I have not been able to kill since her visit last week. Do you know what that means? That is a week and a half in which I have not taken the life of another human being. A week and a half in which I have not violently released on some poor innocent victim. I am beyond frustrated, I am enraged. You must understand, dear readers, I am not known for my calm nature or my ability to abstain from my natural urges but this week has been a serious test of my patience.
No, not patience. This feels more like torture.
Patience is one thing. I have great patience. The anticipation can keep me going for days. Holding the knife in my hand, watching the victim from a far, waiting until they’re alone. Knowing that eventually I will be able to make my move and watch as their life leaves their body and I can finally find release.
That’s what it is, for me: a release. A primal urge. A physical, emotional and mental abandonment of social norms in favor of pure and unadulterated pleasure. And there is a pleasure to be had, dear readers. A sinful kind of pleasure that only comes from being in complete control of another person. There is no feeling like it. Knowing that their life is in your hands; knowing that with a flick of your wrist you can steal their last breath, bottle it up and take it with you wherever you go. Knowing that when you come back to that special place where you took them away, the memories will come flooding back and you can relive that pleasure over and over again.
And my mother has taken that away from me.
I don’t even know what happened. After the incident on Saturday night – the one involving a hammer and a certain laundry machine that we will never speak about again – I slept in and woke up refreshed the next morning. I didn’t really feel the urge to kill which is not uncommon. I can hold out for days before the need overtakes me. Which is also why I wasn’t surprised when last Tuesday rolled around and I found a victim.
She works at the grocery store – she told me that she just started working there last month. I’ll call her Sally. Sally was a perfect little victim: isolated, beautiful, naïve. It took me all of twenty minutes to talk her into walking me to my car. In the alley. Where there are no security cameras. And no place to park a car.
As I said: naïve.
I was this close to bashing her head in with a lead pipe, to watching the blood fly across the bricks like a painting as her skull fractured and she hit the wall, landing in a beautiful, isolated, naïve heap. Sadly, there was a man walking down the alley towards us as we turned the corner. There was no time to take them both out so I thanked her for her time and went on my way.
I thought I could hold out for a few more days.
Last Friday, after I posted the update, I realized that it had been a week since I’d killed and I was feeling the urge stronger than ever. It was like drums pounding through my skin every time I locked eyes with someone knowing I could be the last face they saw. It gave me such a rush and, if I’m being honest, I might have been more than a little eager.
I had my victim all picked out. It was going to be Sally. I would not let her live when she should have died days ago. It was my right to decide.
I was so careful this time. I made sure that there was no one around, no security cameras, no alternative exits other than the one in my hand. A lead pipe. The same lead pipe. I wanted the opportunity to destroy her pretty face if need be. But mostly, I needed to recreate that moment – make sure I could recreate that moment.
Maybe that was my problem.
I don’t remember the last time I was so desperate to get a fix, I wasn’t thinking properly.
I lured Sally into the alley behind the grocery store, I raised the lead pipe above my head when she turned her back…
And then this image of my mother and her disapproving face came into my mind and I froze. I can’t believe I froze. Mother just kept staring at me and staring at me and usually I can channel my frustration into bludgeoning my victims but this time… this time I was left standing there with the murder weapon above my head while my victim was bent over tying her shoelaces. Any moment now she would turn around and I would lose my chance to mash her pretty face in.
I threw the pipe away. I tossed it to the side into a patch of tall grass so she wouldn’t see and I let her go. Again.
I thought maybe it was just a fluke – maybe there was something about Sally that wouldn’t let me do the deed. It’s never happened before but there’s always the possibility.
But I kept trying. Over the weekend I tried to run over a pedestrian, poison my waiter, stab my cab driver (I totaled my car when I swerved to avoid the pedestrian; James is not happy), even strangle my mail woman from behind. Every single time I got close I would see my mother and I wouldn’t be able to finish.
What the hell has she done to me?
James has been so supportive in all of this. On Monday when I confessed why the car was totaled he offered to pick out a victim for me. Make it quick and simple. He was convinced that I just needed to do it once and I would be back on track but it’s not working.
We went down to gang territory. All I had to do was pull the trigger for fuck’s sake. My fucking mother cock-blocked me again.
I don’t know what that woman did to make me like this but it needs to stop NOW!
It’s like I’m functioning normally but as soon as I get to that moment of release, the feeling dies – and not in a good way.
The desire is there. It’s so strong. It’s all I can think about but I can’t go through with it.
I need release. There’s too much pent up energy. I need my fucking release.
It has now been 12 days, 7 hours and 16 minutes since I last killed someone. I am getting dangerously desperate, dear victims. Pray you don’t pass me on the street when I finally snap. And I will snap. I have to.
Stay Safe
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