatred. I wonder if you knew, darling. Did you know I saw right through your little plans? I laugh at the thought now - no one can kill me. I'm impenetrable. I'm the most clever person I know. No one can bring my demise. I laugh, now, riotously. That you thought you could kill me. HA!
So you came, oh you came, you and all your demons. Your little demons. They ran and played and screamed throughout my house. I thought of how wretchedly I'd have to scrub the walls when you were… taken care of. I laughed at all your husband's stupid jokes and pretended to understand his rants about football. I snuck your little sons into my bedroom. I laughed as they screamed. You were outside. You didn't even notice. You weren't even hit with an insurmountable pain as they died. They squirmed underneath my grasp. I bet you didn't even feel an ache in your neck as I pressed them both too hard against the floor. Next was your daughter. She was more… Difficult. Her pretty face was dreadful… I had to cover it with a pillow as I forced the pills down her throat. She was quiet as she died. She didn't once squirm. She died silently and without a movement. I made one single cut across her wrist. The blood seeped from it onto my bed. I watched it, intrigued with the color.
Oh, I took special pride in your husband. He came into my room and screamed. OH such a wretched scream. I laughed, evilly as I thought I could. I took my gun in my hand and shot him in the legs so he couldn't move. He cried from the pain. Oh, how little did he deserve you. A man who cries as he faces his inevitable death. My fingers tremble as I write with such pain - oh, I took such joy in killing him. I poured blood out of each of his wrists. He died of blood loss, as you could imagine. Then… Oh, my. Then it was you, my darling.
It was a curious thing. I took you to my bathroom, telling you I had to show you something. I think you knew, darling. You knew what was going to happen. You looked at your family on the floor of my bedroom and weeped silently, but you still came with me. Their blood stained my white carpet, and you still loved me. What a wretched thing this love must be. I knew it once, but I think it died with your mother. I certainly could not love you. You were the image of her. I hated it for you internally. I always did. You were my demons because she was dead. Your dark eyes were imperfections in her image… You - you did her beauty so wrong. You didn't ever look half as beautiful as she did and I cursed you for it. You were a tainted image of her - rotten, undeserving. Even your beautiful, ringing laugh and angelic voice didn't do her justice. You were supposed to be her spitting image, and you failed me.
I took you into the bathroom and I put you in the bathtub. I wanted to fill it with your blood. You were crying, but you weren't scared. You weren't scared of death and that just made me more and more angry. I wanted you to scream and cry and die, squirming on the ground of the pool and smearing your blood everywhere, but you were merely crying for your dead children, and the dead husband you loved so much. But he didn't deserve you. Just as I never deserved your mother. I killed you. I made it slow, cutting down your face and your arms and your stomach and legs just like that other girl did. I gave you pills to take some of the pain away. I whispered how it had to be done, that you were a disease and you were spreading it. I hope you secretly didn't believe me. Once upon a time, you were the greatest thing that happened to a crazed man like me. I think your mother saw it in me. She saw my potential insanity. I think she knew her love kept me sane. Maybe she was scared for you when she died. She should have been.
But she loved me all the same. She had some hidden faith in me that I've betrayed and she never should have had. I finished cutting you and filled the bathtub. Your blood tainted the water crimson. I was horrified with myself. I tucked your hair behind your ears and I cut underneath your eyes, two final cuts to show you exactly why I hated you. You kept completely still the whole time, letting your dear father do what he felt was necessary. You looked up at me with your sad eyes, blood dripping down your lips, and you worded one, single word. Why. Why, why, why. I shook my head and said 'Shhh, Shh. Don't ruin it.' You died, and I never gave you a reason for your murder. I think that is why I must do this one final thing.
Because I am my final demon.
This piece is rated R. It has truly disturbing images and thoughts and is truly a psychological horror. PLEASE do not read this if you are judgmental or if you do not believe you can handle this . I am telling you now : it was meant to be a HORROR story , it is not happy and it will not end well. It is not fun. Read it for the sake of reading it , or for the sake of humanity's horrific tendencies .
