For 20 and a half years did the *Stellar Compact* survive through countless conflicts, turmoil and general chaos, they deemed it was time to expand the Compact's borders, the leaders turned their head towards the Arcadian Wormhole, a deep space Anomaly which was, for years, decided too dangerous to study more closely, but because of the major decline of this great stellar nation, the situation was deemed extreme enough to allow for closer study of the Wormhole. For that they sent a man called Captain Charles Bailey along with his ship, the Rotarin, and its crew on a mission to research and eventually enter this Wormhole. Charles looked out the window of the main bridge section of the Rotarin at this oddly beautiful swirling mass of nebular remnants that seemed to slowly be getting pulled into an odd whirlpool looking dark hole in space. Charles may have had worries that this "Wormhole" was just a black hole, but after seeing it for the first time he decided it not to be so. After staring at the phenomena for a while he decided to go to the science section to see how the research was going, they had gotten a sample of strange energy which seemed to come out from the wormhole, this was intriguing so they decided to study it. As Charles walked down the spinal corridor of the ship and walked past many of his crew he heard some commotion coming from the main chamber in the science section, it didn't sound too worrisome so he kept his pace. Once he arrived he saw the young science officer Cathrine jumping up and down with excitement. "*Did you find something?*" Charles asked in his gravelly voice, Cathrine, only now noticing that her superior officer had arrived, straightened up and said, maybe a bit too formally, "*Sir, There was something irregular about the energy sample, I had noticed it when i was putting it through the room's speaker, because why not, it sounded like a pattern, I did a bit more with it, put it through some filters, etc. and once it had gone through enough of them it started sounding like a voice!*" Cathrine then put this finding through the room's speakers, and yes, it did indeed sound like a voice. At first Captain Charles wasn't convinced that this meant anything, but having known Cathrine for a few years made him trust her judgement, not even mentioning that she currently looked like she absolutely believed that what she found was indeed a voice, and he did find the usage of the room's speakers quite creative. So he said "*Alright, let's say it is indeed a voice, this might mean there are intelligent lifeforms on the other side, correct?*" Cathrine responded with an excited "*Jup!*" and then hastily adding a "*Sir*" at the end according to the ship's regulations. "*So you think we should send a probe through, I assume you'd want to do that?*" Charles continued. Cathrine replied with "*Well yes, but we probably have to outfit the probe with a few protections since it might not withstand the theoretical pressures inside the wormhole.*" Charles said "*Alright, you'll be doing that for the rest of the day, I want that probe ready for tomorrow.*" "*Understood, sir.*" Cathrine said. The next day the probe was ready, it got launched with a few minor celebrations, but other than that, the day was as boring as most days are, out in space, not much happens, the next five days were like this, just a lot of waiting, they did do daily scan to try to find out what happened to the probe, but they found nothing. After these five boring days, they saw a bright flashing light coming from the Wormhole, the light engulfed the entire bridge window, blinding Charles and his fellow Bridge crew. After the bright light had faded, they noticed a small smoking object, the probe. Even in its damaged state it seemed to still have gathered a lot of data, the data itself, was incomprehensibly strange, everything past that wormhole seemed oddly different, and that made Charles shiver a bit, he had served the Compact in many of it's wars, he had seen hundreds of strange and horrible things, but the fact that he'd never seen something so, ungrounded in reality. It truly frightened him. Suddenly, the warning sirens started to wail on the bridge, Captain Charles immediately looked at his Tactical Officer, Lukas, who seemed to frantically be taking a scan of the wormhole, something was wrong. "*Lukas!*" shouted Charles so that Lukas would hear him, "*What the hell is going on!?*" Lukas looked at Charles with a worried expression "*I don't know sir, these readings don't make any sense!*" "*Well at least turn on the Defence Systems, we might at least be prepared if they're on!*" Charles shouted at Lukas. Charles heard the familiar hum of the Defence Systems coming online amidst the wails of those goddamn sirens. Suddenly Charles' ears rang and the floor of the bridge shook as a seemingly massive shockwave hit the ship, the shockwave seemed to originate from the wormhole. "*Sir! Damage to the hull in Section Three, floor: twenty-two! Reported 4 wounded and six dead, a conduit seems to have exploded!*" Shouted Lukas as Charles was still trying to get up after he fell to the floor. "*Well stop talking and send the goddamn Medical Team!*" Charles shouted back at Lukas. Charles had already stood up when he noticed something very concerning, as he stood on the bridge of the Rotarin he looked out the window and saw these gigantic, black crab like claws slowly coming out of the wormhole. "*What the fuck!*" Screamed Charles. The two claws suddenly jagged forward at an unnatural acceleration, the claws stabbed into the ship's hull and held it tightly. Charles watched as his crew descended into panic, he watched as the Defence Systems opened fire upon the claws, but to no effect. Charles, a man which had stood as an icon of bravery through the Compact - Selarian war, felt true dread as he saw what else emerged. A large chitinous head, with a gaping maw of hundreds of rows of teeth and one central deep, black eye above it. Charles felt like it was staring directly at him. This incomprehensible creature was staring directly into his eyes. He stood there, still, for a solid minute, while his crew was shouting orders and trying to get their Captain to respond to them. To be honest, Charles felt like he didn't care anymore. Charles stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating. But still, he stood there, simply staring into this large black void of an eye. "*Isn't this whole thing just simply amusing.*" Charles said calmly, he simply gave a small chuckle as his vision went black and his body fell on the floor, dead.


Your food has started talking, and you don’t like what it has to say. As you stare at the potato on your plate, it tells you that everything on this planet is alive and has a soul. Every animal, every plant, every rock, every cloud, every ocean, yes, but also every hair and every nail and every phone and every laptop and every frying pan and every glass and every shower and every toothbrush and every sock and every shirt, and even every breath of air. And by having a soul, it means that every single thing on this planet has thoughts, dreams, fears, regrets, days of joy and days of sadness. And they all suffer. The ground you stomped on. The TV you yelled at. The bike you ran into a ditch. Even that potato you stabbed with a fork, rolled in oil, and put in the oven. They all feel pain. They value their existence just as much as you value yours, and when they die they are filled with just as much terror as you would be at the moment of your death. This is proven to you beyond a doubt. How is not important. What’s important is you had no idea. You didn’t know when you ate potatoes their soul is torn into a million pieces, each of which feels intense pain of its own, that wind up dying in your stomach and being absorbed by your own soul. You didn’t know that the ground groaned in agony every time you walked on it. You didn’t realize how much it hurt the TV when you smacked it to make it work. You think about going to the bathroom and feel even worse. You stop doing as many things as possible, really. You try not to leave your bed, which you treat as gently as possible, because you know you’re causing it pain as well. When you do, you make sure to step lightly and to avoid as many objects as possible. You try to take only an absolutely necessary number of breaths. Eating is highly problematic. The only way you can choke down any food is with a great deal of tearful apologies. It doesn’t stop your food from screaming the most blood-chilling screams you’ve ever heard with every bite. It is this way in all things. You try your best to do as little harm as possible but there is always pain, usually a lot of pain, no matter what you think of. Your parents ask you what’s wrong and you tell them that you can’t get the screams out of your head, the ones that come with the knowledge that all things have conscious souls. That the very act of living imposes great suffering on everything around you and you can’t really stop it. Your parents scold you for taking so long to tell them, but say that everything will be alright. They take you to the doctor, who tells you your condition is easily curable with a very simple procedure. He gives you a shot. The screaming fades to a dull buzz at the back of your head. It’s still there, you can still hear it if you try. But it’s quiet enough now that you realize you can ignore it. And so, like everyone else who eventually hears the screams, that’s exactly what you do.


