too late

(ten, nine, eight)

I await Armageddon
not with baited breath but with a resigned air of inevitability.

We knew that this was coming.

The sky darkens and madness descends.
Rational thought is overruled like the
flipping of a switch
in the malicious minds of the masses.

(seven, six, five)

'This is your fault!' the pastor spewed on the News at Ten, sanctimony reflected in the newscaster's sweat stained brow.
They were safe atop the ivory tower at the BBC, as Aunty is never less familial than when the licence fees are at stake.
Direct Debit or all up front, absolution at the low low cost of £24 every four weeks.

'Repent and your sins will be absolved!
Confess to it all, prove you've evolved!'

(four, three)

The smashing of glass giving ground to brick became a reassuring constant.
I used to imagine the fragmented diamonds littering the pavement as rioters stole what they don't and won't need.

And now, right now, the pipe across the basement drip drip drips and draws my focus.
The pool of water underneath it is getting bigger, but in

two, one,

it won't matter.

leaves part three.

He dreamt of his first kill that night. It was nothing like a kill in a thriller, no. It was awful, terrifying, exhausting. He'd strangled a woman, walking home half drunk from the pub in his little town. No-one would suspect him, he was the perfect gentleman. Three kids, wife, the whole package. He even drove a fucking Prius, back then. But he'd had a bad day, in a long line of bad days. He was constantly penalised at work, smothered when he got home. His dad used to beat the shit out of him, because that's what his dad had done, and his dad before him. Their version of an heirloom, a constant stream of black eyes, cracked ribs, bruises, split lips. When he saw her, walking home, he'd followed her. Just wanting a fuck, at first. Just wanting to let off some steam. But she'd fought, of course she'd fought. Kicked him in the crotch, his erection, the pain white hot and blinding. When he'd recovered she'd been some distance away, but the chase had done nothing to abate his furious anger. He'd strangled her after he'd screwed her, with his belt. She'd fought and fought and it had been tiring, so tiring, but his anger didn't wane. He put the condom in his pocket because he wasn't an idiot. It was only then that the panic set in. Cold, all consuming terror. He'd killed. He'd fucking killed a woman. Created a statistic. Raped. He sat with her cooling body for a good hour, crying, before he snapped into action. Left her behind a dumpster. Stole her money, credit cards, jewellery. Disposed of them on his trip into the city to a conference three days later. No-one ever questioned him about it, but he didn't feel any better. Not for the first month after, anyway. He'd wake up screaming, sweating, thrashing in bed to the extent that his wife made him sleep in the spare room. He lost interest in sex, in his work, let them treat him like a slave. But then it had been two months. He started to get better. Started having sex with his wife again. Whenever they had sex, he'd fuck her how he'd fucked the woman he'd killed. From behind, hand wrapped in her hair, yanking her body into a curve as he took what he wanted. Sometimes he'd wrap his hands around her throat, getting off more on her gasps for breath than being inside her. She started getting a lot of headaches, after that. He couldn't forget what he'd done, and it started having an effect on him. A positive effect. He became ruthless at work, getting promoted twice in six months. Started up an affair with the office BDSM enthusiast. She didn't complain, fucking loved it, begged for it, harder, faster, hurt me, come on. He started taking more and more risks, pulling the ties tighter and tighter around her throat, until she was gagging, gasping, gone way beyond pleasure and convinced she was going to die, and she'd cry after, break it off. For maybe a week. Then they'd start up again, after 'I'm so sorry' and 'I never meant to hurt you' and 'it'll never happen again'. It was delicious. He'd killed, and he'd gotten off scott free. Nothing gave him greater pleasure, than that.

Sunday.

I've given up on leaf man, because nothing I could think of was awful enough for him to be caught for. Decided I'm going to write on here more. Slight update, if you will. So, I'm 25 in June. Awful. The day after my birthday I'll be closer to 30 than I am 20. Disgusting. And what have I done, thus far? Worked at Tesco for seven years. Got two A Levels. Doing a Uni course, going to do a degree. Learning to drive. Trying to write. Nothing serious, erotica mainly. But it helps with characterisation. Maybe I will continue with leaf man. Murder is pretty bad, maybe I'll have him as a serial killer. They like leaves. Word on the street. So yeah, my life is really fuckin' boring but I'm still going to write about it. So there.

leaves - part two.

his mind was sluggish. he didn't know where to start. perched on the edge of his settee, he cradled his head in his hands and tried to calm himself enough to plan. his living room was plain with off white, bone, walls. the settee he was perched upon was huge, deep, and almost beyond use. brown cracked leather, soft as butter, ripped in places. scratched. the carpets, deep, dirty brown, he'd ripped up immediately. now, his floor was french railway oak. and he loved it. warm, beautiful. he'd split a full glass of merlot just under the left hand side of his settee, but it wasn't that noticeable. he took a strange kind of comfort from stains though. knowing they were there, meant things remained unchanged. he was a very big fan of unchanged.