I can't tell you , and I can't help you, no matter how you plead. This journey gets the best of most - got the best of me . I wish I could help you, wish my story would give you hope, but all that's left on these empty pages is the epitome of the opposite. My thoughts are dead black , plagued with suicide and cutting, drugs and smoking. I want these deadly thoughts, they're like my best friends. But, the journey won again . I wish I could reach out and grab someone's arm, but the likelihood of me admitting that I'm wrong is nil. I wonder if I can see you right, if your actions really are as tainted as I'd like to think. Maybe then, you'd be just as wrong as me , and perhaps one day I could find hope in that.
Your eyes are kind of far away; black suits you . The black accentuates your dazed stares and awkward movements . Your nose is a little big, to be frank, but you're endearing , every part of your body hints at your clumsiness. Your lips are little bows, so pretty, so lovely when they're pursed (and you do that a lot, don't you?). Your hair is long and black, black like the very end of your being, like your eyes that are so supposedly the windows to the soul.
You grew up so prettily. You were the little baby girl that your grandparents marveled over , your beauty was rival only to the beauty of your mother , but her name is so accursed to you, isn't it? I saw the potential in your little eyes, from the moment you were born. I saw the potential to be great, and the potential to be so self destructive. It was curious, watching them open - like an omen to an everlasting deadliness that would haunt you to your grave. Your eyes - your very first enemies. Your arms reached out to me, but I was scared of you. Your mother held you so dearly. Your souls could have matched like puzzle pieces.
Good Lord, when you were two, you were the greatest. You were my whole world. You stumbled over your little feet so preciously, like the world was on your shoulders and you didn't quite know how much weight that was, and how much responsibility. I remember holding you up on my shoulders and you'd lean over into my face, play with the tendrils of my hair. How I loved that feeling, my darling, how I loved you for being so affectionate. I'd let you down and you'd run away as if you didn't notice how attached my legs were to you. I'd run just to be inches from you. Your eyes still plagued me so, though, and I was worried about your future.
Your mother thought so dearly of you. I remember she quit her job just to be close to you, no matter the strain it put on the family . She'd come to check on you as you slept, she'd pull the black hair out of your eyes and set it neatly by your chin. She loved your sleek, black hair. She'd brush it for hours just to see it shine. You'd sit between her legs on the floor and play silly video games with her. Remember? You'd hop up and down in excitement and squeal when you won. She'd let you win, your mother was fantastic at video games. You had so much brightness in you , regardless of your dark features. She'd pull you into the sunshine just to see you glow.
When you were five, your mother was ill. Dreadfully ill. I remember coming home every day to see her throwing up, plagued with dark circles under her eyes and the thin cheeks that come so easily with sickness. I'd pull you close to me as we took care of her, us, two, together, working so hard to keep your mother safe. She'd jerk out of bed in the middle of the night and hover, crying, over your crib. I think she knew her time with you was limited. Oh, God, how she loved you, baby girl. How she loved your pretty voice! I was almost jealous, I won't lie to you. Such beautiful girls, you two, so beautiful and dainty and graceful. I'd wish so dearly for a hope that you both would lie, side by side, forever. I'd hope so dearly that I'd die far before you two. But God has a funny way of working, I'll only admit that if you still believe in Him, darling, because my faith did naught but haunt me when I did something wrong.
So, your mother died. Her pale skin grew even paler and the thinness of her face almost sickened me. She was all the more beautiful in death, darling. She was gorgeous. Her black hair framed her face, curled, Her eyes closed, thick black eyelashes tickled her cheekbones. Her lips were painted a bright red, her favorite lipstick, and she was dressed in all black, because we all knew how much she utterly cursed her own death. She was the last one to want to die, darling, and that plagues me to this day, because I can't seem to find the want to live.
