Your Mid-Week Update for 11/25/20

Do you ever dream of a specific murder, knowing you will never be able to see it come to fruition? Sometimes, time, distance, or the laws of physics intervene but one day, I’m going to be the first woman to commit murder on the moon and then nothing can stop me.

In reality, it’s more likely that Casey will be the one to earn that title but it will be a leap forward for womankind regardless.

So anyways, I had a dream where I basically skinned a man alive. I cut a piece on the inside of his elbow and dragged it towards his fingers like I was pulling a sleeve off (because it was a dream, of course, it came off in one piece. So I did that to both his arms and naturally he was screaming bloody murder the whole time.

Am I allowed to use that phrase? Can you actually say “screaming bloody murder” in the context of a bloody murder in which the victim screamed?

Who would I ask about that?

So I tore the skin off his forearms like a glove, he was screaming, it was all going fine. Then I cut just below his clavicle and around his back as a reference point because obviously, you have to save the head for last. The head is the best part because if you do it right, they’ll still be alive even after they’ve lost most of the blood in their body. So long as the brain as not registered that the heart has stopped pumping blood, you’ve got a bit of time on your hands.

Have you ever watched a person realize that they are dead? Not “going to die”. Actually dead. It’s fascinating. It’s not the same as someone accepting that they will die. Those reactions are pretty standard. Some accept it, some are terrified, some are confused. Nothing overly exciting (though if you get a chance to watch the light leave a person’s eyes, it is truly magical).

But watching someone realize that they have already died. It’s something else.

See, if their body has died before their brain has full registered it, there are a few seconds or even minutes where you can see on their face – especially their eyes – that they’re existing in a way that they shouldn’t. It’s like for that short time, they are an alien or a monster on this planet, completely unwelcome even by themselves. They shouldn’t be here and they don’t want to be here, but they’re trapped.

It’s quite a fascinating expression.

So I always try to leave the head for last.

In my dream, I outlined the head so I knew where to stop carving, and then started doodling. It’s really fun to cut pictures into flush, like tattoos. It’s a little easier than shaping leather and if your knife is sharp enough, it’s like cutting construction paper, but you are leaving a lasting impression in a way that’s only for the two of you. It’s an intimate art show – though not like the one I convinced James to go to with me on a dare and we ended up getting kicked out for laughing too loudly. This is about the psychological aspect as much as it is the physical torture.

I remember I wasn’t as concerned about that, though. I suppose, it’s really weird to be thinking inside a dream without somewhat realizing that it’s a dream. I was more focused on making a map. For the life of me, I wish I could remember what was on the map but I distinctly remember that I drew a map on this man’s torso (with valleys and mountains and stretches of road and rivers carved in). It was very detailed.

By the time I had finished with my mysterious map, there wasn’t much of his torso left, so I dug to the deepest point and sliced the whole thing off so I could preserve the map. Then I moved down to his legs and peeled them off the same way I had his arms. Somewhere near the end of the mapmaking was when he stopped screaming and I remember stabbing him in the thigh to see if he was alive (he was) so I kept on going. After I had used his skin like leg warmers, I went to his feet and at each toe, I pulled as hard as I could until I’d dislocated it, and then put it off where the bone separated.

Dream physics. We’ve discussed this already.

I also know it was a dream because everything was covered in blood. Me, him, the floor, the walls, the ceiling. But nothing was drying. I have a love/hate relationship with dried blood. On one hand, I love the reminders of all the lives I’ve taken and being able to peel or scrub them before bedtime as a way of commemorating the day’s work. On the other hand, dried blood doesn’t come out of ANYTHING. True, I have perfected my techniques for keeping clothes clean, and all the chemicals that actually do their job, but I wouldn’t have had to if blood wasn’t so damn hard to get out.

The best part of my dream was definitely the thick, dark red liquid that shone on the surface of the walls like it was fresh despite knowing it would take hours to get the body to the state it was in.

