Pieces

I grow restless beneath the shell of the earth, or the shell of this man, like the oldest, darkest, most forsaken cliche monsters. I am Cthulu, or the Dark One, or Lucifer, or the Sith. I am these things and I am more. More than words on the page, more than lines of dialogue, a camera angle, a nifty editing trick that offers foreshadowing and then lets you down at the climax. I'm a movie monster with a third dimension. And a fourth. And a fifth. I am large, I contain multitudes. Everything about has been crafted to fuck you up.

I like to leave them breathing heavy, sweating, lying flaccid in a pool of mixed fluids. I've left infinite evidence behind to tie me to these crimes. I've left infinite clues, littered here and there, like literary themes or The Riddler's hints, that will expose me for who I am. What I am.

The older I get, the less you matter. The less you matter, the more I can't seem to breathe without you.

I'm all vices and paradoxes, fucking and festering. I'll leave you violated without a second thought, but the way you smell will cling to my skin like ciggarette smoke to my clothes. Everything yellowed, stained, faded, and cynical. It's hard to believe in something you can't see, but even harder to care.

I have come for slaughter.

Cravenly Yours,
-S.R.