Do you remember what she did the night of her death? She played her video games with you just like she always did. I don't know if you noticed, but she held you closer and kissed you more, and more playfully. She smiled and she glowed, baby, she genuinely glowed. I'd never been happier to sit there and watch you two, both glowing and tumbling through life together. We both knew she was going to die that night. Don't you worry about me, darling, I got my affection that night too, because she loved me with her whole heart when she had the time to, when she wasn't too busy spoiling you with her love. She held me so tight that night, strength knew her arms well, though she was so, so weak. I held her just as tight, and I cried silent tears into her hair, baby. I swear, the world lost it's light when she died. Tears wreck me now, just thinking about how utterly worthy she was of everything. She deserved you more than anyone, baby girl. No one has deserved you since. Just know that I have never deserved either of you. Your mother saw in me what no one else did, and she held me so dear, darling. She loved me more than she loved anyone, and I have been so blessed because of it. Never have I spent one second not thinking about her, or thinking about leaving her memory for someone more palpable. Even the memory of your mother can do for me what no woman could again.
When she died, you lost a soulmate. You lost half of yourself and your soul was shattered. I saw you, wandering so lost in this world. You didn't understand your father's blonde hair and blue eyes. You didn't understand his tall stature and muscular body. You didn't quite grasp how he was so different from you. And so wretched, darling. Such bright features were not parallel to his soul. He had such a dark soul, so plagued with wretchedness, depression, misery. His eyes were always cast downward, towards a hell he so wished to go, to accompany his wretched thoughts. You'd never understand that, not until far later, not until the monsters he faced started to grab you around the throat and suffocate you like they did him. You'd understand, oh God, but so wretched is that thought for me.
You were only six. I had so much trouble getting through your impenetrable shield. You didn't want anyone else in, baby. When your mother died, so did your ability to love, for a while. I wondered so desperately where the little girl who wrapped her arms around my legs was. I wondered where the girl who ran to me when I got home and wrapped her arms around my neck so I could swing her around and take her to my bedroom so she, her mother, and I could watch one of her favorite movies. I wasn't tired, when I got home. I was so full of life, to be even the slightest bit worthy of the two of you. Now, I get home and I fall into bed, attacked with weakness. Now, I get home and you're never there. It scares me, darling, so desperately.
When you were six, you were so sad. I let you pick out your own clothing and you always wore black. You could have gotten that from your mother , or it could be something you picked up. You understood that it was such a sad color, and you seemed so at home with it. You seemed to hold hands with a ghost with gruesome features. You'd look up at it without prejudice, thinking it was beautiful like the lot of us. I wanted to send you to therapy, but your mother would be so angry with me if I did. She would want you to be just who you were, and to never once change unless you so desired. I started coming home sad, and I felt the years wear on the bags underneath my eyes.
The years seemed to rush by. You were going to school and coming home, the days blurring together with such ambiguity. Such vagueness. They haunted me - drifted above my bed as I stared up at the ceiling, at them. I wasn't scared of them anymore, they just seemed like ghosts, just like the one that laid beside me. You grew up so fast, darling, that was the only thing that scared me. I was only scared of your hips that started to protrude, and your face so similar to your mother's.
Then you started to speak so much more. Asking me to read your poetry. I heard in your tortured words how the past haunted you. A mother you barely knew was like a lover to you - it was a wonder with your confusion how you continued to push through the days. You told me you had best friends that were girls, except you liked them more than you probably should. I accepted that so willingly, darling, it was so easy to just understand with you. Your words flowed so perfectly that it seemed almost like a sin to think badly of you. Your voice was angelic. I almost had to force myself to be strict sometimes. You grew to be utterly brilliant. You excelled in school as if it were kindergarden. You had colleges kissing your feet. You were confident and graceful. I don't know where the clumsy little girl went.