The sand had shifted from blinding white to the dull crimson of spilled blood. Bodies lay scattered about with little regard for anything even resembling burial rights. In the distance a crowd of thousands roared for more, more violence, more blood, and more death. But their screams meant nothing to the two men left standing. Their ears had long ago grown dull to the masses and their demands for unfettered carnage. These men were no longer fighting to entertain. The rules had been abandoned long ago when that...thing... had been released into the pit. This was no longer about spectacle, this was about survival. The horrid being would not stop until it had massacred all it laid eyes upon. It did not fight to please the masses; it fought to feed its bloodlust. It was clearly not human. That much had been certain from the start. The emperor claimed his men had found it in the deserts of Egypt, within a great metal structure that fell to earth. A flying tomb, he had called it, and within was a sarcophagus fit for the great kings of the Nile. But within there was no long dead Pharaoh. Only evil beyond imagination. It stood at least 3 heads above even the tallest of men and possessed four arms that widened out into massive 8 fingered hands, each of them large enough to envelop a small child. Its head was elongated at the jaw and topped with an ornate headdress made of metal unlike any other, adorned with jewels that sparkled like the inky blackness of the midnight sky. The beast’s entire body was covered in such ornamentation, necklaces and bangles, jewelry beyond measure laid atop the decaying gauze bandages wrapped so tightly around every inch of its being. The bandages themselves were just as fascinating, moving and shifting of their own accord as if the beast were entangled in a nest of serpents. What little flesh could be seen was dark and shriveled, that of a corpse left in the sun for weeks on end. The emperor had warned his favorite fighters that they would face the creature in the pit. Such an exotic beast was too good to be kept locked away. The people grew tired of Christians being fed to lions and tigers, but who could tire of a monster from beyond the heavens that had the strength of ten men and the passion of one hundred? One By one the gladiators had filed out into the coliseum. Each had waved and shouted, trying to rile up the crowd, trying to draw the most attention and praise to himself. Eventually all were made to turn and face the mighty casket that stood upright in the center of the pit, rattling and thrashing, the beast inside making unholy such an unholy din. The handlers refused to open it themselves. The animals of China and the Dark Continent were one thing, but this creature knew no concept of loyalty or mercy, and the beast masters refused to let it prove this on anybody other than the fighters. The first brave soul who opened the sarcophagus was swiftly punished. The beast’s bandages shot out from the inky darkness inside and grabbed his arms and legs, swiftly tearing him to pieces before dragging the torso in and slamming the lid shut once more. Moments later it emerged, the once pristine white gauze soaked in gore. More fighters tried to rush in, some managing to strike it with their swords before having their skull caved in by a strike from one of its mighty palms. Two more were strangled by the animate bandages, hung by their necks about the horrid thing while it used its limbs to face more pressing challengers. A brief spark of hope did appear when one man managed to catch the monster by surprise and stab at its chest, causing it to fall to its knees in shock. The crowd roared with excitement as the warrior lifted his sword to take the beast’s head, but it took too long. The creature screamed with rage, the very sand on the ground around it whipping into the air and creating a furious gale that enveloped him. The sheer force of the coarse particles blasted flesh away from bone, and soon another corpse laid upon the ground, reduced to little more than a skeleton. Two men remained standing against the creature. The first saw no victory, and promptly fell upon his sword in despair. The second however, had other ideas. The creature may not tire, and it may not be slowed by conventional attempts to wound, but it was old. Old and dry. Which meant that in theory, he reasoned, it could burn. Quickly he sprinted to the outer edge of the coliseum, making a bee line for the torches that brought light to the pit when it was enveloped by the shadows of the day. The gladiator grabbed a burning fixture and lobbed it, striking the beast in the center of the chest. A brief sound of surprise escaped its mouth before it was enveloped in flames, bandages and desiccated skin blazing like tinder. Once more the horrid thing dropped to its knees, but before it could truly die, something truly strange occurred. The sarcophagus, originally dormant at the center of the pit, flew open once more, and a violent wind pulled from within it with hurricane force. The beast was ripped from the battlefield, the raging fire dissipating as it was pulled back from whence it came and the lid slammed shut. The box no longer rattled and shook. It was done. For now, this was over. But as the gladiator heard the people cheer, and the emperor praise his bravery, something stuck within his mind. He could have sworn, that for the few moments before the sarcophagus closed...that within it he saw an ocean of stars.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The bark on the trees was starting to singe, and the earth was so hot that I thought I wouldn’t make it. I could hear the cracks; some loud, like branches were about to break and fall; some softer, as the trees began to release their seeds. The small brush-tailed rock wallaby that was panting near my home, was obviously distressed. I needed to get to her with a damp blanket, and try to pick her up. Then I had to get the hell out of here. I had gone home as soon as I heard the news about the bushfires raging just north of where I lived. My parents had passed in the year prior, and I had all the family photos to make a family tree. I had been writing their stories, and the stories of our forebears; and then scanning and inserting photos where they fit in the sequence of things. I hadn’t thought to scan all the photos first, and then insert them. No, that would have been smart!! Everything was strewn over my dining table, together with my laptop. Who knows where I left my backup drive? I had tried to get home as quickly as I could, but the traffic was horrendous. By the time I got there, the firefighters and State Emergency Service (SES) personnel were going door-to-door to see who hadn’t yet evacuated. I was that late. I scooped all my paperwork up into my arms; and it was on the way back to my car, that I saw the wallaby. They’re fast animals, with big back legs for hopping and leaping the way that kangaroos do, only a little smaller. They are super-cute, and their fur is soft and fluffy. Their claws are another matter! I saw the brush-tailed rock wallaby, and realised I had to make a choice: drop all my treasured family photos and family tree research to save her, or to try to save everything and hope I could save her as well. Brush-tailed rock wallabies are “near threatened”. I had to do something! In moments like those, you might think clearly, if you have had experience with “moments like those”. I had no idea what to do. I had to think on my feet, and I couldn’t. I had to just “do”. I piled the papers and computer into my car, dumping them on the front seat; and dashed to my bedroom. I ripped up a blanket from the bed, and took it to the shower to dampen it. I had no idea if this would work, but I had to try it. I rushed back outside, and the wallaby was gone! The last time I saw her, she was panting in the heat. There were other dead wallabies nearby, and I thought how she must have lost her own family; her own friends. My throat was dry, and my nostrils were filled with soot. My eyes began to sting. The air was thickening with billowing pyrocumulonimbus clouds of grey and orange water vapour, released from the trees as they took on the flames. The steam made a blanket above the earth and, from there, made a local weather system. Within it, were carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide; the gases that contribute to global warming; and, with the sulphur dioxide and nitrogen dioxide, they added to my severe discomfort. I could taste the poison in the air. I was terrified; both by the sight of the flames, and by the blockage in my throat. I couldn’t take air in, and I was like that little brush-tailed rock wallaby; gasping for air. But where was she? Then, under the house, I spied her. She was hiding, and trying to find shelter from the impending wall of heat. She would have been a great example to the kids in schools, who are taught early on, to “get down low, and go, go, go!”. I crouched down, as close as I could, and tried to speak as gently as possible. She was shivering and looking around for somewhere safe, and I was this big thing with a big wet blanket, yelling over the deafening sound of the roaring fire, not to be afraid! Somehow, I managed to catch her within my blanket. I placed a corner over her wriggling head, and wrapped her like a cranky baby, so I could protect her from the flames and smoke. The wet blanket, if it stayed over her head, would help to keep the smoke out of her lungs. I hoped! I hurried to my car, and struggled to open the hatchback door. If she got loose in my car, she could cause an accident. At least, in the boot, she’d be contained. Once I got her in, I slammed the hatch down, and burned my hand on the metal. The fire was getting too close. It was time to move! I got in and turned the key in the ignition. The motor sputtered and shrieked like it had seen a monster, but finally started. I drove down the gravel driveway away from my haven. When I had moved here two years ago, I had sought a tree-change, and my beautiful home was filled with tall scented eucalypts, leptospermums, wattles, and the most vibrant array of birds I had ever seen. Now, it was all fuel for a hungry fire. I drove to the end of my long driveway, and saw the firefighters doing their heroic best. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about them now. My sinuses rage with the heat of sorrow, knowing now, that some of them died in that very fire. They left young families. Their flashing lights showed the way out, and just as I escaped, it seemed as though the walls of fire closed in on those firefighters. It could have been me. I felt like such an idiot, going back for pieces of paper. And now, my actions could have placed them in more danger. I raced to a neighbouring town, where all the refugees from the fires were congregating on the beach. I had forgotten the scared animal in the back of my car. As I arrived, I found people in uniforms handing out bottles of water. People in other uniforms, asking questions. More people, still, checking our wellbeing. A girl tended my burned hand, and I became aware of the searing pain that would not subside. Some people were even handing out packs of toiletries (thankfully, as I had forgotten simple things like that). Suddenly, I remembered the poor little brush-tailed rock wallaby! I ran back to my car and opened the hatch. There she was, still breathing; and somehow, more relaxed. Could she have been suffering carbon monoxide poisoning? I gingerly picked her up, like you would lift a sleeping toddler. One arm scooped under her bulky legs, wrapped in the wet blanket; the other crooked under her neck. She had such a sweet face! Her long lashes slowly opened to reveal deep, dark eyes that looked up at me as if to say, “check my baby”. I crouched down, where I was, so I could rest her body on my knees. My left hand respectfully snuck in, under the blanket, to feel the warm soft fur outside her pouch. There, I could feel the small joey moving under my palm, within her. Relief! I still didn’t know what to do. I was no ranger. I wasn’t a vet. I didn’t even have chickens. I had “gone bush”, with no idea about the bush. I wanted to become an apiarist and build my own style of beehives. I was still only learning about bees! I hoped the few I had, had escaped. I looked around to see who could help me care for my little wallaby. Uniforms everywhere, but which were rangers? Who were the vets? At last, I saw people carrying dogs and other pets toward a tent, and I lifted myself up off my haunches and carried my cherished companion in that direction. A young man lifted the blanket to see what I carried, asked if there were any burns, and (because I didn’t know), placed her on a picnic table. My arms felt so empty! He inspected her, and made some notes; and then directed us to a water station. There, I was able to find a woman who knew what to do. She showed me how to help hydrate this young mother, and I felt like everything would be alright. Finally, I started to breathe a bit more normally. I hadn’t realised it, but I had been holding my breath for most of this time. The pounding in my chest began to ease. I sat down on the ground next to my car, exhausted but relieved. I drank the water like I was in the middle of the Great Sandy Desert; I was so dry. I closed my eyes, and through snuffled snores, somehow fell asleep. Just as I was resting, wallaby in my arms; a siren pierced the darkness. It cracked through a dream; or, rather, a nightmare. I was a bee, trapped in a hive, surrounded by fires. Then I was a chicken, flapping wildly to escape the flames. Then I was me; in my dining room, with photos of my mother and father fluttering all around me; and I was too scared to know what to do. And from my mouth, I could hear the sound of my raspy voice wailing, and no-one coming to rescue me. I was utterly alone. The time was about midnight, but it was hard to tell because the colour of the sky was a dark orange. Someone on a loudspeaker announced the fire was on the way toward us. Suddenly, we were trapped all over again! The fire now encroached the town, from every direction. It had waged it’s war on so many different fronts, and now those fronts combined into one long line of terror. Again, I packed up my companion, and looked toward the sea. It was our only hope, but how would we all get off the shore and to safety? There weren’t enough boats. This wallaby was too heavy for me to swim and take her with me (let alone my papers and laptop that I left in the car). To be honest, she was weighing heavily in my arms now. The adrenaline must have given me the strength I needed to carry her this far; and now, I was depleted. She was about six kilograms in weight, but she felt like a tonne to me. I must have passed out. I don’t know, for how long. When I awoke, my burnt hand hurt like it had been dragged over hot bitumen. My arms were empty, and I could hear a woman sobbing. A man with a kind face came to me; and I felt his soft hands on my upper arms, as he whispered, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Everything will be okay now”. I looked into his green eyes, and I don’t know if it was the sight of them or the change of medication in my intravenous drip, but I started to feel better. The sobbing stopped. I went back to sleep. Another day, another nurse. More morphine. I didn’t realise how bad my injuries were for a long time, because I had been placed in an induced coma. But now that the coma was lifted, I started becoming more aware. I had the feeling that something was missing. Something? Someone? Who was it? Who did I lose in that fire? I remember holding something or someone in a wet blanket. I remember my left palm touching something soft, and the movement within. Back to sleep; I’m so tired. Another day, another allied health professional. Sometimes, my visitor is a social worker. Sometimes, I talk with a psychologist. Sometimes, they make me get out of bed and try to use my body. I look at my hand; and it’s not my own. My feet don’t work like they’re supposed to. My sister comes to visit. It was a long flight, but she made it. I’m so glad to see her; to have her wrap her arms around my tired, sad body. I sob onto her shoulder uncontrollably. I wriggle away to find tissues to blow my nose; I hate crying in front of people because blowing my nose is so ugly! But I just can’t help it. I feel like I’m grieving; but I can’t quite remember what or whom I’ve lost. My sister says I’m a hero. Apparently, I saved one of the last brush-tailed rock wallabies in my area. A-ha! That’s who I’m missing! She says that when I was evacuated off the beach, a ranger found my little companion and took her to a sanctuary. I can visit her when I’m discharged, if I like!!! I need my sister’s help; because, unbeknownst to me, my feet were burned in that fire on the beach. Walking can be painful. Bathing can hurt too. We go home to my house in the bush, and all we see is devastation. The smell of burnt timber, and dead animals, fills the air now. My car was burned that night at the beach, and everything in it. No family photos remain. The only things fluttering in the breeze around me, are the ashes. My beekeeping mentor calls to check on me. Seventy per cent of our country’s bees were killed in that fire. Our country’s honey industry is on the brink of disaster. Our bigger beekeepers helped to keep other agriculture going; and now our primary industry is facing decimation too. We need to start again, but so many went without insurance (because they couldn’t afford to pay it), and it will be so hard to build the industry up again. I’m staying with my other sister, because I have nowhere else to go. I’m lucky that we get along! But I feel like I’m imposing on her, and I’m itching to go home and rebuild. Small steps. I keep telling myself, “Small steps. I’m not the only one.” Today, though, I’m happy. The ranger called!!! My little brush-tailed rock wallaby is doing fine. Her joey is okay! Around seventy per cent of the habitat was destroyed, and with it, all their food sources. People from all over have been sending sweet potatoes, and donating money to help get more, so they won’t starve. I’m inspired! My new home will have a garden so I can grow sweet potatoes, just for the brush-tailed rock wallabies that might come to visit. The ranger has a question she’d like to ask me. “Would you like to help when we release your wallaby back into the wild?” I don’t need to be asked twice!! Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. I can come sooner! She says that I can come any time I like. They need more helpers ... So, my sister and I drive south to the sanctuary, and there she is. My special companion. She, who knows the fear of that awful day and night. As soon as we see each other, we know! And we bound toward one another. And unlike the first time we met, this time, we’re all hugs!


A writer wakes up in the evening. He starts by looking at the snow. And he's trying to assess and write his feelings. And he's in a small cabin with no internet connectivity. He called for evenings: it's getting down as far as his writing is concerned. The dark scene around his cabin enshrines the peak around him. He is just here to relax. His project required quiet and silence. It's early in the season where he lives, so this implies only that it is time to write. And it is the best time to write. It is not the first series he has written. His audiences have experienced his wild imagination. However, he hoped that spring was coming soon. And it was not under his control. There's no sound like any in his room. It was very pure. It's a clash between the worlds of modern life and nature. He could note that his carefree weekend was drifting away when he headed into the bedroom. The man was thinking of starting out with his monologue. He seems to have also written about his previous moderation. Writing is still depleting itself. And it impacts how he feels. So unexpected and strong came the longing which nagging entered his mind. As he continues to think to himself, “Tell me. Talk to me. This is my jealousy. A spectrum of mood, where am I falling? The constantly changing continuum, ever changing.” Just scattered thoughts. He visualizes his thoughts on a possible story to write. The protagonist ought to be a privileged programmer. And characterized as a capitalist with an abundance of values. These include only making money. Maybe he can make an app that has a good ego. He was very much a specialist at his profession. It entertains the hypocrisy of capitalist morality, the dreadful weakness of the human mind. But above all, to claim that the story was about the effect of surviving a lack of meaning. All of my thoughts are about living life. And a painter should be the secondary character. An artist who can be overconfident at times. However, he's got some abilities. The most thrilling plot is necessary. It keeps the attention of the reader and it keeps him writing as well. Otherwise the story would never be finished. The artist doesn't agree with anything the faith teaches, but still wants other people to go to church. There was no reason to focus solely on Christianity. The story should be about fate and liberty. The conflict and plot is about their personal relationship. With a sense of historic fantasy encompassing the plot. It starts with a regular meeting in a nature park. The main characters in the story could not be trusted. Two people were revealed in the story to be unknowing related from birth. And both of them are interested in conversation to a fault. They had to engage in conversations to find out more about the future. And he has more thoughts about this issue. He continued on writing. He was puzzled at the unseen bond that had hooked him throughout his written line. All he's going to have to do is concentrate and stop releasing his distractions. He wasn't asking for the story to be composed by itself. He had done it before. It was just his viewpoint that brought him further. He was only able to see so much. However, his own thoughts always hit him at the most inconvenient times. His thoughts are swarming him while he is writing. For him, a source of confusion. He no longer needs energy. It may have been due to a lapse in his executive function. His comfort to an extreme. What about Michelangelo? Good portrait mode. And he has a handle on it. It's really hard to believe otherwise. And if he had wanted to commission a painting of what the world looks like, he would have preferred Michelangelo’s viewpoint above the heavens. One can, however, go beyond the typical named artists. Many can paint well. However, not like Michelangelo. Going back to the painter. As the painter paints, his DNA is dripping out of his bare hands. And when the oil reaches the canvas, it spreads, multiplies and divides like a cell line. It's alive, and it's trying to survive on the canvas. The artwork he is making incorporates the drippings of his genetic material. As if the painting makes him a genetic engineer. He is still confused by the almost randomness of how this whole life fits together. All of the colors swirl together to express not proteins but emotions. Painting a new protein, new color, new angle and ways of seeing the world. This continues as he explores the world. The lord and the king of eternity. Let us pray in the name of God. Painting a gene encoding, a new light, a new perspective, and opportunities to see nature. It was too early, and he became too tired to do his writing. He should have been in bed by now, so he could find his adventure on the next day. He still had work to do. And it was going to take a while for him to finish his story. His evening, in any case, proceeds absent a lot of thought. Also, his future regular assumptions are beginning once again. Taking care of the ink. The night wasn't lost to him. What's more, for his personality, it was beneficial. I have used a vast amount of resources that have translated to a peaceful existence. I needed rhythm and suspense. An opportunity to compromise myself before my passion. Not really a relaxed path of life. And he chooses, at the last second, to make an attempt on the frozen surface outside. And when he comes back in he decides to compose a poem: Directly from of the beginning of the fields, the forested areas, the waterways, the homesteads, the slopes, the wine, I acclaim you with poise and with the light of the stars. Furthermore, the brilliance of the day and the shadow of the moon He thought his story was so bad that it had to be funny.


The succubus, during the day, is beautiful. It’s only during the night when her appetite is at it’s peak that her monstrous, rotting, and decrepit form is revealed. Her involvement with me and my family goes back some fifty years and across the border to Mexico. It started, as my mother told me, one hot night when her older brother Luis comes home to their little house in a poor village holding a suitcase close to his chest. He brings the suitcase to his parents, (my grandparents) opens it, and shows them the gold coins and bank notes inside expecting to be hugged and embraced but instead gets a scolding. My grandparents demand to know how he came upon the suitcase and he simply replies that he found it. He refuses to tell them where or by what means he found it and my grandparents, as my mom said, feared that he had stolen it, or worse yet, she said crossing herself as was her custom, that he had sold his soul to the devil or partaken in some other sort of black magic in exchange for the money. In those days you heard plenty such stories. My grandmother, invoking La Virgen de Guadalupe, pleads her son. My grandfather was not so kind and beat him telling him that if he could not tell them where he got the money, that he should take it back to wherever he found it. My uncle left that night with the suitcase and neither my mother nor my grandparents ever heard from him again. I met my uncle in a strange way. I’d recently lost my job and my girlfriend had left me, when one night, all alone in my apartment high as a kite, I got hungry and decided to go for some food. I was pulled over and the cop found syringes and spoons with residue on them and took me to jail. I was bailed out by who knows who, put into a van where every few hours the men I was with would inject my arm, until finally I awoke in a strange bed. I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d been arrested. I climbed out of the bed dizzy, and as I moved through the upper level of the house, I could feel a strange presence around me. I could feel it in the walls. I felt that I was being watched. It was cold and I could see my breath, but as I moved to the lower floor a sudden change in temperature sobered me up. I went outside. I was in a big ranch. Then at a distance, I saw an SUV that was making its way down the road that led to the house. When it arrived, I noticed its Mexican plates, then two men jumped out and the older man introduced himself as my uncle Luis. He told me to get into the car, that we would be going into town to have some fun. He took me to a whore house. I thought about the girlfriend I’d recently broken up with, but the temptation was too much, and I gave in. My uncle said he’d pay for it. About an hour later, the deed done, my uncle burst into my room and dragged me out. We hightailed it back to my uncle’s mansion where he immediately ran up the stairs with his hand down the front of his pants. The sounds I heard next reverberated throughout the house with a terrifying mixture of pain and ecstasy. The house itself seemed to writhe and moan. I slept on the sofa in the living room. When I woke up there was a gorgeous woman sitting in a chair just staring at me. My uncle came down, kissed her on the cheek, and asked her to make us some breakfast. Then he told me his secret. He said the woman had fallen in love with him fifty years ago and had given him a choice. A treasure in exchange for his love, or his death and the death of his family. Obviously, he chose the former, not knowing that the woman was a succubus that at night turned into a stomach churning ugly old hag with an insatiable sexual appetite. He said that he had been living in torment ever since. That he couldn’t take it anymore, wouldn’t take it anymore, and was prepared to kill himself but was afraid that if he did, the succubus would go after his family. That he brought me here, prepared to bequeath me all his possessions, if only I relieved him of his burden. That the woman had looked me over and approved, and besides, he said, she was losing interest in him on account of his old age. He looked me in the eyes, took my hands, and pleaded. Said I’d be rich and have anything including all the drugs I ever wanted. That the woman was kind and caring during the day. If I relieved him, he’d be able to leave the ranch and be free. I thought it over, but he saw my hesitation. “Just remember, Charlie,” he said, “If you fail to satisfy her, she’ll come after our family.” Then he took a revolver from his waistband, put it to the roof of his mouth, and pulled the trigger.


Ever since I was a kid I have hated the dark. Though I think my real problem was with shadows. Hanging clothes and floor lamps disguised as dark figures haunt the corners of my room. So I would turn on the light, rationalise my thoughts and fall back asleep. Because that’s all they were; senseless, paranoid thoughts created by memories of horror movies and scary stories. But four days ago I saw something real. Someone under my piano, hiding in the dark of my room. I was so close to sleep I could feel my mind fogging up, until something shifted in the corner of my eye. It didn’t move the way things usually move in the dark, like when you turn your head and think you see someone rushing past the doorway. A figure crawled out from under the shelter of the piano. Head tilted with glazed over eyes. The figure was dark and about as tall as a five year old child. It was the shade of black that swallows every ounce of light with the waxy, uneven surface of a half-melted candle. I reached for the light switch instinctively. I prayed that whatever was standing 4 metres away from me wouldn’t try to kill me in the time it took for my eyes to adjust. Nothing had changed. Nothing had moved. I fell back asleep three hours later when anxiety finally exhausted my mind. In the morning I wrote the whole thing off as a sleep induced hallucination, but I didn’t exactly believe it. I sleepwalked through the following 24 hours until the night came again. My mind was restless, tears pricked my eyes from staring at the empty space below the piano. It was 1:30, my unblinking eyes began to close and it returned. I was paralysed, watching it repeat the movements from the night before. Except this time, when it stood it was a foot taller. I paid frozen, panicked attention to its thin frame, it’s boney hands. Black liquid slowly dripped from its fingertips and onto the carpet. Again, when the light turned on, it disappeared and I stayed awake with the light on. The next morning I stared in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and cried. I needed this feeling to leave. I needed sleep. Throughout the day I felt eyes everywhere, the sight of shadows sent me into a panic. But it was in my head. It had to be. I am not the kind of person to wear tin foil hats and hunt for ghosts, so I refused to believe that this was anything more than a monster under the bed. I got home and sleep began to call me but as I walked into the bedroom my heart dropped. There was something on the floor. Two clusters of black dots blemished the carpet, each collection less than a metre apart. The stains looked like ink the same inky black that dripped from my tormentors hands. I did not sleep. Not for a second. I laid on the couch wrapped in blankets with a knife held under my pillow, flinching at the slightest noise or flicker. The morning felt like night. All sense of time was disrupted, I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp. I got up from my couch, the knife clutched tightly in my hands. I walked to the room and the knife fell to the floor. I could feel blood pooling around me. The blood was seeping from my butchered foot and into the cracks of the floorboards. But my gaze was fixated on the walls. At the black dripping letters written across the plaster. “Why are you hiding?” The white hot pain spreading up my legs was numbed by the rampant thoughts in my mind. I crawled from the carpet to the floorboards of my living room. Travelling in and out of consciousness. I grabbed my phone from the table and saw a second message on the screen. “I can see you.” I couldn’t take it. I collapsed on the floor after dialling the emergency service number. A trail of blood tracking my movements. I woke up a day later in a hospital room. I told them what happened, I told them about the figure in the dark and asked them about the writing in the walls. They chalked it up to pain meds and delusions but I know what I saw. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to sleep.


Things don’t sound that bad here so far - not like some other places anyway, in the news. But there *have* been cases. Nobody seems to be taking it seriously; the supermarket’s traffic and supply situation seemed normal enough. Well, except for my own two carts filled to the brim. Cashier didn’t say a word, of course, but her eyes clearly said “look at this crazy woman, look how paranoid she is about what’s gonna turn out to be just a whole lot of noise and fuss for nothing”. Well, check-out lady, I can’t afford to take any chances. Not with my lupus. Which is why what you’re seeing is, in fact, only a small portion of my preparations - vegetables, eggs, juice, mostly stuff that goes bad faster, and couldn’t have been bought in bulk when the first wave of deaths started hitting the news. Because, yes, I’m in this for the long haul. Nothing’s closed yet, and the government isn’t really mandating anything other than “wash your hands”, but I’m not waiting for them. And if my job won’t let me home-office, I’m taking all the three months I’ve racked up. Don’t know if that’s enough - I’m set up to go on a lot longer than that - but, if it gets to that, I suspect losing my job will be the least of my problems. **Day 2 of quarantine.** House cleaning is tough work. Gotta do it more often. Used up almost a whole bottle of bleach - it’s alright though, I’ve got six more. Besides, I don’t expect any more contact with the outside until it’s all over; better err on the side of caution early on and make my space safe. It was hell on my skin, of course, which isn’t helped by my condition, but I’ve got several months’ worth of cream, so I should be fine. **Day 3 of quarantine.** If I keep going through my cream at this rate, I’m running out within 9 weeks. Is it really just the bleach? I’d rather avoid corticoids as long as possible, but who knows. There *shouldn’t* be any other allergens or toxins around. What have I forgotten? Wait... do you disinfect groceries? I’ll look it up. *Shit.* **Day 4 of quarantine.** Wow... I *did* buy a whole lot of stuff. Good news is, the guidelines I’ve found about home sanitizing call for a much lower concentration of bleach than I’d been using. Cleaned a lot more than the other day, with barely half a bottle. The bad news, of course, is that it’s all over my food and personal effects. Don’t know whether or not it clears out over time, or what that’s doing to me, but at least I’m not getting the bug. Allergies I can manage, I’ve got a bunch of corticoids. Oh yeah, first local death. With so many places going on lockdown, people are starting to grumble about it here. Who’s the paranoid one now, huh? **Day 5 of quarantine.** Rashes still bad, started on corticoids. Well, that’s life, I guess. Wonder how Mom’s doing. Almost starting to wish we were on speaking terms. *Almost.* Oh, yeah... there’s one problem I hadn’t anticipated. How am I taking out the trash? I mean, I gotta do it, but then the perimeter gets breached. Well, I guess it’s fine if I follow the script when I get back - clothes straight into the washing machine, my own ass straight into the shower, and bleach up everything I’ve touched on the way in. **Day 6 of quarantine.** Went outside to take out the trash. People *really* aren’t getting it, are they? Street’s a little quieter, sure, but there are still *way* too many people around. I’m sweating bullets right now, but I guess that’s just the stress. Even after the whole decontamination routine, I don’t really *feel* clean. Irrational, I know. Thank God for YouTube. Can you imagine, managing just on books and stuff? I’d go nuts in a day. **Day 7 of quarantine.** Do I have a fever? I thought it was just cold, but my shirt’s soaked. I’m not coughing. That means I haven’t caught it, right? No, it’s the lupus. It’s gotta be. Otherwise... no, I’m just being paranoid. Of course that’s it. **Day 8 of quarantine.** Who knew Netflix’s inventory of true-crime shows was so vast? I’m set for *life* here. Fever isn’t letting up. Anti-inflammatories help, but not completely. Trying real hard not to think about it. **Day 9 of quarantine.** I’ve been avoiding the news for the most part, but I can’t help it. Local cases are exploding. Measures are finally being put in place. Too little, too late, and too many selfish economic interests getting in the way. I get that your business takes a hit if you shut down everything non-essential that can’t be done from home, but is that worth risking your life for? Risking everyone *else’s* lives? Do you really wanna go down in history as the guy who sued to keep your factory running, and making auto parts at that, rather than filter masks or patient respirators? Are you sticking a carburetor into your mouth when you come down with it and can’t breathe? Speaking of which, my breathing is thin. It still fits with the lupus, and it’s not like I haven’t been like this before, but it’s also hard to ignore. That’s two symptoms now. Should I get tested? I mean, that means going out again, and we really don’t want that. And they also say hospitals are getting swamped soon, so you shouldn’t bother them until it’s real bad. But how bad is bad? **Day 10 of quarantine.** My God, the floor. I washed it on the first day, but when I took out the trash, I only disinfected what I touched with my *hands*. I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, STUUUUUPID. Spread it all over my house by now too. That’s it. Gotta be, it’s obvious. *Fuck.* **Day 11 of quarantine.** Welp, not getting any cleaner than this. Did the whole house over again, another half bottle of bleach down too. Everything I’ve worn since it all started is washing too, for good measure. And the fever’s subsiding. Dunno if it’s the workout, or if it’s going to relapse, or what. **Day 12 of quarantine.** Fever’s really gone, it seems. Not that it necessarily means anything... several people have relapsed from the disease by now. Probably shouldn’t have looked that up, but, y’know. And since we’re on that topic, things are really serious out there. Roads getting closed, supermarket shelves empty, people being fined for milling about on the streets. Finally. **Day 13 of quarantine.** It’s silly, but I almost didn’t write this. But ah, what the hell, who’s gonna read it? I’m writing this mostly to stay sane. So yeah... the big news today is, I finally managed to masturbate for the first time since I locked myself up. Thinking back on... well, pretty much any day I’ve had to myself before, it’s hard to believe I couldn’t do it up to now, between the stress, fever and everything. That’s a good sign, right? Things are looking up. **Day 14 of quarantine.** Trash’s starting to smell real bad. I think I’m going out again. I know what I have to do now. This is going to be completely air-tight. **Day 15 of quarantine.** THAT FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! How can people be so fucking SELFISH?! I thought 6 am would be completely dead - hell, it is *normally* \- but no, that asshole had to be out jogging. JOGGING! What the FUCK was he thinking? And he SNEEZED! I’m pretty sure I heard that! This is actually fucking *criminal*. I hope the bastard ends up in jail. I’ve done a full, really thorough clean-up, of course, but who knows. And, between the bleach and all the extra scrubbing in the shower, my rashes are killing me. Fuck it, I’m doing corticoids, not gonna wait around on that one. **Day 16 of quarantine.** Finally caved and reached out to Mom. Well... tried to. Turns out all her contacts are out of date. I could start asking around, but with things the way they are, people could take it the wrong way and think there’s something wrong. Last thing I need is them panicking over me again. For all the good they’d do, the useless bastards. Thank God for social media... I could never face this alone. Not *ever*. **Day 17 of quarantine.** Breathing is tough again. I’m getting chills, but like *hell* I’m taking my temperature. I can’t handle this right now. If I’ve got it, what the hell can I do? I’m laying down on the couch, cold pizza on my lap, big bottle of soda by my side, true crime on TV, and I’m not budging my ass from here until tomorrow at the earliest. **Day 18 of quarantine.** I’m cleaning the house again. Aside from the basic hygiene, what if I brought the bug back with me? Not in my clothes or on my skin, but inside me? I’d have contaminated the whole damn house right back. But if that was the case, then what’s the point? If I’ve got it, I’ve got it, and no cleaning is changing that. If I don’t, shouldn’t the clean-up I did be enough? Or did I miss something? What did I miss? Eh, chalk it up to hygiene, if you will. I’m cleaning the *fuck* out of my house. **Day 19 of quarantine.** Just noticed how fat I’ve been getting. Is it the stress-eating? The lack of exercise? The corticoids? Girl, get a grip on yourself. You’ve stocked up on a lot of stuff, but that doesn’t include plus-size clothing. And speaking of corticoids, those rashes ain’t going away. Gotta use up that cream, girl. Also, just noticed I’ve started talking to the mirror. Eh, it’s normal, really. People aren’t built for this sort of lack of human contact, I suppose it’s a perfectly normal coping mechanism. But maybe I should start doing some classes on Zoom or something. I mean, I talk to people, but I don’t *talk* talk to people. What else am I supposed to do, call ‘em on the phone? Who even *does* that anymore? **Day 20 of quarantine.** I’m starting to worry about the trash. It never stops piling up, of course, but I wonder if it’s really a good idea to take it out. Last time was a fucking disaster. What’s worse, run-of-the-mill infection from keeping garbage indoors, or catching that thing out there? And besides, I keep thinking about those hoarders from TV. I could never forgive myself if I got like that. Although... it would be just temporary, of course, just until this all blows over. Well, I guess I still have a couple days before I really need to decide what to do about this. **Day 21 of quarantine.** There’s been looting out there. I’m starting to get really worried. Well, I was before, but this is something else. I mean, they *know* it’s a terrible idea to go outdoors. Took them long enough, but I think people get it by now. So, if they get out there to do that, that means they’re desperate. And who knows what desperate people can do? And, on a globally less bad but personally worse note, my internet’s out. How the hell am I supposed to pass time now? I don’t have regular TV anymore, it’s all Netflix and YouTube. I’ve been calling my provider, of course, but can’t get anyone human on the line. I suppose they’ve got the barest skeleton crew running now, if at all, what with the lockdown measures, but they *have* to have people out there taking calls. Internet’s an essential service - even if it wasn’t for all those people at home right now, the information has to flow, especially at a time like this, right? So I’ll keep trying. **Day 22 of quarantine.** Still no dice with the internet. I’m not back in the Stone Age, of course - I’ve still got cellular data to back me up until I get this figured out. I’m trying to avoid using it up with stuff like videos, which really eat up the bandwidth, if only to save my cell for any emergency, but it’s hard to resist the temptation. I mean, we’re home all day long, what are we supposed to do? Mobile games only get me so far. **Day 23 of quarantine.** Today I’ve yelled at the mirror. It’s not her fault, of course, but I’m feeling really, really frustrated. I think I just needed a human face to yell at, to express my anger and desperation to. Am I desperate? You do look desperate. You’ve got bags under your eyes, your rashes are out of control, your clothes are a mess, your hair’s all over the place. You need to get it together, girl. Get it the fuck together, for our sake. **Day 24 of quarantine.** It’s been a few hours’ work, digging around technical forums and chatting with the nerdiest nerds out there, but I’ve come to a verdict. My modem is officially on the fritz. They’re guessing it was a power surge. Don’t we have, like, surge protectors on everything these days? I didn’t know this kind of thing still even happened. I looked it up, and yeah, there was a storm the day it went out, maybe we got hit by lightning. How the fuck could we not have noticed that? I mean, I’ve been keeping all my windows shut of course, but I should be able to hear a thunderstorm, or at least a fucking thunder strike. Still, I gotta get this shit fixed *stat*. This means someone from the company at least walking in with the replacement, or even doing the install, but it’s getting hard to survive like this. Momma need her Netflix. I’ll just bleach it all the fuck to Hell afterwards. Why doesn’t *anyone* respond? **Day 25 of quarantine.** It was getting impossible to move around in the kitchen from all the trash, so I’ve had to move it to the laundry room. It’s not like I was using it anyway, not for a long time. And my joints hurt like a motherfucker. You look like hell, lady. Just a walking pile of garbage. Why don’t you do something? Do something, damn you! **Day 26 of quarantine.