the weird chick


February 5th, 2009

Creativity. Just a little creativity! Is that so much to ask? Perhaps in the beginning, the soft-spoken “why are you doing this?” was satisfying. Actually, it was completely fulfilling, to laugh and know they’d never understand why I do the things I do. Eventually, though, I shouldn’t be wrong in expecting a little… variation in their pleas. Laugh at me, just once. Or maybe, ask me a question you have a chance of getting answered. Why do I never hear something a little more in-depth? Why does no one think to ask “how did you come up with your technique”? I’m willing to answer that. And – maybe – in my moment of brief reflection, you could come up with a decent escape. At first, running the moment I looked away was humouring. Of course, only so in its blatant stupidity and desperation. I still harbour deep affection for that moment of wild desperation displayed near the end, but I wish they would present it with a little more creativity.

Sometimes, I dress up as a therapist and get a little personal with my visitors. I love how that looks on paper. Once they’re strapped to the couch, I interrogate them, deeply. No one seems to be fond of the things I reveal or discover, and they seem to particularly resent the things I bring up. People have so much to hide. Maybe if they’d do some of the thinking, I wouldn’t have to impose such harsh treatments. It’s almost as if they go out of their way to bore me, and I don’t like to stay bored for long. Why is it my fault if they don’t like my solution? And I do give them a choice. Fortunately, no one is ever interested in the alternative. Entertainment is important to maintain.

Today’s session was stuck in the same, tired old occurrences. Of course, why would I ever dare to dream this person would have something original to say? Suffice it to say, I often succumb to my delusions, in obvious pleas to escape the vapid minds of my only friends. They have no souls, you see. They are drained. So I try and save them. But I suppose not everybody wants to be saved? Or maybe they simply don’t know their own desires. I know mine. I want my only friends to become one with me, to join me in my deluded bliss. If only they weren’t so empty. The only way to fill their voided bodies is with my humour, my entertainment. I’ll give them a little bit of my soul before I take their life.

Quiet just for a second. I draw a deep breath, a smile spreading slowly. A quick glance is spared at my friend below, as I wait for that beautiful moment. The moment of heightened awareness as my soul joins her unwilling shell, and the moment of everything being ripped away as she leaves it all behind to rot slowly forever. Her soulless self is destined for nowhere, but rather to wander aimlessly and painfully. I’m sure she wishes she’d given in to my assistance from the very beginning. If only she hadn’t resisted. And even then, if resistance was her natural urge, then why not resist uniquely? Resist in a respectable way, and maybe I would have spared her such a vile fate. That’s not to say the same measures wouldn’t have been taken, but perhaps I would have given her some of my soul permanently, as to direct her to the after.

And yet, I can’t help but feel empty myself. Perhaps I’ve been too giving? After all, not once have I taken anything from my friends! I give them so much of myself – my soul, my humour, my entertaining thoughts – and they don’t give anything in return. Why do they mistreat me so? I only wish to help them, and if in helping them I happen to help myself to them, well, don’t we all deserve a little indulgence? But thanks to their selfish behaviour, those indulgences come to me so lacking in any substance, just like the minds of my only friends. Why do they torture me so? Have they no empathy? Don’t they know their soulless thoughts drain me of all my peace? I wish death on them all, the tainted fucks. They can rot in their own hell while I struggle through this one.

To be alive for me is to be sedated. Numb my entire being – I’d rather feel nothing than feel this disgust my only friends have created. They robbed me of a meaning, and now I’ll create one in their demise. Of course my intentions of helping them were just manifestations of my growing delusions. They’ve consumed me. In the lack of any meaning, and the death toll not yet complete, I’ve filled myself with fantasies, which in return I fill my only friends with. I fill them with my fantasies. They hate when I bring that up. And I love the cyclical nature.

Beautiful silence again. The screams were brief, as they usually are. There is never enough life left in these empty people to satisfy the bloodlust of my ears. My eyes and my tongue, they get enough – most of the time. But sometimes the desire is just too great. So I absorb the silence in as satisfying a way as the screams and blood themselves. It’s the long-term enjoyment on my road to fulfillment. The silence as I rid the world of one empty shell of a friend after the other. It is what I strive for.

My diary is sitting neatly on a desk, not far away. I reach for it, reading small random excerpts as I flip to the first blank page. Even in the book of my thoughts there is emptiness, but I intend to fill that quickly. Grabbing my pen, I turn my thoughts around my head before stroking the ink down the paper.

An uneventful day. Unavoidable, of course. Suppose I should be thankful they tend to start out interesting – though I may be mistaking illogical hope for interest. Another thoughtless person has left, and yet I still don’t feel it’s enough. I’m starting to tire of this routine. Not to say that today was particularly routine, as it was merely a man, not a woman. That traditional therapist couch was of no use, obviously. I wonder, if it has become so predictable and boring, maybe I should stop?

The idea circles in my head. It makes sense – in the short term. But, no – I doubt I could ever live peacefully knowing my work was never complete. I smile.

Tomorrow I will enjoy the mindless struggle and resistance. I look forward to applying a little force. The little fucks. So much fun to fuck with.

After a moment of brief reflection, I put the book down. A harsh laugh escapes, and I reach for the light switch to welcome the darkness. Tomorrow I would snatch another of my friends, and we would have an intense session. Just a few more hours to wait. Maybe tomorrow I’ll witness a little creativity?


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