After I’d removed parts of his toes, I stabbed him in both thighs (right where I’d made the first stab – reduce, reuse, recycle), and pulled downwards, tearing at the muscles and tissue underneath until it all fell open to the bone. I left that open, however, I don’t know why I didn’t tear it off as well.

Regardless, I then moved up to the head, where his face was stained with tears and arterial spray. I don’t think he even had the strength to beg for his life at this point. I cut off both of his eyelids and his lips (but left his mouth there, I just took the pillow-y bit). I stuffed all four on top of his tongue and made him swallow. I could see the bits moving down his throat and on track to his stomach because it was all open but still functioning (DREAM). It was fascinating.

You know, if my life had taken another path, I might have become a nurse or doctor. My fascination for human anatomy takes on a more practical nature instead.

More practical than being a doctor, you say?

Shut up.

Once his eyeballs dried out, I just plucked them right out of their sockets and left them hanging there. But I did dig through to his brain through the eye socket and poke around there for a bit. I left a few knicks and cuts where I could reach but otherwise, I was just trying to mess with him.

I played with his brain for a little while and then I carved a straight line across where his eyes had been, circled his skull and peeled off the top. There was still the skull in the way but the top half of his head was gone.

That was when the man opened his mouth and I think he was going to try and speak.

And then I woke up.

Now I really want to try some of the stuff I dreamed about but how the fuck am I going to do all of that? In the middle of a pandemic? With my budget? Are you kidding me?

Not to mention all that blood would dry so fast in this weather and then I’d be left with this huge mess to clean up.

I was so excited but I just don’t think it can ever happen.

Which is such a shame because it looked really cool.

Oh well.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/18/20

I hate the fucking people who don’t understand that their decision to be a douchebag affects everyone around them.

I am a serial killer. I murder people in horrible, gruesome ways, and I derive a small amount of sexual pleasure from getting away with it for over twenty years. And even I have the decency to wear a fucking mask and keep my distance.

To be fair, I enjoy the mask wearing because it adds a layer of anonymity which makes my job a little bit easier. But also I’m not a monster.

Well, I am, but not in a general sense. I understand the concept of protecting yourself and others from a deadly, horrible virus and not potentially killing just anyone.

Again, I see the irony but I am claiming the moral high ground over people who don’t wear masks and you can’t stop me.

I haven’t really talked about the pandemic beyond complaining about everything – and worrying about my father (who is okay, his care home is no longer in lock down and they’ve had no more cases in several weeks). I simply feel powerless in this situation. We’re going on eight months and some people have already decided that they’re over it and it’s only making things worse. I just got a new job, if we have to go into lockdown again and I’m trapped at home, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

Either that, or start writing a novel or something. I tried picking up hobbies when this whole thing began but nothing really panned out. I have been wondering, lately, if I shouldn’t try my hand at writing fiction. Like “Basic Instinct” but better because I understand the difference between coincidence and an alibi. Just because she wrote the book, does not mean she couldn’t have committed the crime. That’s nonsense.

So anyways, I’m better than Sharon Stone, is my point.

I don’t actually remember what my point was. I just remember waking up and seeing the reports of cases spiking all over the place and I got really angry at the world for a second.

As I should, because the world is a shitty place that allows people like me to make claims like: a serial killer is better than an irresponsible douchebag, and is also better than Sharon Stone. And none of you can dispute my claims because there is so much anonymity that you will never know how much of what I’m writing is real, or pure fiction in preparation for my novel.

Every lady needs a hobby, after all.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/11/20

 I love what I do.

I don’t know if that’s ever been made clear by…the very existence of this blog…but I have found something that brings me genuine joy in life. Not many people can say that. I know I’m lucky and I also know that in order to maintain the lifestyle that allows me to do what I love, I must make certain concessions.

That was one of the things I always knew. The day I shoved that cleat into the back of the Homecoming King’s skull, I knew that there would be sacrifices. After all: one cannot live on murder alone. I would need a life to lay over my passions to could cover any trace of wrong doing.