I can barely remember who you used to be. Now I saw this tortured young woman in front of me, you grew to be sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. God, how I cursed that last age. I didn't want you ripped from my grip. I felt like an old man, clinging to the image of his wife with such desperateness. I didn't voice any of this to you, because I would have hated myself for holding you back. You could achieve so much, and I would not be the one to dissuade you from seizing your future. So, you moved out.
I looked at you for one final time. You were going to be gone for so long, going to your favorite college to double major in English and French. You loved French. Sometimes I'd ask you to speak French to me just because I loved how the words tumbled from your tongue like they were liquid. I looked at you for the last time in a long time. You were so tall, you came up to my shoulders, then. Your jet black hair was so long, extending down your entire back. You were pale, almost wretchedly so, and you had a body to kill for. I only saw hints of it outside of your clothing, and only when I barely noticed. Obviously, I didn't want you, darling. I loved you to the end of my soul, but only as you should have been loved. Your eyes were as black as ever, and they looked more comfortable in your head now, not as big and so much more tortured. I understood your torture, darling. I reveled in mine.
So I hugged you and then I let you go. I turned away from you and I walked to my car. I didn't look back at you, not even once. I was scared I'd turn off the car and run back to you, pull you back to me, cry into your hair (something I hadn't done since your mother's last night), and beg you to stay with me. I'd beg you and say you looked so much like your mother, I just needed a woman's touch around the house, the gentleness a woman obtains through her life is nothing a man could recreate. I was so needy of you, darling, and it was so hard to unattach from you. I drove the whole way home in tears, five long hours. I opened the door, locked the house, and fell into my bed, exhausted from depression and fear.
That was a milestone in my life, like I guess it is for everyone. I didn't know what to do after my only child had left me, all alone, to the dreadful memories of a woman who would never exist again (as I believed) or exist again only in another form (which she swore by). I needed something, so I'll be honest with you, darling, I turned to cigarettes, alcohol. Everything I could think of but drugs. Being young, I could still blend in at bars. I went, I brought women home and I used them. I was so wretched, and I thought it would beat back the demons, but oh Lord, it only fueled them. I would lie in bed at night and I would emit this scream, it was a scream only the most wretched of beasts could create, and I was horrified with myself. I'd cry myself to sleep every night. I'd wake up every morning and taint my breath with vodka. I'd go to work, inefficient, and I'd nearly get fired. Then I'd be imbued with a sense of hope - that I could find myself and recreate myself without you, without your mother. I went through a period of making myself up. I made myself a character that I could write about - a plagued character. After all, putting yourself as someone else makes so much more sense. I got a tattoo - a black, cloaked figure. It looked far away, engulfed in this fog. I felt like it was the exact definition of everything I was. I was a mystery to myself - something I couldn't exactly grasp for the life of me. I felt like everything I was was far away and untouchable, unreachable . It tortured me. I was at least something when I was with you, and I was a full person when your mother was alive. Now, I was just this being, not quite human, almost dead. Practically mute, deaf, and I couldn't remember the last time I laughed.
Then I met this woman, darling. It was so curious, because I didn't understand for the life of me how I stumbled upon such a woman. She was what they called a hippie, so engulfed in nature. She seemed so happy, and she was so bright. She had platinum blonde hair, longer than yours, and she wore a dark green headband around her forehead. Her bright blue eyes were always wide open, drinking in the sights around her as if they were breath, vital to her existence. And they were, darling, which I could never understand. She depended on nature. She would sit beneath a tree and stare up at its branches as if they were protecting her, and as if she were watering them with her tears. She cried so much, but solely of joy. She knew nothing of misery, and knew not why I was so horrified with everything around me. She was everything I could never be, and maybe that's what got me hooked on her. She moved in, and I provided for the two of us. She could walk outside and be her dreamy self as I went to work. And when I came home, she was always there to hold me 'til I fell asleep. Oh, my darling, I was filled with this satisfied ecstasy. She was the answer to my prayers, I thought. I swore by it. I swore she would be my savior.
