by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|I get this nightmare, see? It’s why the blood shot eyes. Can’t help the shaking, nail bitten hands. Tremors are side affect of the real earthquake, I guess. Lasts long after I wake up in the middle of it. So real it scares me talking about it.
What? What’s it about?
The perfect murder. My own. Devilish sort of thing. Feels like a mouse being pawed at by a cat. All kind of accidents happening, one after another batting my life around. The mind is an awful thing when it wants to be. I mean without conscious control. See? Lift up my shirt sleeve? My brain caused these black bruises and angry red burns.
No accidents there. My body, asleep, is why I came to see you. My doctor couldn’t do a thing. Sedatives sank me into unconsciousness at night even deeper. The perfect crime? I was murdering me and getting away with it.
I think I’ve felt it all. Self strangulation, tightening of throat muscles with no cause. No hands on my throat when I wake struggling for breath. Imagining things. They’re not even my own. I’m a no hands on kind of killer and victim all rolled up in one.
You’re the specialist. What do I do? I’ve tried everything. Stayed up as long as humanly possible, Doc put me in a sleep center and had me tied to my bed. Twenty-four hour monitoring and recording. I got it on video with sound, what I looked like waking up screaming my own name.
It got so all I wanted was to make it stop. Think of it. Talk about a mental case. When awake I considered suicide, I became such a basket case.
My instinct for survival is too much. I can’t do it. I’ve read up the least painful way to do oneself in. Got to be careful, you know. So many ways can go wrong. Leave you helpless and damaged goods. Learned that talking to a suicide help line while in a murderous rage.
Why I’m here. Desperation. No-one can help me but you.
How’d I find out about you? It is all I live for. Your secret is safe with me. You're not the only one but you are the best. I tracked you down by your success. The only true perfect murders are those done by strangers to strangers. They are the ones never found out.
One string led me to you. Yes. I’ll tell you. I’ve written it down. Made available upon my demise. The authorities will think I off’d myself, if they think anything at all. Conscious or unconscious the record is clear and so will you be.
So is the record of your previous attempts at the perfect murder. A little motivation to get it right this time. You took one too many chances. Now, I’m here.
Yeah, I guess I am your own worst nightmare.
Think about it and tell me your plan.
I’m not going anywhere.