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Rated: GC · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #1863369
The craving hit me stronger than ever...
The craving hit me stronger than ever. It was like an insatiable monster, a burning deep within me that threatened to overcome me at any moment. Along with the craving came a rush. Like a shot of adrenaline. Or a hit to a junkie. I can't tell you when it started, only that it did, and the moment I felt those familiar pangs begin to infiltrate every nerve in my body, I knew I would give in to impulse.

It's not like I didn't try, after all, it was an addiction. I didn't want to have to do it, but it was there. The first time I tried to ignore it, to quash it deep into my soul I was ill for weeks. None of that flu stuff either, I was violently ill. After two weeks of it I finally gave into the exhaustion and right after, the sickness dissipated and I was better. It was at that moment that I knew I had a problem. But where could I go with my problem? Nowhere, that's right. I wouldn't be believed, I'd be laughed at, mocked, probably locked up. And who could blame them? So of course I didn't tell anybody, never have, and never will.

I'm writing this account, I suppose, as a way to remember all of the cravings that were out of control. So far there have only been three but I can imagine there will be many more to come. And it's a way for me to remember the people I have hurt. Eventually it will come out, it's not something I can hide forever and I don't think I want to. When that happens they can read my journal, find those people. Perhaps provide closure for the families of those who have been hurt.

So here we go, onto my first time...

Like I said, it was like hitting a brick wall, though I had never done it before and never even contemplated it, I knew exactly what the craving was. It ached in my stomach, a knot of tension waiting to be released. I tried to force it away, to ignore it, but it only made things worse. Those weeks I had off work sick were torture. I sat on the couch most days, the craving the only thing lingering on my mind. Eventually the fatigue of the illness wore me down and I gave in.

It was a late Saturday night, after midnight. I left the house not even bothering to lock up. I trawled the streets, walking in the rainy darkness. I remember seeing the lights of the street lamps reflecting on the ground, the puddles marring their shapes. I followed those lamps, as if they lit my way. I was compelled, some unnatural force pulling me forward until finally, I was there.

I saw her there standing beneath the bridge. A lone woman dressed heavily in an overcoat and thick boots, a woollen hat pulled over her head. I remember how I felt when I caught sight of her. My stomach lurched, butterflies twisting in my stomach, threatening to burst. My heart hammered, beating against my ribcage. I knew she was the one. My first.

She didn't flinch when I approached, only eyed me with curiosity. But I suppose someone who doesn't have a regular home must be used to seeing some awful sights. Or so I told myself.

I didn't speak, didn't say a word, it didn't feel right. I felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement as I neared, seeing her eyes question my face. I pulled the razor from my pocket and began to slash. I felt the blood pouring from her wounds in rivulets that ran down my hands, dripping to the floor to mingle with the rain. My jacket was spattered with blood, more and more with each frantic movement I made. I made sure to get everywhere, leaving no part of her body unscathed. I knew it had to be all or nothing. By the time I was done she wasn't recognisable but I was satiated. I drew a deep breath and felt the craving was gone. It was over.

I was horrified with myself afterwards. The image of her corpse floating through my mind daily, I don't know how I functioned. I kept asking myself how I could do such a thing, kill another human being. I got rid of the evidence, burned what I could. I told myself that would be the end of it. It was a stupid fantasy.

But as much as I tried to convince myself, I worried, constantly waiting for that familiar craving to return.

When it didn't several weeks later I felt relief. I thought it was something I could put behind me. Then it came back. It hit me with a strong burning pang, an ache deep inside of me. I knew instantly what I craved. The second time around I only resisted for a couple of days before giving in, feeling the familiar rush as the blood from my next victim coursed from his veins.

The satisfaction only lasted for three days before the craving returned. I claimed my third victim a few hours later.

Now I fear what will come next. I have showered and disposed of the tools of destruction in my house, but I know that when the craving comes I will succumb. After all, killing is my addiction.

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24th April 2012
© Copyright 2012 blue jellybaby (joanne4eva at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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