One day, I came home and found her on our bedroom floor. I cried out and ran to her, panic struck me like a bat across my head. I was terrified, please oh PLEASE don't let my angel be dead. I swear my words ran together and I screamed her name through the house. She rolled over and woke up , came to, just barely. She mumbled something incoherently. I rushed her to the hospital. It ended up being a drug overdose. I knew she had done them, darling, but I was terrified something like that would happen again. I began to get more demanding and almost abusive. I'd grab her arms so hard they'd bruise. I'd come home to her cowering in a corner from me instead of glowing at my arrival. She would cook and clean, silent, so I would not get angered. She stopped wearing her headband and she got her hair cut into a clean bob so it would be more difficult for me to drag her by her hair. I was horrified at what she had done, and I felt that she deserved this punishment. I felt that every woman deserved this for not being as perfect as your mother. I was enraged by her. I would get a knife and make crosses on her wrists, so she would begin to believe in my God, since she had not before - she had only believed in her nature. She wouldn't go outside anymore, because I had plagued her with so many bruises and she didn't want to answer the innumerable questions that were inevitable from strangers. Instead, she'd sit by the window and weep, darling. I had never seen such a drastic transition. It was as if I had taken everything perfect from her and replaced it with tiny monstrosities. I hate to say it, but it felt damn good. I felt like I had taken something just like the world had taken something from me. I had taken her dearest happiness just like I had my perfection taken from me. I didn't regret what I did, not until that wretched day.
I came home and I passed out on the couch, darling. I was exhausted from a long day at work, and my rage had known no bounds. I woke up delirious from my pain and anger. I even saw these colored spots in my vision, it was almost terrifying. I would have gone to the hospital if I had been truly there, in my body. But I wasn't. I went to find the object that I so easily, so rottenly took my anger out on. I went into the pitch black bedroom. The anger was sapped from my body as I saw the outline of… her… on the floor. I was horrified. I fell to my knees and crawled to the light switch. By the time light flooded the room, I was wrecked with sobs. I turned and I saw the most horrifying sight I had ever seen. I have not seen something more horrid to this day. I saw the woman that, even through my anger and self-hatred, I had held so dear. She was slumped onto the ground. A pill bottle was inches from her outstretched fingertips, and the pills were scattered everywhere. I turned her and her lips were utterly blue. Her gorgeous blue eyes were bloodshot. I hadn't noticed how little she had eaten until now - her skin was stretched taught from jaw to cheek. Her beauty was sickening , since she was so utterly dead. She was naked, darling, just adding to this utter perversion. She was naked and there were drastic, long cuts down her chest, her hips, her thighs, her calves, her wrists. I couldn't even see skin under the cuts on her wrists. She had cut along every bone - every rib, every hipbone, every bone in her leg. I was horrified at the amount of pain this surely must have caused and I threw up , right beside her. I cried such wretched tears and pulled her into my arms. I hated myself so deeply, at this point, that I almost killed myself the same as her. I raked my fingers through the pills, stopping to put a single pill in my mouth. They were sleeping pills, and I was unafraid. I took a second, single pill. I held her so tight in my arms and I passed out so quickly.
When I awoke, it was the middle of the night. I got sick again, throwing up in very nearly the same place as I had before. I threw her from my arms and started crying. I knew I had to call an ambulance… Perhaps she wasn't quite dead. I knew what a fool I was after I thought such a thing, for she was very, very dead. She made very certain of that. Darling, I was wrecked with such a rotten depression. I knew it was my fault, completely and utterly my fault. The ambulance came, and they took me in the front seat. They noticed easily my delirium. My eyes were stretched wide and my face was one of utter horror. I was raking at the skin stretched on my forearm, and the EMT literally had to hold my wrist to keep me from scratching. I was sick from the pills (since they were so strong and I had taken so little medication before) and I was very obviously insane from my experience. They swore to hold me at the hospital, or some other mental hospital, until I was better.
I don't remember much after that. In fact, a month of my life was spent in that delirium. I didn't remember how I got to the asylum, I didn't remember how many times anyone had visited me, I didn't remember what I had said or done or anything. I noticed new scars down my arms and stomach. I noticed a new burning sensation in my throat - they said I got acid reflux and ulcers from the emotional stress. I stayed in a padded room, apparently, because I was very self-destructive. I think they told me, once, that you had tried to visit, but you couldn't. They wouldn't let you. I felt a sick feeling upon remembering that, and I don't want to remember what I did. It was a complete chunk out of my life. I don't know why I snapped out of it, but I think it's because I finally forgot the image of that dear girl lying on the floor, dead, suicidal, because of me. I didn't remember, even, what she looked like. I didn't care to remember how the cuts looked, or how her face looked so peaceful, finally, finally. The therapist I was seeing finally determined you could come see me.
The strangest thing happened. You came into my room and you looked at me with wonder. It was as if you had tumbled down a hole you had not before recognized or understood. You held my hand very tenderly and didn't act as if I were a burden at all. You clutched me, you seemed the slightest bit sad, but you seemed as if you were utterly in awe with me and what I had gone through. You knew better than to ask questions, which I praise you for now, darling. But I was so curious, then, what was going on in your head. You acted as if I were a specimen you wanted to observe for hours on end, even offered me to move in with you, since you were well on your way as a writer, now. I declined, as someone in my position always should. After all, I had a long way to go in this place, and I was in no shape to determine whether or not I should leave.
The rest of the time was largely unimportant, just therapists getting to know me and determining what the best plan of action was. Determining when I should move on with life, when it was acceptable to let me leave. It was quite obvious I wasn't a threat to society. I still had so much to live for, if only you and the memory of your mother. That other woman so haunted me though, and I swore I saw her spirit in my room every night in that asylum. Perhaps it was my craziness looking and seeing hallucinations, but I swear I saw her. Every night. Lingering over me, holding out her hand as if she wanted to touch me, but her wrist was so stiff, as if she were certain she would not. She cared for me so much, and that only added to my depression. I didn't know why I had hurt her…. I felt so confused within myself. I had been so innocent before that - so untainted by the violence so prevalent in this world. Now I was a murderer (or so I avidly believed myself to be) and I did not take it well.
Finally they let me out. I made a promise to take my medication that I never, afterwards, touched. I made a promise to call you if I needed any more mental help, I never once told you when I was aching. I made a promise to come back to therapy, I never again made a therapeutic appointment. I retired from my job at such an early age, I wasn't scared that I wouldn't have enough money because I had plenty for me to live off of for the rest of my life. I lived in my library after that, darling, immersing myself in novels of people as fucked up, or more so, as I. I hovered over books 'til I had to light a candle to read. I read far into the night. I woke up early just to read again. I worked up quite the collection of novels and biographies, as you can imagine. It made me feel better to know that other people were hurting and harming just as much as I did. I isolated myself from everyone and ignored many of your calls. You were a diligent lover to me, constantly calling and coming over to check on me. I didn't once enjoy your visits and I always tried to get you out of my house as soon as possible. Instead of my angel, you were my devil, my ghost. You haunted me like the memories that were so harmful to me. Every time I saw you, I got sick to my stomach with want for my wife. I found no solace in others, either. They were all just stupid, to me. I didn't understand their playful ways and difficult antics. Laughing over silly matters and complaining about such pitiful things. I was so worried about vital things, like if I would ever see my dear wife again, or where I would go upon my death. I was worried about suicide and why people did such things, why people harmed others, why people lived their lives in misery as I did. People made small talk of 'how are you's' and movies and television and video games. I only had one movie and one video game. Your favorite and hers. Others were just an annoyance to me. God, I could not begin to tell you how their typical lives bothered me. They were so senseless, worthless, and insurmountably wasted. I was so upset that so much intellectual potential was wasted with every moment spent watching television and every moment speaking of such horrid pleasantries.
I grew to hate the human race, darling, everyone except you. Though, even you held some distaste in my eyes. You seemed to immersed in your new family, your gorgeous daughter with her black hair and your two sons - twins, with black hair, as well. It was almost as if you were spreading your darkness, your inevitable misery. I felt a need within me to end your line, your generation, because you were spreading this disease like wildfire. I was ashamed to call you mine. It was horrendous, but so easy to hate you when you weren't there. When you were with me, I'd melt like every father does. My daughter, you, hold such a large place in my heart, but I found no love for you for many years. I felt like you found joy in your tainted family. Your husband had such dark hair… And all of you, ALL OF YOU had black eyes. They haunted me, above my bed, as I slept. I dreamt about them. I was terrified. I woke up every morning, out of breath and sweating, a scream tumbling over and over in my throat, muted. I dreamt of you all, pale and thin cheeked, walking so slowly towards me, dressed solely in black, reaching your hands towards my throat to suffocate me. I spent my days paranoid, when you knocked on my door, I ignored you. Your beautiful face turned sad every time I didn't answer the door, and I almost ripped the door off its hinges to greet you, but ultimately, I could not bring myself to face you. I wanted you out of the world, with your mother. At least she had bright blue eyes, darling… Or was that the other one? I can't remember. I can't remember anything anymore - my everlasting hate, love for you resides too close in my passions to remember anything.
I couldn't imagine you living, finally. I lived in this fake world where I'd think you as dead. When the doorbell rang, I didn't hear it. I would tumble over my feet to get to the kitchen. I barely kept myself fed. I didn't want anything to do with you, and I forgot you for a long time. I'd cry at night over senseless, practical things. I got a job again, just to be able to not think. Spend hours listlessly occupied. Eventually your face faded from my memories, and I felt like my demons hid forever. But there was always this ominous cloud… Always…
Then one day, you banged on my door so loud. I ran down the stairs to come and see what was happening. I had been asleep and it was dark outside. It was pouring rain. I was terrified when I saw the lightning light up your enraged face. You were gritting your teeth. You reminded me so deeply….
I opened the door. You reared your hand back and slapped me so hard I couldn't even see straight for a moment. You screamed. How dare I. How dare I. Leaving you to rot. Not answering my phone. How dare I. Grandchildren asking. Husband worrying. You never taking your thoughts from me. I could have been rotting, dead, in my house for all you knew. You broke down crying halfway through your lecture. Never once did I invite you inside. I just stood there, emotionless, never once thinking about how hurt you were, or the little girl you used to be. The little girl my darling wife loved. I hated you for daring come to my house. Your black hair stuck to your face, soaked. I hoped the rain was acid and it'd seep through your skin. I hoped it would soak into your eyes and disintegrate them. I wasn't scared of you dying. I wanted you dead. So desperately.
One day, I wasn't scared anymore. I invited your whole family to a supposed cookout. I laughed, scoffed at the thought. Like I'd invite such horrid people to my house for a good reason. Oh, I had no good reason. I had no good intention - not one was left in my brain. I was horrified by everything you and your family were. I couldn't stand the sight of you all. I had to steady myself when I saw you. I excused myself to the bathroom and vomited. Your dark eyes… You all had dark eyes… So haunting… So plaguing me. You wanted me to die. You all secretly wanted me dead. You were planning it, I know you were planning it. Just like the demons. You WERE the demons. I could see the tint of red in each of your eyes… In each of your hairs. I could see the red rage in your very soul. Like the day you slapped me… I could see it all so clearly now. You all wanted me dead. Even the little ones… I saw their hatred. I wonder if you knew, darling. Did you know I saw right through your little plans? I laugh at the thought now - no one can kill me. I'm impenetrable. I'm the most clever person I know. No one can bring my demise. I laugh, now, riotously. That you thought you could kill me. HA!