** Between my joints and the fever coming back, I’ve spent all day in bed today. Only remembered to call the internet people a couple times though, been putzing on the internet on my phone all day. Whole world’s going to Hell, it seems. There’s news of rioting. Can you imagine that? Rioting? Getting a bunch of people out there together, with the disease going around? They’re actually getting crazy - like, really, literally insane. **Day 27 of quarantine.** I can’t fucking believe it. No FUCKING way. Now I’ve lost my cell phone too? I mean, not literally lost it, not that I’ve really gone anywhere - it’s been another day in bed. But it not only has got no internet, it can’t even call?! I mean, with the internet, I get it, and I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve always known my data plan wouldn’t last long this way, but I somehow pretended not to see it. But calling? Is it tied to the data plan? How the fuck do they actually get away with that? I’d look my phone contract up, if I had, I don’t know, ANY means of communication to do it with. I mean, I’ve always made fun of those old people who still had landlines, but who’s the idiot now, huh? **Day 28 of quarantine.** I finally made it out of bed. I’m cleaning the house again. It stinks to high heaven. Well, I stink to high heaven too, come to think of it. I really need a shower. A really, really long shower. **Day 29 of quarantine.** I still can’t believe there’s no phone at all. Tried turning it off and back on, battery out and in again, anything I could think of, and still nothing. Is it just my plan, or are phones down, like, in general? I mean, could I call emergency services? You can always do that, right? Without a plan or anything? I’m not sure I wanna try it, though. They’re probably really busy right now, a lot of bad stuff going down, last thing they need is some paranoid girl just making sure she has *some* connection to the rest of the world. Besides... what if I find out I can’t even do that? **Day 30 of quarantine.** Had a really good laugh today, and a really good cry too. Like, really doubled over, doing... either. Don’t even remember when did one stop and the other start. Thing is, the other day, I didn’t want to call around asking about Mom. Now that I can’t... I really, really wish I could. I need her a lot right now. A whole lot. I mean, I guess I need *anyone*, but Mom... even with all the bad blood, I can’t stop thinking about her. **Day 31 of quarantine.** Been looking out the front window a lot lately, wondering what’s out there. Street’s all cleared up... guess people *did* get the hint after all. But it’s not *completely* empty though, and that’s the problem. Right now, there’s an old woman slowly dragging a bag of groceries. Don’t even want to wonder where or how she got that at this point. What’s she doing out? I mean, she looks at the top of the risk spectrum. Isn’t there anyone who can do that for her? She stopped to look at me. You know what... I’m not even mad. It’s gotta be really, really lonely out there. Especially for her, if she’s got nobody to get her those supplies. I can’t even... Oh, my God. She *coughed*. I’m outta here. Bye, lady! **Day 32 of quarantine.** Joints are especially bad today. On the other hand, the fever’s clearing up. I think. I’m not taking my temperature... haven’t done that in a long time, actually. I feel better off not knowing. And the windows are all sealed now. I don’t even care how that looks or what. I’ve got a lot more garbage bags than I need, so I’m using those and tape to seal everything up. Under the doors too, and the mail slot, just to be sure. All my air can come in through the AC, at least that’s got a filter. Not taking any chances here. I really, *really* can’t afford to get infected, not with my condition. **Day 33 of quarantine.** I moved my tall mirror from the bedroom to the living room, by the couch. That’s where I’ve been spending most of my time, and I could really use the company. I mean, I hate the way she looks at me, but that’s better than being alone. Getting real hard to stand the loneliness. **Day 34 of quarantine.** Something just occurred to me... how do I get to know when it’s safe to come out? I keep telling myself - and *her* \- what I’m going to do when it’s over... but when *is* that? If I can’t read or watch any news, if I’m completely cut off from the outside world, if there’s no information... how do I know? Then again, *if* it’s actually still not safe out there... I couldn’t take that risk, could I? There are models that see this pandemic going on for three, four, five months. There are waves, it could come back. Can I afford to take my chances? Do... do I have a choice? I think I’ll just hang tight for as long as I can. I think, if it clears up, people will reach out to me somehow. They’ll, I dunno, come here, do something. I’ll hear something. I don’t know how, but I’ll know. Until I do... I’m stuck here. **Day 35 of quarantine.** Been showering a lot lately... just had my second shower today, and it’s not even noon. Which reminds me... the water’s safe, right? I mean, it’s supposedly an airborne virus, it doesn’t come in the water. Or could it? How long would it survive in a water stream? I’d look it up, if only I could. God, I miss reading about this disease online. It was stressful, yeah, but the information was *there*. Still is, of course, I just can’t get to it. And there you have it - never imagined I’d miss freaking out about it online, but I do. But yeah... water. It’s gotta be safe, right? They kept telling us to wash our hands, they wouldn’t if it made it worse. It’s fluoridated and whatnot. Right? What do you think? Say, something, dammit, don’t just look at me like that! **Day 36 of quarantine.** Getting harder and harder to exercise. Not that I’d done a lot of that, but at least I’ve been trying to keep myself active. But it’s hard to ignore the siren’s call of the couch. And the mirror, of course. **Day 37 of quarantine.** She’s such a good listener. I haven’t opened up like this in *years*. About Mom, my condition, my so-called friends, sex, I dunno, *everything*. Not with therapists, not with anyone. Wish I’d met her sooner. I mean, she was there all the time, just watching in silence, waiting for me to reach out... could’ve done that sooner. She’s been always there for me. **Day 38 of quarantine.** Why do I even have a book about the history of typographics around? This must’ve been Dad’s, he was weird enough for that. Anyway, I’m now officially all out of books. Not that I’ve been able to focus on them, really, I mostly leafed through them. **Day 39 of quarantine.** Heard some people outside today. Seemed really loud too, like they were yelling. Couldn’t make out what they were saying - this house’s soundproofing is really good, I guess. Are they looters? They sounded crazed. You know how people get when they’re desperate... I’m really scared here. **Day 40 of quarantine.** Why won’t she talk back to me? I’m feeling so lost here. So... alone, I wanna say, even though I’m really not. But it does feel that way. Why does she have to be so cold? **Day 41 of quarantine.** I worry about my soap supply. I bought what I thought would be enough to last several months, but I’m not so sure about that now. It’s never clean enough, and these rashes... there’s gotta be something in them, something *bad*. I know, cream, but still. I need to be clean. **Day 42 of quarantine.** Looters outside again. I think they’re getting closer. Triple-checked all my locks, of course, and barred the doors with chairs for good measure. This is really frightening. Girl, I need you. I really do. I really, really, really, *really* need you. **Day 43 of quarantine.** The girl in the mirror started to talk back. This feels a bit weird, but I’m relieved. I *knew* I could count on her. She makes so much sense. How could I not get it? It’s all so clear now. I’m so, *so* glad I have her. **Day 44 of quarantine.** Finished shaving everything off. It was hard to let go of my hair... I’ve always been proud of my full-bodied, leonine mane, but it’s what needed to be done. My arms, legs and armpits, of course, I’d been slacking on that because who the hell’s going to see me? The *disease*, that’s who. Gone. Pubic too, smooth like a baby. And my eyebrows... eyes are a vulnerable entry point for infection, right? And they’re right there! I was so irresponsible... but that’s all better now. Everything gone, all the hair gathered up and burnt. My rashes hurt like hell, and I look like a ghost now from all the cream, but I haven’t felt this clean in my whole life. **Day 45 of quarantine.** Looters are finally at my door. They tried knocking to get my attention, to see if I could be lured out there. And I wanted to. God knows I wanted to. I just wanted this all to be over. Thank God I’ve got her here with me to help me stay strong. She whispered to me about their danger, about the violence they would inflict on me, about the infection they wanted to bring into the house. She whispered for me to stay strong and be absolutely quiet. Now that they’re gone, I feel like I can finally breathe. **Day 46 of quarantine.** She looks at me sadly. I’m still not completely clean, I can feel it, and she agrees. But she won’t tell me what do I need to do to be finally clean. I’m afraid I’m not ready, and she knows that. But I’m getting there. **Day 47 of quarantine.** I asked her about the bleach. She merely smiled. Sometimes, she can say so much with so little! I thanked God for putting her in my life, soaked a washcloth in bleach, and gave myself a thorough cleaning. It stings, sure, a *lot*, and my rashes look like my skin’s been flayed, but I’m clean. Even cleaner than before. Is it enough, though? She just smiles, sadly. **Day 48 of quarantine.** I finally understand it now. Looking back at this log here, I can see I clued in to it a while ago, but it escaped my mind somehow. Thing is, I’m clean on the *outside*. My insides, though? I can feel that *thing* bubbling, writhing in there. It makes me sick to my stomach, now that I notice it. It’s so obvious now... how come I’ve never seen it before? And it’s simple, so simple to solve it. So, I guess I’m prepared. Another full, really close shave for good measure, a long shower to wash it all off, and one more bleach scrubbing to be sure. I feel like I’m literally on fire right now, burning from head to toe. This must’ve been how the witches who were burned at the stake back in the day felt. She assured me it’s good - after all, there’s nothing more cleansing than fire, right? And the fire I feel all over my skin, even though invisible, is still burning all the infection away. On the outside, though. There’s still the inside to clean. With my last scrubbing, there’s little more than half a bottle of bleach left. I checked with her, and she said that’s enough. With it, my cleansing will be complete, and I’ll finally be free. This will all be behind me. A new, pure life awaits. So, I’m ending this journal here. I don’t think I’ll need it anymore. Once I’ve chugged this bottle, I will finally be clean enough to leave the quarantine.