And for over 20 years, I have more of less been able to do that. Sure, the police have come close or some crazed maniac has decided to take the law into his own hands. Last summer seems like a lifetime ago but even then, I kept my secret and my family safe and I was able to start over. I have slaughtered and buried and conned every single person who came after me – who threatened my way of life.

I’m not about to let some stupid job ruin me.

I need this job. I was a temp before the pandemic because starting over meant completely restarting my career (and then the world imploded). I am more than qualified but this year has been a shit show in so many ways that I couldn’t get anything to stick.

But I finally got a job that was a strong as my old one at covering my lies. No one will look at me twice, no one will think of me once they walk out the door, I am more than qualified and I have a husband who works miracles with a police background check.

The problem is: I want to murder every single one of my colleagues. Every single one of them. That’s a lie: the janitor was very kind and patient and has been working extremely hard through this whole ordeal.

It’s all the people I have to see in the daylight and convince myself not to bludgeon with their little desk placard. It’d be a personalized murder, how fun!

I need this. I can work at a bank, I can work with the customers, I can refrain from killing the people I work with – more than I already have in the past…because I have killed quite a few of my colleagues over the years. Maybe that’s why people were always getting close. Huh.

I will refrain from killing them for now but if Kim tells me one more story about her sister’s dog, I am going to staple her lungs together, inflate them into a balloon and send her body parts flying into the air like their own little dirigible.

I am over this shit.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe

Your Mid-Week Update for 11/04/20

 Well…

And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

I have, however, come to the conclusion that I am going to continue committing murder regardless of whether some random woman who cannot be found in watching me. I wondered the other day if maybe Heather had been the mystery woman and that was why she was so quick to kill the PI before he revealed her identity. Perhaps she had some vendetta against me (even though she’s the one who killed her husband and I only helped clean up the body and it wasn’t until later that she learned why I didn’t freak out upon seeing a corpse in her living room) and decided to track me down and hurt me. So she stole my journals, had people figure out where I went, and then called me to fully infiltrate my life.

And then I remembered that while my life does have it’s outlandish and dramatic moments, I do exist in some form of reality where supervillains and soap opera plots are not commonplace, and thus, my theory was likely incorrect.

So there is still some woman out there who knows more than she should about me and my family but the decision I made this weekend (after discussing it with James and Casey, of course, as they were significantly involved) that we’re going to continue with business as usual and deal with the consequences as they present themselves. Knowing my stalker isn’t with an official organization does bring me some ease. It’s a lot easier to kill a civilian with a grudge than it is to murder a federal agent and pray no one notices them missing.

To celebrate our decision, the three of us went out on Halloween night to find a few corpses to create.

Is it considered “creation” is you’re taking away in order to turn it into something else? Grammar is not my friend (is that even a Grammar question? Good lord!).

The point I’m trying to make is that we went out to kill a few people because it’s Halloween and we’re all about celebrating the holidays in my house. We went looking for adults who were either partying or causing mischief as they should have known better. Children trick or treating is a little different as they are young and impressionable and if I could get their parents away from them, I might consider it but it was easier to go after drunk adults who went outside a house party to pee in a bush.

The bush wasn’t even in the right backyard. This man went two houses over, walked into a stranger’s front yard, and peed in their bush. He had to get his throat slashed and his penis removed. It was a public service.

Casey picked out a young woman we found stumbling out of a club that was filled with people. How, I have no idea because I thought there were regulations in place. We followed her for several blocks until she was well into the poorly lit downtown underbelly and I let Casey hop out and do her thing. She came back completely clean except for a drop of blood on her chin so I was very proud of her clean up skills. I also made a joke about her being a vampire and she looked me dead in the eyes and told me “it would make sense, wouldn’t it.” She fits into our family dynamic so well.

Beyond that, we’re all adjusting to life as we know it, trying to find a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos of the year. I have a job interview at a bank later this week so I’m hopeful that we truly can find our balance. I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe