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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

The muffled sounds of bass from music could be heard through the walls. Atticus’ office was always under lock and key at the back of his club, Vengeful Spirits. That was where he spent most of his time when he was there. Whether it be to do paperwork, or to go to sleep after a long night of drinking whiskey – his office was always strictly off-limits to everyone except for Lena. It was rare he even allowed employees back there for work related conversation. Vladimira took it upon herself to pick the lock to the steel door that led from his office to the outside. For the last hour she was sitting at his desk, going through his drawers, thumbing the spines of books that filled shelves against the wall.

“Oh, Atticus…” She sighed dreamily, taking a bottle of cologne from his desk and spraying herself with it. Spinning around in slow circles in his chair, she looked through a small black book she found in a safe underneath his desk. “Hmmm…” She flipped through the pages and noticed they were all dated. “Is this your journal…?” Mira’s eyes lit up and a wide smile smeared across her face as she scanned through Atticus’ private thoughts. That smile slowly faded out when she saw an entry about the note she left for him a few weeks ago. It mentioned that other woman that he had been seen with, and that slowly made her blood boil. “Lena, huh?” She bit her lip and finally stopped spinning in the chair. Towards the end it talked about how they had gotten into a fight over it, and she accused him of getting love notes from other women. Good. She was coming between them, and that was exactly what she wanted.

As she sat there and continuously flipped through the journal, her eyes flickered to the door of his office. She could suddenly hear faint laughing and brief conversation. Mira’s heart pounded as she sat his journal down and crawled beneath the desk; tucking her knees into her chest. The second she did that, Atticus and Lena walked through the door of his office loudly. Vladimira could see the two of them through a gap in the panel of the wood, and she watched them very closely. Atticus was kissing her neck and Lena was unbuttoning his shirt rapidly. It made her skin crawl. If he thought he would get away with touching another woman like that, he was in for a rude awakening.

Before Lena could successfully remove Atticus’ shirt, there was a knock at the door. “Busy!” Atticus yelled, but they knocked once more. “Goddammit.” Atticus mumbled, kissing Lena on the lips before answering the door to see one of his bartenders standing there. Mira was trying to see what was happening, but Lena approached the desk and sat upon it – obstructing her view through the gap. “Bitch…” Vladimira mumbled softly to herself.

– With the taste of his kiss still lingering on her lips, Lena lifted herself up onto Atticus’ desk as her light orbs watched him disappear back out into the club. Groaning softly, she gripped the smooth wood and crossed her legs, hoping it would only be a second before he returned to her. Those few seconds turned into minutes and boredom had begun to set in. She shifted from side to side as she scanned over the papers that were scattered all over his workspace. How he could find anything in this pile of paperwork was beyond her. Lifting her head again, she stared at the door for a few more minutes before getting back to her feet.

Moving around the other side of his desk, something stuck out to her that she hadn’t noticed before. This leather bound journal was flipped onto its pages as if he had just been writing in it. With the hope of reading some of his sweet thoughts about her, Lena turned the journal over and began to read. Her light hues absorbed his words as she finished the first page and moved to the next. The smell of lilac and vanilla drifted into her nostrils as she flipped through a few more pages. There was something about this scent that really started to agitate her. Rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, she continued to let her hazel orbs move over his words. His pen strokes so smooth as he laid nothing but pure poetry down onto each page. Capturing her plump bottom lip between her teeth, Lena found herself getting lost in his thoughts, falling even harder for the man she adored.

Suddenly a very strong current surged through her body causing her to have a flashback to a dream she had not even a week ago. In this dream she was here at the club with Atticus. Something was strange. He wasn’t interacting with her like he usually did and he seemed almost... nervous. The way his eyes darted around the club, he was looking for someone. “Babe? What is going on?” She asked finally as he polished off the remainder of his whiskey and headed back towards his office. Confused and slightly pissed off she made her way across the bar, following closely behind him only to catch a glimpse of blonde hair slipping into Atticus’ office.

“What the fuck?” She cursed beneath her breath as she stood there for a moment staring blankly at the now closed door. Everything happened so fast. “This is a dream, Magdalena. This isn’t real.” She assured herself as she struggled to keep herself calm. Rage set in almost immediately despite her better judgment, and Lena stormed towards his office, grabbing the doorknob as she tried to jerk it open. Her free hand pounded against the door as she yelled for him to explain himself. Breathing heavily now, she inhaled deeply to try to regain composure, knowing people could see her freaking out. But none of this was as strange as the smell that found her nose as she pulled on the door again.

Thump

Lena nearly jumped out of her own skin as she snapped back to reality. “Babe?” She called from where she stood, hoping to hear Atticus call back to her, but she heard nothing. Clearly unsettled about what had just occurred, Lena returned the journal back to the place she found it and she quickly glanced around the office in search of the source of noise. Moving back around his desk again, she made her way towards the door without turning her back to the room. That smell. That strange perfume. Was it all just a figment of her imagination? Where had it come from? Lena shook her head and forced those silly thoughts out of her mind before she slipped out of the office to find Atticus.

– The second Lena left the office, Mira slowly crawled out from under the desk and straightened herself up; stretching her arms above her head. That was the closest call she encountered thus far. She had been watching and following them almost every day for the last month, but this moment really got her heart racing. It didn’t deter her though. It made her even more unhinged. She got off on the thrill of being caught. In her mind, there was nothing they could do to her to get the upper-hand. Especially after what she witnessed a few weeks ago.

Mira crouched down in the corner of a fire escape above them, dressed in all black and her face concealed with a bandana. She looked down on them in the alleyway behind Vengeful Spirits, the alleyway that lead to Atticus’ office. She originally intended to sneak in and rummage through his things, maybe leave another note on his desk. That was quickly interrupted when he seemed to be up to something. She quickly climbed the fire escape so she could look down and watch it all unfold.

The woman’s heartbeat fluttered in her chest when she saw him at work. He hadn’t changed a bit, and he was the same demented fuck she fell in love with. The way he used a garrote wire around that man’s neck… The way his victim struggled with a pistol in hand and it went off. All of it made her that much more obsessed with him. A friendly reminder of why she came from Croatia to find him in the first place. It felt like she didn’t blink the entire time she stared down at him, heavy rain soaking through her hood and seeping into her blonde hair. She wanted to climb down there and assist him in any way she could – remind him of exactly why he needed her.

That thought floated away the second a dark-haired girl stepped out of a Cadillac. The very first moment Vladimira saw who she would soon learn to be Magdalena. Her eyes widened, and she felt herself clench her jaw tightly. He was with someone that wasn’t her. Someone that got to see those sides of him he always kept tucked away. It made her physically sick. She could feel her stomach twist in knots at the sight. The way he looked at her and touched her made it very clear that this woman was going to be an obstacle in her path. The watching and waiting game she was playing was about to pick up speed.

Reflecting to that night, something in her brain suddenly clicked. A huge grin curved upon her lips and she quickly put Atticus’ journal back in the safe where she found it. “I’ll see you both very soon.” She slithered out of the steel door and into that very alleyway she was just thinking of. Blue orbs quickly scanned along the brick wall of the club, dragging her hand against them with each step she took. After a few minutes of scanning, she finally found it. The hole from a stray bullet of the man Atticus killed weeks prior. “Mm, you’re distracted by this one…” She mumbled, retrieving the knife she kept in her boot. Flicking it open, she stuck the tip in the hole and wiggled it back and forth slowly – prying the bullet from its enclosure. “You’re getting sloppy.” The grin on her face widened a bit, showing her teeth. She stuck the bullet in a small plastic bag and stuffed it into her pocket. Evidence. As if she even needed any more of an advantage. Lena didn’t know it yet, but she would soon learn that Mira had no problem going toe-to-toe with her. She had the capability to gut someone like a fish and smile as they gasped for their last breath. They were similar in that light. “Can’t wait to meet her.” Mira said enthusiastically as she skipped down the alley and out of sight.

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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October 23rd, 1992 - 8:00 p.m.

“Atticus!” His Mother Helena yelled from the kitchen, her voice echoing into the living room where he sat. The small boy lifted his head and looked over curiously in her direction. Even at five years old, he knew that tone of voice all too well. She was about to tell him it was his bedtime, and quite frankly, he wasn’t ready just yet. Ignoring her call, he continued to play with the Hot Wheel track that was scattered across the floor. If he absolutely had to choose a favorite, it wasn’t some sports car or muscle car; it was his 1950s Oldsmobile. He received it as a gift from his Grandfather Aleksandar last Christmas – a spitting image of his own car. The navy-blue color, the white wall tires, Atticus absolutely loved it. Anything his Grandfather gave him was his favorite. They were best friends from the moment he was born, and it would continue to be that way until his death 16 years later. Aleksandar was the ultimate badass, and he looked up to him so much; always wanting to stay right by his side any time he was around.

“Oprostite, mladiću…” Helena was now standing right behind him, hands on her hips with a dishrag in one of them. “I know you heard me calling for you. It’s time for bed.”

Atticus groaned and his small eyebrows furrowed together. “I’m not tired.” He stated defiantly.

“I don’t care, and I didn’t ask that.” His Mother said firmly, starting to get a little irritated at this point. “Don’t make me go get your Father.”

With that statement, Atticus slowly rose to his feet, standing at a short three foot, two inches tall. Who would have thought this five-year-old would grow to be almost six feet tall by the age of eighteen? He was always relatively small for his age in his younger years, but that didn’t hinder his attitude in the slightest. Huffing and puffing, he grabbed his car and very sassily headed up the stairs – his Mom standing at the end of them, smiling, and making sure he went all the way up before she walked back towards the kitchen.

8:30 p.m. –

After accomplishing the typical nighttime duties, Atticus laid in his bed in the dark; staring up at the ceiling. Teeth were brushed, toys were put away, and his Spiderman thermal pajamas covered his tiny frame. For someone so small, and so young, he was so incredibly aggressive and gutsy. He never wanted to go to bed when he was told, and he certainly did not appreciate anyone telling him what to do – parents, or otherwise. Eventually, he would comply… but not without putting up an argument first and thinking he could get out of it. A long, exasperated sigh escaped his lips, and his frown grew deeper with each passing minute. “I don’t want to go to bed…” He mumbled to himself, turning onto his side and now facing his bedroom window. As headlights quickly illuminated his room, he sat up and quietly stepped out of his bed – curiosity always got the better of him. When he saw his Grandfathers infamous blue Oldsmobile outside, a grin smeared across the boys' face. Sleep? Who needed sleep? Not him. Not with Grandpa Aleksandar around.

9:00 p.m. –

Atticus had managed to quietly creep down the steps without hitting a single creak in the floorboards. That was something that he had mastered over the countless times of him sneaking downstairs. Sometimes he wanted a snack, or three, when he didn’t finish his dinner like he was supposed to. He could faintly hear the muffled voices of men talking hastily from the kitchen, but the doors were closed. All he ever wanted was to hang out with the men in his family, but sometimes they would shoo him away and tell him ‘adults were talking’. That made Atticus so mad. He couldn’t wait to be an adult someday and be able to be apart of everything. If someone were to ask him how he felt about that stance now though, he would say he wished he had gotten more of a childhood and that he was a stupid child.

The back door had shut, and the kitchen grew silent. The small boy was laying on the floor trying to look through the crack at the bottom of the door to see if they left. Once he didn’t see any feet, he popped back up and slowly twisted the knob of the door that lead from the dining room to the kitchen. The room was completely empty, and a disappointed grunt escaped him. ‘Hungry…’ Atticus thought to himself, making his way to the pantry. He pulled the doors open before hearing footsteps on gravel right outside the back door. Frantically, the boy shut himself in the pantry and peeked into the kitchen through the slotted doors. He made a game out of it, pretending to be a ninja when he snuck out of his bedroom. Getting caught meant he lost, and he was competitive. Naturally, he would do just about anything to not get caught. Punishment was also something that helped him stay as sneaky as possible. The last thing he wanted was his Father Ivan smacking him upside the head for being so unruly.