He was a frail, dying man, lying in a hospital bed in a hospice. He was half the man he used to be, his body was withering and shrinking. Cancer had ravaged him. He has been in the hospice for two days. He checked himself in wearing only silk pajamas and carrying a briefcase. Never speaking, except to ask the nurse not to speak to him. Nobody comes to see him nor does anyone call to check on him. On day three as the nurse comes in to check on him, he finally speaks, two words, “a priest.” The nurse, knowingly nods, finishes her business in the room, and leaves. She tells the head nurse the patient has requested a priest. Without a word the head nurse calls and requests a priest to visit the patient. The priest arrives at the hospice. He is young and it’s obvious he is inexperienced and nervous. The head nurse greets him and explains that the man is dying and during his three days at the hospice has not spoken a word, other than requesting a priest. The priest enters the man’s room. The man is lying in bed, a glazed look in his eyes, clutching a pillow to his chest. “Good afternoon sir, my name is Father William. I understand that you called for a priest. How can I help you?” Father William asked in the most soothing tone he can muster. “Father William, I called you here, because I must confess my sins and try to right at least one of my wrongs.” The dying man stated.” Father William pulled up a chair, sat down, and pulled out his bible. “Please my son, tell me your confession.” Father William said. “Father forgive me for I have sinned. I do not have much time left on this earth and even less strength to tell you my sins. I ask that you leave me uninterrupted, so that I may get them all out, while I am still alive to do so.” The man requested in a weak and raspy voice. Father William gave the man a nod. “Father I have broken the ten commandments. I have lied, I have stolen, I have killed. When I was a younger man, full of rage from my tortuous upbringing, I fell in with the wrong crowd. I began robbing shops, then people, then using guns to help in my thieving ways. I met a man who took me under his wing. He did not go by his birthname, instead choosing to be known only by his professional handle of “mort noire”. I called him M for short. He taught me various foreign languages, how to protect myself, how to use weapons, and how to kill. It wasn’t until after I learned French that I realized his name was Black Death.” “M told me that he was a professional assassin. He is the man that killed Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin, and quite a few others. M was trained by the man who had killed Hank Williams, Vernon Isley, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, The Big Bopper, Eddie Cochran, Dorothy Dandridge, and Jayne Mansfield, to name a few. He was paid extra for Mansfield as she was also a movie star. He was trained, and so trained me, to kill, but to make it look like an accident. A car accident, a plane crash, accidental drowning, suicide, a drug overdose, alcohol poisoning, you name it, we did it. Nothing and no one were sacred to us. I myself am responsible for the deaths of many rock stars. When M retired in the mid-seventies, it was my turn to take the helm.” “My first kill had to be big to ensure I would get future contracts. I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to or the contract would have gone to someone else and I would never work again. I killed Elvis. My first kill, but not necessarily my worst. After Elvis, I killed Marc Bolan, caused the plane crash that took the lives of Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines of Lynyrd Skynyrd. I was gaining a lot of notoriety in my field and the contracts kept coming. I killed Keith Moon, and I finished off the seventies with Sid Vicious.” “Father, I have killed many, I remember all the names and how I did each one. I know this is long, but I feel for true forgiveness and to truly repent, I must name each and every one, they deserve that much at least. Nineteen Eighty would be just another decade of work for me. I took the lives of Bon Scott, Ian Curtis, Malcolm Owens, and John Bonham in 1980 alone. John Lennon, however, was not supposed to die. That damn Mark David Chapman just wanted to make a name for himself. He was being trained by our group and went rogue. Our group only kills by means that look accidental, we never use guns on rock stars. While we do take in contracts to kill this crime boss or that head of state, we always make sure that the deaths of rock stars are handled inconspicuously.” “I murdered Harry Chapin, Randy Rhodes, James Honeyman Scott, Dennis Wilson, Candy Givens, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. He was a courtesy kill. I have only failed once in my attempts, once. In 1984 I was hired to kill Rick Allen. He is the drummer of Def Leppard. I taunted him on the road with my vehicle. He became enraged and tried to pass me. I very gently tapped his car in a pit maneuver. If it hadn’t been for that nurse that showed up, he would have died. He is one lucky fellow. As a result, I still owed the holder of the contract a kill. I bided my time and when I felt it was time, Mr. Clark’s life was mine.” Father William, color drained from his face, palms sweaty, was unable to wrap his head around what he was hearing. He continued to listen quietly, all the while praying to God, could there be any forgiveness for this man? The dying man continued his list. “I had the contract to kill Kurt Cobain, but unfortunately, someone close to him, got the job done first. After that, I waited for the next contract and murdered John Denver, Johan Holzel a/k/a Falco, Aaliyah, Layne Staley, Lisa Lopes, Dee Dee Ramone, Robbin Crosby, Paul Hester, Michael Jackson, Paul Gray, Mike Starr, Amy Winehouse, Jani Lane, Whitney Houston, Chris Kelly, Wayne Static, Scott Weiland, and Prince. Maybe it’s because I, myself, am so close to death that I finally understand the precious gift that life is. The more I feel it slipping away, the more anguish I feel over the choices and deeds in my life. I took the lives of all of these people and not for some greater good, but for money. I robbed families of their loved ones and I robbed the world of the music they had yet to make.” With tears creeping down his cheeks, he continued “Why you may ask, did I kill all these people? Why were there contracts out on rock stars? Who put out these contracts? I’ll tell you. It was the greedy corporate record company executives. Some of my targets were ordered killed, because my client or clients, depending on the target, believed record sales would skyrocket upon that target’s death. Others were killed because the record company executives had life insurance policies out on that target and they were eager to collect. I was making exorbitant fees on each kill. While I might have had objections, regarding certain targets I did not wish to see dead, the money was too good to turn down.” “Is it too late? Can I be forgiven for all these deaths? Can the blood on my hands ever be cleansed? Is it too late to repent? I do not know. I will face whatever punishment the lord has for me and will not deny my misdeeds, my crimes, my grievous sins. The only thing I can do is try to prevent my last kill.” “In retrospect, I see now that I had been ill for the bulk of the last year. I told myself it was just age and continued to ignore all of my symptoms. Last week I received what would be the final contract of my career, although I did not know that at the time. My new target is a young, beautiful, up and coming super star. Her first album is set to release next week. She is not your typical musician. She is intelligent, modest, and very religious. She does not drink, do drugs, or even smoke. She is also a health nut. She takes care of her body and is careful of what she puts into it. She exercises and works out just about every day. She is only twenty years old, yet she has a plan for her future, is sure in who she is, and cannot be tempted. The studio execs cannot control her and this is the problem.” “They, the execs, prefer their clients to be easy to sway, control, and use. This young lady is none of those. She refuses to dress sexy in skimpy outfits. She refuses to use sex to sell her voice. In fact, she believes the strength of her voice is all she needs to promote her music. Her lifestyle and moral character make it impossible to make her death look like a drug overdose. However, I decided that since she does work out so much and takes so many vitamins, the only way to kill her that would look plausible, would be to drug her vitamins with a chemical that would cause her to have a heart attack and would be untraceable in autopsy.” “Last week I covertly broke into her house and replaced her new bottle of vitamins with a bottle laced with this chemical. Tomorrow she will open that new bottle having used up her last bottle and she will take one and die. My plan in place I sat back ready to see my target die. I was taken out of my self-boasting by a deep cough. I coughed so hard there was blood all over my hands. I knew this was bad and went to the doctor the following day. The news, of course, was cancer, stage four. It has spread to all my major organs and it was too late to treat. I was given one week to live. I wish the doctor was being over pessimistic, but each day since that diagnosis, I have been going downhill at an exceedingly fast pace. Which is why I checked into the hospice on Monday. My body is telling me that by Friday morning I will be gone.” The man’s hands started shaking as he dropped his head into them. “With my life quickly coming to end I realized the value of life, all life. I knew I could not leave this world knowing I had taken yet another life. Father, I am too weak to stop this myself. This young lady cannot die! She has too much music in her to be silenced before she has even started. As I’ve told you, she is deeply religious. I believe that you can enter her house under the guise of wishing to discuss spiritual needs. Once in her home, ask for a glass of water, follow her to the kitchen, and once she hands you the glass of water, drop it. Let the glass shatter, profusely apologize as you attempt to pick up the shattered pieces. Cut your finger on one of the shards and ask for a band-aid. While she is in the bathroom getting your band-aid, you will have your opportunity to switch the vitamin bottles out. If you would please hand me my briefcase from the floor there.” The man asked while pointing at the briefcase. Father William obliged and picked up the briefcase and handed it to the man. “Thank you” the man said as he opened the case. From the case the man pulled out a new bottle of vitamins and a slip of paper. “Father, this is the bottle I stole from her home and this is her address.” He said as he handed both the priest. “She keeps her vitamins on the counter next to the refrigerator. While she is in the bathroom, just grab the poisoned bottle and put it in your pocket and place her bottle back on the counter. When she returns with the band-aid, let her help you put it on, and then help her clean up the floor. Stay and speak with her as only a priest can. Take solace in the knowledge that you will have saved this young lady’s life.” “Will you do this Father? I have no one else to ask. The life of an assassin is a lonely one. The only people I know are also assassins and it is not in their nature to save a life.” The priest sat quietly contemplating the bottle of vitamins. As a priest, he has been taught to forgive and forget, nonetheless, he finds himself on one hand hating this man for killing so many talented musicians, while on the other hand feels for the man. The man is dying and in doing so has realized the sacred gift that life is. He is trying to rectify what he has done. Will God forgive this man? He doesn’t know. He feels a rage growing inside him. The priest is a music lover. This man has killed many of the musicians the priest loves. He loves Elvis’ music, especially his gospel songs. He is also very fond of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music. He truly appreciated the guitar prowess of Randy Rhodes, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Steve Clark. In truth, Steve Clark was his favorite guitar player. He could feel so many emotions when he listened to Steve Clark play. Emotions that would draw him into another world, one where only music existed. This man’s deeds had curtailed the future music he would have loved to hear from a great many bands and musicians. He thought of God and Jesus. He felt in his heart that they would forgive him and above all would want the priest to save this young lady. “Yes, I will do it, my son. I will go right now. I will come back tomorrow to visit you again to let you know how I did and to give you your last rites.” The priest said as he gently held his hand on the dying man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Father William, you are saving the life of a truly beautiful person.” The man said as the priest got up to leave. The priest left the room and stopped at the nurse’s station. “I will be back to see him tomorrow.” The priest informed the nurse, who was seated behind the desk. He nodded his head at the nurse and left. He put the address listed on the piece of paper he was given into the GPS in his phone. When the directions came up, he hit the road off to do what priests are supposed to do, save lives and save souls. He put in a Def Leppard CD and clicked through the songs until he reached Switch 625 and listened to the instrumental as he headed to the young lady’s home. As he arrived at his destination, the