Monday: Revelation
Ouch, she says, it's sharp.
And it is.
So sharp, so very, very sharp.
Thrusting. Shrieks. Warm gushes.
And the wound hugs my knife, strokes it with its own warm, wet flesh; tries to prevent the blade from entering, but once in, tries to keep it from leaving.
But it enters, and it leaves, reluctantly each time.
Again and again.
Then, it is done.
The warmth fades, the wound dries.
In the morning, I awaken from this dream, disoriented, stiff.
There is a spot, just a spot of blood on the clean, white sheets near my waist.
Nothing more.
A thought runs through my head then.
I bleed for them.
I wonder....
Will they bleed for me?
What does this mean?
Tuesday: Worship
I'm still disoriented today ... feel a little strange ... like there's missing time ... my memory doesn't seem to be what it once was.
I spend the morning loafing around the apartment, doing nothing really.
I look again for the key to that locked door, but didn't find it.
Imagine having a locked door in your own apartment!
What could be behind there?
Something tells me to relax ... go to the park, take a walk.
Though I seldom go there, the voice in my head is insistent.
The park is beautiful on this fall day, cool, crisp and brown and comfortable. There are others here; forgettable. Lost faces, meaningless voices, dim eyes.
But She is among them.
That must be why I'm here, because I don't even remember wanting to come to the park today.
Her hair is radiant, Her eyes luminous.
She is real.
But they surround Her, jostle Her, move about Her as if they were the real ones, not Her.
But I know.
I know.
I hear the irritating voice of the wind in the trees. It thinks I'm not listening, but I am. I choose to ignore it, though.
As I walk the concrete path that twists through the park like a broken spine, I hear the birds and ducks twitter amongst themselves; meaningless prattle.
They're nervous.
For me.
For Her.
I'm not.
They can't make me so.
She walks so confidently among them, so carefree and secure.
The bells begin to bother me, though. Why are they so loud today, insistent?
She is gracious, laughing occasionally, talking with the others as they pass in their grey, sluggish mass.
I wonder why She bothers with them.
)
What goes on in the mind of a serial killer? Is it detailed planning of his crimes, the confident selection of victims, careful disposal of the evidence? Or is it something more amorphous, alternating between memories and secrets kept even from himself?