9:30 p.m. –

Atticus had tried to keep quiet the best he could, but the things that were happening right before his eyes were far too much for his young mind to comprehend. Ivan, Aleksandar, and his Uncle Leon had dragged an unconscious man into the backdoor. A dirty rag was stuffed in his mouth, his body limp, his hands and feet tied together with very thick rope. The boy couldn’t rip his eyes away. He was entranced with it all, and of course, he always let his curiosity get the best of him. Atticus really knew now that if he was found, he would be in so much trouble that he’d regret it for weeks… but he had forgotten about his game that he always so innocently played. He wasn’t a ninja anymore – just a curious child in a place he should not have been.

10:00 p.m. –

The prisoner was now strapped to a chair but was fully awake and scanning the room in a frenzied state. Aleksandar, Ivan, and Leon went back and forth from speaking in Croatian, to English. Atticus only knew some Croatian, but by no means was he fluent. Picking up bits and pieces was the best he could do, but even then, his young mind could not wrap around some of the things that were being said.

“You think you could just rip us off, Jakov?” Atticus’ Father spewed. He had never seen him this angry before. Red in the face, sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened – he looked like a madman.

“I didn’t! I swea-…” Leon backhanded the man now known as Jakov in the mouth, and blood slowly began to drip out from between his lips.

“Let’s just get this over with, please.” Leon said, looking over at his Brother Ivan before they both looked to Aleksandar. Neither of them did a thing without their Fathers say so. He was in charge – the leader of a large crime family in Croatia. Atticus’ family. Something that he would learn in the years to come.

Aleksandar was always a very reserved man. He was someone who liked to watch and soak everything all in. Never making impulsive decisions, never losing his cool; a true businessman through and through. That did not mean, however, that he would take treachery lightly. He was a man of his word, and he handled things with grace and tact. The two sons he had under his wing though… They acted on anger. They were always quick to jump the gun and answer any form of disobedience with severe consequences. As they looked to him for an answer, his response was pulling a cigar out of its case and lighting it. The room was quiet. The tension in the air was unbearably thick.

“Did you steal from the compound, Jakov?” Atticus’ Grandfather asked calmly, taking a drag from his cigar and blowing it into his face.

“Y-yes…” Jakov started. “But it was only to take care of my family! I would never lie to you, Mr. Petrović…” Jakov was shaking in his seat, eyes pouring tears down his face and blood coating his busted lips.

“Ah… but you did lie to me, Jakov.” Aleksandar stated before smashing his cigar out in the ashtray next to him. “You know the consequences of something like that. I cannot trust you anymore.” The old man’s voice was raspy and deep, obviously affected by the years of smoking. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out a large bowie knife and removed it from its case. “Your family will still be taken care of… but we have no use for you anymore.”

Atticus’ little heart began to pound in his chest as his eyes watched everything unfold from the pantry. His eyes had to have been the size of saucers from everything his young mind was trying to take in. He had seen movies and tv shows, but that was about the depth of it all for him. The movies he did watch that held inappropriate things for a 5-year-old, caused his Mother to yell at his Father every single time for it. She always tried to shelter him and baby him. He was her baby, after all. Her only child. Helena did not want him tainted with the ways of the world, but she knew deep down that was inevitable given with what she married into. Atticus began to grow up at the age of five.

Aleksandar handed the knife over to Ivan, Atticus’ Father. Ivan was a harsh and angry man. He never hesitated with anything, and was purely emotion driven – dangerous, but someone that would get a job done no matter how heinous the act might be. He gripped the handle of the knife and approached Jakov until he was standing right before him; somewhat shielding Atticus’ view from the pantry.

“P-please…” Jakov began to uncontrollably weep and beg for his life. “You don’t have to do this, Ivan. We grew up together! Please!” Ivan just stood there and didn’t budge; standing as still as a statue. He didn’t respond with words, and he had no patience for begging thieves. Pulling his arm back somewhat, he raised the knife and brought it up to Jakov’s throat. Before the man could say another word, Ivan grabbed him by the hair and slashed him with an unmatched ferocity. When he stepped to the side, Atticus could see Jakov now. His Father had lacerated his throat so deeply, that he almost decapitated him. The males limp head tilted backward and exposed the gash even more, and all he could see was red. The brief gurgling sound, and the wetness dripping against the floor rang in the boys ears. In that very moment, Atticus let out a cry; eyes filling up with confused tears. He felt such an overwhelming sense of fear.

The three men feverishly ran over to the pantry and pulled the door open, only to see Atticus’ small frame standing before them. He looked up at them, face splotchy and eyes bloodshot. The expressions on their faces were that out of a horror movie. All three met him with petrified faces, and the room was filled with silence once more. Aleksandar picked Atticus up, pressed his face into his chest, and took him out of the room – leaving Leon and Ivan to clean up their mess.

“Shh…” Atticus’ Grandfather whispered to him. “You are a Petrović… We do not cry over those who wrong us."

10:30 p.m.

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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@magdalenaeberstark @magdalenaapetrovic

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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Journal entry 4 of 2019, January 31st -

Sometimes I fear that I've gone a little soft... but then something happens that tests my humanity and patience. I think about things when I'm angry that wouldn't cross a normal mind; things that would make people sick. I think I need to realize that I'm not soft... I'm just soft when it comes her. I used to think that meant weakness. Whenever I could feel it happening, I'd attempt to run away and cut it off. I have never had these feelings before - feelings of protectiveness and an overwhelming sense of attachment. When I think I'm getting soft, someone tests my limits and reminds me just how ruthless I can be.

I've never cared about anything or anyone more. I'd go to immeasurable lengths for her, and sometimes that does scare me still. I wonder if I'll ever slip up and do something sloppy that'll get me into trouble... Something in the process of protecting her. Maybe I already have, and the trouble hasn't caught me yet. Either way, I guess even psychopaths need a reason to survive. The only thing that could get me to break my rules... The one thing that brings me to my knees. I used to fucking hate that and think there was something wrong with me for it. Now, after all these years, I know that this, this is what love really feels like. Weird...

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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Journal Entry #3 of 2019; January 23rd

The note I found was short and sweet. It was placed on top of my desk at Vengeful Spirits, and I was surprised she even found a way inside. I remember picking it up, and perfume entered my nostrils. It didn’t smell familiar - a combination of vanilla and lilac. I assumed she just got something new and was trying to show it off… But I did get this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. The handwriting didn’t look very familiar, but it was somewhat sloppy. I thought maybe Lena was just in a rush, and she wanted to just leave me something nice on her way out.

Later that night, Lena found the note folded up in my jacket pocket, and her reaction to it caught me completely off guard. She was pissed. She began to accuse me of seeing other women, and I thought that was absolutely fucking ridiculous. At first, I thought she was just screwing with me. I thought it was some sort of game… Five minutes later and she was still giving me this death stare. I finally told her that I thought it was from her, and at first, she rolled her eyes in disbelief; As if I was just making up lies and excuses to get out of trouble. I had to get angry, and I think when she looked into my eyes, she could see that I wasn’t making it up.

“Maybe it’s from one of the dancers at the club.” Was one of my first initial thoughts. They were all particularly sweet on me… So, I don’t really think it’s too big of a deal. It is something, however, that I want to keep in my thoughts. With everything going on lately, I need to stay on my toes. Maybe it’s something to worry about, or maybe it WAS just a harmless little note… Regardless, I wanted to write something about it in my safe place. If something else ever transpires, I’ll at least have a good recollection of it.