So you came, oh you came, you and all your demons. Your little demons. They ran and played and screamed throughout my house. I thought of how wretchedly I'd have to scrub the walls when you were… taken care of. I laughed at all your husband's stupid jokes and pretended to understand his rants about football. I snuck your little sons into my bedroom. I laughed as they screamed. You were outside. You didn't even notice. You weren't even hit with an insurmountable pain as they died. They squirmed underneath my grasp. I bet you didn't even feel an ache in your neck as I pressed them both too hard against the floor. Next was your daughter. She was more… Difficult. Her pretty face was dreadful… I had to cover it with a pillow as I forced the pills down her throat. She was quiet as she died. She didn't once squirm. She died silently and without a movement. I made one single cut across her wrist. The blood seeped from it onto my bed. I watched it, intrigued with the color.
Oh, I took special pride in your husband. He came into my room and screamed. OH such a wretched scream. I laughed, evilly as I thought I could. I took my gun in my hand and shot him in the legs so he couldn't move. He cried from the pain. Oh, how little did he deserve you. A man who cries as he faces his inevitable death. My fingers tremble as I write with such pain - oh, I took such joy in killing him. I poured blood out of each of his wrists. He died of blood loss, as you could imagine. Then… Oh, my. Then it was you, my darling.
It was a curious thing. I took you to my bathroom, telling you I had to show you something. I think you knew, darling. You knew what was going to happen. You looked at your family on the floor of my bedroom and weeped silently, but you still came with me. Their blood stained my white carpet, and you still loved me. What a wretched thing this love must be. I knew it once, but I think it died with your mother. I certainly could not love you. You were the image of her. I hated it for you internally. I always did. You were my demons because she was dead. Your dark eyes were imperfections in her image… You - you did her beauty so wrong. You didn't ever look half as beautiful as she did and I cursed you for it. You were a tainted image of her - rotten, undeserving. Even your beautiful, ringing laugh and angelic voice didn't do her justice. You were supposed to be her spitting image, and you failed me.
I took you into the bathroom and I put you in the bathtub. I wanted to fill it with your blood. You were crying, but you weren't scared. You weren't scared of death and that just made me more and more angry. I wanted you to scream and cry and die, squirming on the ground of the pool and smearing your blood everywhere, but you were merely crying for your dead children, and the dead husband you loved so much. But he didn't deserve you. Just as I never deserved your mother. I killed you. I made it slow, cutting down your face and your arms and your stomach and legs just like that other girl did. I gave you pills to take some of the pain away. I whispered how it had to be done, that you were a disease and you were spreading it. I hope you secretly didn't believe me. Once upon a time, you were the greatest thing that happened to a crazed man like me. I think your mother saw it in me. She saw my potential insanity. I think she knew her love kept me sane. Maybe she was scared for you when she died. She should have been.
But she loved me all the same. She had some hidden faith in me that I've betrayed and she never should have had. I finished cutting you and filled the bathtub. Your blood tainted the water crimson. I was horrified with myself. I tucked your hair behind your ears and I cut underneath your eyes, two final cuts to show you exactly why I hated you. You kept completely still the whole time, letting your dear father do what he felt was necessary. You looked up at me with your sad eyes, blood dripping down your lips, and you worded one, single word. Why. Why, why, why. I shook my head and said 'Shhh, Shh. Don't ruin it.' You died, and I never gave you a reason for your murder. I think that is why I must do this one final thing.
Because I am my final demon.
Disturbingly so, but, I've read more disturbing things before (only they weren't written as well; there's only so much horror a story can have before it utterly sucks, and this has just the right amount for the hieghth of awesomeness.) Something about this story just nags on the edge of my conciousness... I can't put it into words; the best explaination of it is that this story makes me feel both wonder and fear; beauty and horror. It's so deep I could drown in it; For a while I felt as if I was actually reading a letter from an insane man, and victim of life, to his daughter. Great job!