the room was a perfect square. he was unsure of the exact dimensions, as he'd never had a need to measure. two walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, in turn filled with books. his only other adjustment. escapism was most definitely important to him. there was a scratched table right in front of his settee, which had three ring marks scorched into the wood. english breakfast tea. not leaves though. some things were too messy, even for him.

there was a hole in the wall just past the table, with a white pillar candle in it that he'd never lit. it was covered in dust. he lifted his head and smiled at it, all teeth, no eyes. he felt the sudden urge to destroy it. an urge he withheld easily. he had iron willpower, now.

he could feel a panic attack coming on. the slow slip slide of hands crawling beneath the skin of his spine, the nausea, the tightness in his chest. it never failed to amaze him how minute detail fascinated him when he knew he was about to lose control. his iron will clamped down again, and his only outward reaction was a deep shudder, a slight pant.

how the hell that bitch had found him, he did not know. it was impossible, IMPOSSIBLE. the dirty whore. how she couldn't just leave it well alone. the past was EXACTLY THAT. he retched, despite himself, falling forward off the settee to land on his knees, then slumped forward again so his wet forehead hit the floor, his side braced against ruined leather.

he had maybe a week, before they had him again.

1.

the indescribable feeling of acceptance you get when you find a person who is your match is wonderful, or so i hear.
you want to know from whom i heard? i'll never tell.
i live in a town that applauds ignorance. their voices raise in a cacophony of bilge, normally aimed at an infant or ten. they make me angry. it's an impotent anger though, one i have to express online. to do so to their faces would end with my hospitalisation. i like to think that i am above violence, but i'm not.

i don't like children. i say this often. i think though, to carry on a subtle theme, if you will, that it's parents i dislike. truth be told. i don't like children when they: run into me, look at me, speak to me, touch me, secrete onto me, make noise near me. they wouldn't do any of those things if their parents controlled them. 'little timmy, get oughta the wayyyyy!' screeches tramp stamped mummy. little timmy does shit all, merely approaches me covered in slime and crying. it's at this point i feel the best possible remedy for everyone involved except me is a swift backhand across the right cheek. i like to go right first. i always do. in mazes, which i'm obviously in a lot, aha, in computer games, when i'm lost in a beautiful city, i always go right. don't ask me why. i think it might perhaps just be a human thing. sounds like it, to me.

i recently went to new york. beautiful.

leaves - part one.

once upon a time, there was a man. a black hearted, short tempered man. his one passion in life came in the form of leaf collecting. he was obsessed with them. he thought them beautiful. he started his collecting at the start of autumn, when they turned from fresh to dead. fresh leaves held no pleasure. their colour uniform and standard, he thought them dull. but the copper, brown, red, bronze of the autumnal leaves made his blood fizz. he kept them all in books of blotting paper, leather bound to ensure the pages didn't escape. he'd filled maybe ten volumes already this autumn, keeping the books stacked on a table in his substantial basement.

his house was truly beautiful, one of the best he'd ever occupied. victorian. new jersey. surrounded by trees. the house was older than most others in the area. it was a huge, white imposing thing. the kind of house that most people wouldn't want to stay in overnight. they were a perfect match, him and his house. he'd been in jersey for three years, the longest he'd ever stayed anywhere. he knew it was time to move on, but he couldn't quite bring himself to. preservation of self dwindled when the illusion of safety was created.

he collected leaves early in the morning out of habit. the less people around, the safer he felt. it'd always been that way. always. he wandered through the park near 3rd, leaf spotting, and people watching. it'd only just turned 8, and the morning was pretty overcast, so the people to watch were minimal. stooping to select a fine golden leaf, he noticed someone approaching in his peripheral vision. snatching the leaf from the wet ground, he turned quickly, retracing his footsteps to his car.

'wait!' a woman's voice called out, shrill in the damp morning air. she was behind him by about ten feet, he figured, and slightly to the left. his car seemed to be as far away as the sun. he wiped at the sweat beading on his forehead, wondering whether he should run. 'sir, it is very important that we speak. i have come a very, very long way for this.'

he broke into a run, leaf slipping from between his wet fingers. his car was three blocks away, parked down a side street. he wished he'd parked in the middle of the road now, his caution meant nothing. he risked a glance behind him as he ran across the road. black hair, black pants. shoes, brown. cell phone clasped to her ear, recording his presence. one more block to his car and safety. he could see the corner of the street where his beloved mustang sat. fumbling for his keys, he took one last look behind him. she was half a block away, leaning on her knees, breathing hard. perfect. he ran full pelt to his car, beeping the lock and slamming into the drivers' seat. key, ignition, drive. screeching past her, missed her parting shot. 'shit,' he gasped, finally allowing his held breath out in a long rush. he didn't want to move again. ever again. 'shit shit shit.' how had they found him this time?