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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She was almost as ravenous as he was. The way her eyes gleamed with excitment when she watched him at work. The light shade of pink her cheeks would turn when he unraveled his leather case of tools. She was the embodiment of the perfect woman to him, and she always had been. How she would lick her lips the second she saw even a drop of blood; It drove him absolutely insane. Patience was a virture neither one of them possessed. It wasn't unheard of for them to turn a kill room into something much, much more. The sounds of muffled screams and cries would occasionally be drowned out by sounds of the opposite.

They were the ideal duo. The good looks and charm they both carried made them seem personable to most. She could come off as a helpless little damsel in distress, if she really wanted. Eventually, there would be a guy trying to play the hero, attempting to aid her. Hours later, that same guy would wake up chained to a cold, steel chair that was bolted down to the basement floor. Atticus was the more quiet one between them. She was the one who always loved to taunt, and provoke. He would be lying if he said he didn't fucking worship that about her.

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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1/9/2019 - First journal entry of the new year.

I have noticed that my mask of humanity has started to slowly wither away, little by little. Perhaps it is from lack of human connection... dying relationships, dying friendships... I used to be well trained in the ways of the world. What the common human considered 'conventional', I could re-enact without hesitation. I was good at it, too. No one would have ever expected personable, easy-going Atticus to be as unhinged and disturbed as he really, truly is. Lately, I've felt the façade begin to crumble. I have felt the predatory look in my eye that I would typically only get behind closed doors, start to pour into my daily 'normal' routines. I have never scared myself more than right now. When I become this disconnected, is when everyone around me should be worrisome...

So I sit and I wonder how I became this way again after making so much progress in the past... I don't have any answers. Things that used to keep me calm and in check are no longer an avid part of my life. Maybe I couldn't handle the change. Maybe I do have some basic human emotions and reactions in me that I don't even realize. For me to become messy in my affairs, when I'm usually so organized and diligent, really starts a bubbling fire within me that I can't put out. I am a control freak, after all. The fact that I can't be as put together as I once was, drives me fucking mad. Visions of brutality fill my head more than ever before, even when I try flirting with a gorgeous woman I come across. I cannot allow my darker desires to win over my basic desires. But maybe I need to get laid... or maybe I just need to bash someone's face in with a fuckin' mallet.

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mindgoesmad · 6 years ago

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Journal entry 017 - April 18th, 2012

They say that human fingers and toes have the same density as a raw carrot. I remember hearing this comparison as a young teenager, and the curiosity about it ate at me. I sat in my room one night, with a knife and a carrot on my table. I slowly cut through the carrot and envisioned it to be a finger. Every single time the knife would slide through and hit the tabletop, a sinister grin would smear across my face. The excitment started to overwhelm me, and my chest began to get tight. That was one of the first psychotic breaks I ever had... The excitement was too much for me to bear, and at that time in my life, I was trying to keep it under control the best I could... but this... curiosity... the craving to know what real pain was. It was unreal, and I was insatiable...

I replaced the carrot with my own finger. Thinking back to how patient and meticulous my Grandfather was with me, I assessed that he would be less upset if I just cut off my own finger rather than someone else's. I wanted to know. I wanted to feel a certain sense of pain. I only felt that to be fair. If I was going to allow this dark side of me take over... If I was going to cause others' pain, I first needed to know true pain... and the blood.. Oh, how I wanted to see it. I wanted to see what a stump would look like once you sever the bone. I had always heard of phantom limbs. Once a person lost an arm or a leg in a war, or an accident, sometimes they would feel as if that limb was still there. I wondered if I would feel like that with a finger.

I could feel my eyes start to water from the sheer excitement and fear that washed over me... I was in an instant battle with myself. My breathing picked up tenfold, and tears streamed down my face, but I was happy. The grin on my face was unmatched at that time. It was unlike anything I had ever felt. I gripped the knife in my right hand, and sprawled my pinky out on the table. At first I thought about which finger I should take... My thumb? No... That would hinder my day-to-day life entirely too much... My index? Hmmmm... That would probably also make it difficult to hold certain tools. The pinky sounded like the best option, but deep down, part of me was scared that I wouldn't stop there. Little did I know that the burning sensation was far too much to allow me to continue. I would be too busy wincing in pain.

I remember starting to laugh... This laugh that escaped my lips was one I had never heard before. It was a combination of hyperventilation, crying, and laughing all wrapped into one sound. A psychotic sound. The closer the blade got to my skin, the more uncontrollable the laughter became... Until I finally touched the metal against myself. The laughter stopped, and my eyes grew wider. 'Am I really about to do this? Cut off the tip of my own finger...?' I asked myself questions I already knew the answer to. My mind was made up the second I sat down at this table with a couple carrots in hand. I knew exactly what I was doing.

As I slowly added pressure against my finger, the knife was so sharp that my pinky was already bleeding. It didn't take much. Since it's the smallest finger, I assumed it would actually be easier than a carrot. I slid the blade down to meet the half-way mark of my finger, right in between the joint of the knuckle. The hyperventilating didn't stop, and by now my face was completely covered in sweat and tears. Before I could have another thought, it was like my right hand had said 'Okay, times up! You're taking too long!' I heard the crunch, and I watched the top half of my pinky finger roll across the table. In that instant, blood started to spew and pool as my hand was still against the wood. I lifted it and inspected it, and that was when the pain hit me. The scream I let out must have echoed throughout the entire house, because my Grandfather instantly barged through the door with a cigar between his lips. I remember watching his facial expression twist into shock when he had seen what I had done. He took the cigar from his lips, grabbed me by the wrist, and put it out on the now bloody stump where my pinky once was to cauterizing it and stop the bleeding.

I passed out once he did that. The pain was incredible. When I woke up the next day, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. From the combination of emotional and mental strain, and feeling actual physical pain like that, I could've slept for days. When people would ask what happened to the pinky on my left hand, I'd always say it was a wood working accident. Maybe I wrote this story down to share with people someday... maybe it was for my own benefit. Who knows.

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mindgoesmad · 9 years ago

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(Journal entry 118)

I have loathed your very existence for awhile. Typically I don’t make decisions because of my own personal feelings. I like to leave my thoughts and desires completely out of the equation, because if I don’t, they will consume me. If I allow my wants to be the foundation of my choices, I will lose control… However, my nightly dreams begin to leak into my days while I am wide awake.

I fantasize about the faces of agony you’ll make when my blade shaves off your tattoo inked skin. How beautiful it will be to lay them all out in slivers on a metal tray while you watch the artwork being removed from your body, and replaced with my own. Maybe I will press them in a book, like one would do with a bouquet of flowers, or a postage stamp collection… I am curious to see your pain threshold. Are you as resilient as you claim to be, or is that also a show for the populace to bear witness? Nothing shows your hatred for another living creature, quite like a bludgeoning. Do you know how many times you can hit someones forehead with the butt of a gun, before you begin to split their skull and make contact with the frontal lobe? About five, if they’re all nice, hearty blows and your aim is good. It’s like the equivalent of chopping a block of wood. If you don’t hit the same spot, you’ll just cause splits in several places… but if you swing the ax in the same area, you’ll get the end result you’re looking for.

Did you know, that even when someone is latching on to their last bit of strength, if you put a bag over their head, they suddenly seem to gain a godlike amount of fight back in ‘em? It’s true. You could be slouched over, blood pouring from your orifices… and the second that cellophane is pulled tightly around your head, you begin to hyperventilate. The plastic will expand and tighten with every exhale and inhale you attempt to make. There is no airflow, no matter how deep you breathe. All you will do is pull the flexible material into your mouth. It’s like watching something become vacuum sealed in a little package. Just the thought makes my heart race with that anxiety of desire you get, all the way to the pit of your stomach. Although I know how good it’ll feel to be selfish, I cannot allow myself to fall into that bottomless pit.

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