priest inhaled a long, deep breath. He could feel a knot develop in the pit on his stomach as he approached the front door. He reminded himself that he is trying to save her life and found the nerve to push the doorbell. As he waited for the door to open, he reflected on his love of music. He chuckled to himself when he thought about the circumstances that led him to become a priest instead of a musician. He had no talent, only a profound love of God. The door opened and a beautiful, young blonde, with mesmerizing blue eyes said “Can I help you Father?” For a moment, he was so nervous, he forgot what he should say. He gathered himself and said “Good afternoon young lady, I have been going door to door throughout the neighborhood to discuss any spiritual needs people may have. May I come in and speak with you?” He asked. “Oh, do come in Father and get out of the heat. Can I get you something to drink?” She asked. “Yes, please, I would love a glass of water, if it’s not too much.” He replied. “Not at all.” She quipped. The priest followed her to the kitchen and quietly watched as she filled a glass with water for him. “You don’t mind tap water, do you?” She asked. “Not at all, thank you so much.” He replied as she handed him the glass. He very lightly took the glass and let it slip from his fingers crashing to the floor. “I am so sorry my hands are so sweaty from being out in the heat all day.” He stated as he kneeled down to pick up the broken pieces of glass. He made sure to cut a finger on a particularly sharp piece. “Oh my, I believe I’ve cut myself, do you happen to have a band-aid?” He asked. “Yes, let me run to the bathroom and get you one, please, leave the glass, I will clean it up when I return.” She said as she headed to the bathroom. No sooner had she turned the corner out of the kitchen did the priest pull out the bottle of vitamins from his pocket. He placed the bottle on the counter next to the poisoned bottle of vitamins, picked up the poisoned bottle, and slipped it into his pocket. He bent back down to the floor, and carefully this time, picked up the broken shards. As he was grabbing a towel off another counter, the young lady returned to the kitchen. “Let me see that finger.” She said as she opened the packaging of the band-aid. While she applied the bandage, he apologized for making a mess and breaking her glass. “It’s no problem, Father, it happens to everyone.” She soothed as she bent over to finish cleaning the floor. Once finished, she prepared him another glass of water and invited him to sit down in the living room. They spent the better part of an hour discussing God, the bible, and her spirituality. The priest was very impressed with her obvious knowledge of the bible and her love for God. He knew the dying man was right. This woman deserved to live. She was truly one of God’s creatures, as God had imagined them to be. He thanked her for her time and left her with his card should she have need of his services in the future. She thanked him and indicated she would love to see his service this Sunday. They shook hands and he left. When the priest got into his car, he let out a very long sigh of relief. He tapped the bottle in his pocket and thanked God for using him as a tool to save this woman’s life. He turned the music back on and drove back to the church. There were inquiries about why he was gone so long today and he insisted it was for a confession and it was a very long one. He had dinner and turned to his bible for a nice study prior to going to bed. He had a long day, emotionally draining, and spiritually fruitful. In the morning, the priest rolled out of bed, and dressed in his attire. He went to his computer, as he liked to read the news before breakfast, and read the story of the death of a young woman. The article indicated that the young woman had a heart attack. The article stated she was releasing a record album next week, and how terribly sad it was. The priest ran to the bathroom and threw up. As he hugged the toilet bowl, he asked himself “how could this be possible? I switched out the bottles. I put the clean bottle on the right and picked up the poisoned bottle from the left. I put it in my pocket!” He ran to his bedroom and searched through the pockets of his clothes. He found the bottle and opened it. The safety label was intact. There were no holes of any sort whatsoever that he could see. He wracked his brain. Did I switch the bottles right? He was sure he had, but looking at this bottle, he was sure he had not. He had failed. He had to let the man know of his failure. He also had to give the man absolution through his last rites. As he drove to the hospice the scenario played over and over in his head. How had he messed up? Did he try to do it too fast? Did he worry too much about cleaning up the glass and in the process missed the switch and just put the bottle back in his pocket? He prayed, no pleaded with God. He begged for forgiveness for his mistake. He begged God to not hold this death again the dying man, the man who tried to right at least one of his wrongs. He asked God to take care of the young woman. She had a good soul and she deserved entry to Heaven. He was so lost in his thoughts and failure that he almost passed the hospice. He found a parking spot and headed to the dying man’s room. As he threw the door open, the first thing to greet him, was an empty bed. “Oh God, no, the man has died already and without his last rites. Please God forgive him.” He thought to himself. He turned around to go to the nurse’s station to ask the nurse when the man passed only to see the nurse standing behind him. “He got up and left last night. He left his briefcase on the bed with a note on it saying to give it to you. You know, we never even knew his name.” The nurse said as she handed him the briefcase. Confused, the priest wandered over to the nurse’s station and placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The priest was shocked by the contents. In the briefcase, the priest saw a huge sum of cash and a note. “Thank you, priest, without your help, my plan would have failed.


Also this is a very rough draft so excuse spelling mistakes or the overuse of contractions. There were always rumors of a serial killer so evil, so demented, so monstrous, so gruesome, and so evil that he was looked at as more of the hypothetical monster under humanities bed than a real psychopath that needs to be hunted down and exposed. In this short story I am going to describe the infamous and horrible tale of what can be only called as “the monstrosity.” The monstrosity was born in 1945, his exact date of birth is unknown, he was born in Midwestern America; most likely Kansas. His father was a hulk of a man who conceived him when he brutally raped his own daughter, the violence in the monster’s life began before he was even born. His mother lets call her Lesly was only seventeen years old when she gave birth to the monstrosity, who was born about three weeks premature. Lesly almost died in childbirth because the monster’s father (lets call him Larry) continued to beat her during the pregnancy which led to the premature and extremely painful birth. The doctors predicted the monstrosity would not live through the night...oh how wrong they were; looking back if the doctors knew of the evil they allowed to enter the world, they may have had no problem suffocating that small innocent child right there and then. The monstrosity had no serious health problems from the violent birth, except for the fact that he would never grow taller than 5'5 even as a grown man; this monster’s height comes into play later and can be looked at as a curse or a blessing depending on how you read this evil’s story. The monster’s father Larry remarried shortly after he was born, he lied to all about the real mother of the monster. Being a minor still Lesly was forced to continue to live with Larry and his new wife Marie even after all the abuse and pain he had caused her, she wouldn't run away because she felt her son deserved a real mother not a life of lies. So, for the next three-years she worked hard at her job as a waitress to save enough money to move out of the abusive home with her son and get her own place. The abuse of Lesly continued throughout these years but Larry didn’t touch his son the monster because he respected the fact that his son had a keen likeness to himself, and resented the fact that his own daughter Lesly wanted to turn his own child against him. Larry wasn't a sociopath but he was a monster by his own merit, he didn't understand why his daughter hated him and thought he was a useless excuse for a men let alone a father; even though he sexually and physically abused her after her mother passed away from cancer when Lesly was about nine-years old. Larry tried to turn the monster who was about four years old by this point against his true mother Lesly and make him love his wife Marie and him as parents. Now, for a moment let us observe what know about Larry’s second wife Marie...she was about twenty-six years old married to Larry a much older man and little is known about her background or early-life. What we do know however straight from the words of our little monster is that she was an extremely beautiful woman; about 5’9, luscious blond hair, long legs, a nice curvy midsection, and most of all her skin according to the monster was softer than any other woman he ever met. But that all comes in to play later in this story of true evil. I will set the scene for the beginnings of our little monster’s first look at death and real cruelty. Of course the monster was exposed to the beatings of his real mother Lesly from time to time, but Marie did her best to keep the monster away from such things. You may be thinking why would a woman as beautiful as I described Marie as be with a violent man like Larry and allow him to abuse his adult daughter? Well, since little is known about Marie’s personality (at this point in time) I guess we can just say love works in mysterious ways and in this case ends up intertwined with death and unknowingly creating pure evil. Anyway, back to the story...Lesly finally saved up enough money to take the monster away from this hateful environment and get her own nice place. But Larry and Marie didn’t like that idea, they didn’t believe that Lesly really worked for that money and accused her of prostituting herself to make the money. They called her all sorts of names, not knowing that our little monster was hiding under the bed in his mother’s room just taking all this in. Like I said he had witnessed violence before, but never had he witnessed such abuse in a verbal sense they broke his mother down. Lesly wasn't the most emotionally sound woman due to her father’s abuse and it didn't take much to break her, and by the end of the verbal abuse from Marie and Larry which went on for almost an hour she just sat in the corner wet with her own tears and ashamed that she allowed them to do that to her. Then something happened to Lesly as she set there wallowing in her own pain and self-hate...she snapped. This young woman who received awful abuse by her own father her whole life finally snapped. She hated him with such passion, who was he to abuse her and then coddle her son like he was a decent human being when he was the one who raped her and almost killed her from beatings during her pregnancy! Lesly was not a small woman, her father Larry was about 6’6 and 250-pounds and he passed those genes onto his daughter; she was 6’3 but her weight was unknown. She grabbed Larry’s baseball bat that he used to occasionally use to beat her when he wasn't playing on the local softball team with it, and she waited in the room until she heard Marie go into her room and fall asleep. She left her room, and shortly after the monster (without her knowledge) followed her into the hallway and watched her. She saw that Larry was passed out on the couch and she snuck up behind him, only his head was exposed from under the covers. Lesly raised the bat above her head and slammed it back down with all the might and power she had within her body. The sound of Larry’s skull cracking was sickening to the soul of a normal person...you could hear the skull break apart into small fragments and slice through the brain matter. You could taste the blood in the air and feel the lack of Larry’s existence within it. Even though our monster was only four or five years old, he describes the event with such vivid remembrance as if it was his first memory. And maybe it was, because in my opinion this moment and what happened next is what creates our little monster as he really is or will be for the rest of his so called life. Larry was near dead after the first blow, but Lesly didn't know that and probably felt more powerful and in control than she ever had before in her entire life. She kept hitting him over and over, she destroyed his face so completely that it would take a ton of work for the cops to identify his body without just assuming. The monster describes hearing the life leave Larry’s body but instead of like it is in film he described it as just a silence within the room as if Larry’s soul or whatever made him alive had just been removed from the area. The silence as he described it was quieter than anything he would experience for a long time after. Than the silence was broken by Lesly yelling at the monster “go to your room, you shouldn't see this baby.” Her voice wasn't the same though it sounded different than the mother the monster though he knew, it sounded emptier as if the love Lesly held for him had exited her. And even at five years old the monster says that he felt the difference.