Everything has gone to shit. There, I said it. You could call it karma, but if you said that to my face I would choke you to death. Sure, call it karma, call it every seedy, deviant, insidious thing I've ever done coming back to haunt me. Call it universal retribution for the felonies and the crimes, the lies I told as a child, or all the women I've plowed through, heedless of them as emotional beings, as anything but a fucking hole to waste some time wallowing in. Call it your god's way of seeing to it that I'm made aware of my every transgression, or call it shit-luck, the proverbial gene passed down from generation to generation in this family that ensures each of us will claw our fucking way out of the mud only to be shit on. Call it whatever you like, but the fact remains: Everything has gone to shit.
I'm angry, is what I'm saying. No, anger doesn't do this justice. This is rage. This is wrath. This is Old Testament God-style fucking monstrous, consuming, utterly impotent anger. It is preternatural, supreme in its occupation. There is no bastion holding out against the tide, just this white-hot sea of roiling, destructive energy. I want to tear out your gods damned eyes and force-feed them to your children. I want to tear your dick off and hurl it into the sun. I want to pull your organs out and fuck them one at a time, and eat whatever's left. No one is safe, no one is sacred, and every one of you looks like prey. Let's rock and fucking roll.
I've got no motivation here. No rudder, no direction. I have nothing but this. No conscience stops me, no moral fiber restricts these midnight prowls. I've burned away all the lust and the love and all of my vices have amounted to nothing. All my vaunted self-control is worthless here. All the tricks and talents I've developed to keep this shit subdued are long used up, and all my desire to protect and to cherish are exhausted. This is me at my most primal, and that delicious feeling of power is more addictive than any body, any drug, any substance or surface that I have ever imbibed. I want to rage until I've erupted, and then I want to burn you all alive with the aftermath.
The worst thing about all of this, is that it feels so fucking good. I can't keep the adrenaline from flowing, the hate from spoiling the scent of everything near me. I can't keep the anxiety in check, or the sheer excitement from shaking my hands. Bloodlust, maybe. There is no clear target to this, no reason for it that I can find. I'm simply here. I feel like I've been gone for a long time, buried in the earth like so many rotten corpses.
I'm back from the dead, assholes. And I'm taking all challengers.
I defy you to regard this as so much bluster, so much bullshit spewed from testosterone and maybe the ill-effects of a recovery from a long period of depression. I realized recently that I'd been stuck in one of those, although the epiphany did little to stem the tide of what was coming. Please, call it nothing but talk. Give me a single fucking reason to teach you how little you know. I have taken so much pleasure in being nice, in protecting people, in riding that high horse. But I've never taken more pleasure in that than I have in absolute destruction. Ask, and you shall receive.
Rot, you loathesome parasites, and get your claws out of me. This husk is dessicated, eviscerated. There is nothing left for you, nothing to slake your thirst or sate your hunger. The flesh is stripped, the blood consumed, the bones snapped open and the marrow taken. There is nothing left but perceived revenge, but the rage that sustains me, and constant beat of drums. Rest assured, I am coming for you. I've come back this far, and by daybreak, nothing will keep me at bay. The howling cries of the madmen will be all you hear, all the warning you receive of my approach. By the time the lights flicker and die, I'm already too close for you to escape. One by one, if that's how it must be. That way, I can burn out in peace.
Yours,
-S.R.
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