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Rated: 18+ · Novel · Drama · #1966064
A depressed writer’s begins to live out the actions of his new character a serial-killer
My life - I would up give anything to go back and change things. The only problem is that I do not have much to give. I am a 33 year old writer slash loser who has somehow pissed away every big opportunity that ever crossed my path. I live in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Brooklyn, I work part-time at a pet shop, and I have watched my best friends surpass me in every facet of life. Jealous of their success - I let go of every bond I had with those guys;  except for Jerry, he has never had anything that made me jealous of him. I guess you could say that our failures brought us closer. I was there when he lost his wife Erica and he was there when I lost my dog Marley. To be honest, the rock solid relationship he had with his wife had been the one thing that I had envied about Jerry's life. They were perfect together. She was the jelly to his peanut butter. Sadly and selfishly - if she were still alive then I would probably have abandoned my friendship with Jerry a long time ago - just as I had done with all of my other friends. Abandoning friendships for those reasons may sound selfish to most, but it is how I manage to keep myself from going completely insane. I just cannot stand to be around anyone who is not like me - those who manage to succeed of course. I feel like I'll either be dragging them back or I'd get so jealous that I may find it in myself to snap out and kill them. Either way I simply avoid it by just disappearing from their lives. I am a very confused and isolated person. I could never figure out why I am this way, but why dwell on it. You take life for what it is and try to make the most of it. All I ever asked for was to sell enough books to support my habit for drugs and sleazy women. Is that too much for a man to ask for? I guess it was because now I can barely afford to pay the bills I have, and that leaves no room for fun, drugs, and women. One girl in my life had me feeling as if I was actually worth something. Eventually, she got too good for me. At least that is how I saw it. She went off to New York City and became some big model; meanwhile I was in serious stage of depression, balling up page after page of my latest book - a book that never got finished. That was two years ago. I awake every day trying to complete that same book, but I always end up exactly where I started off - with nothing. I guess it's a sign that I should give up on this writing thing but if I did I'm afraid that depression would get the best of me and I'd eventually kill myself.

Today marks the 1-year anniversary of Jerry wife's death. Would I be an asshole to say I was somewhat happy that she passed because I knew I could now hold on to Jerry? Anyway, while dining outside at a local restaurant, a drunk driver ran up the curb, killing her and a friend. Witnesses say that her last words were "tell Jerry I love him." that has always stuck with Jerry. It is the reason he is still single to this day. He tells me that he can still feel her watching over him somewhere. I personally think its all bullshit. It is his way to make he feel like he has something to live for, poor person. It is funny how death can keep another person alive. I guess that is just how this crazy world works. We small-timers have so little to our name that we have to put our faith in the things we can see or understand. I do not believe in a higher power or an angry red demon. It is all a way that the system can keep us in check. It gives weak people like Jerry something to believe in because they do not believe in themselves. Me - well I do not believe in myself so I guess I do not believe in anything. Before I leave for Jerry's I figured I would try to finish a page of the book that is supposed to solve all of my problems. I feel like this is my last chance. If this does not work out then I cannot imagine that I will be trying to continue on this path. As I said before - I do not know if I will even have a reason to live. It is sad but it is good to be honest with yourself. If a human being had no goals in life, than what would they be living for? Would it be just to die slowly? Why not speed up the process and avoid any further agony. That is all that awaits me if this book flops like the others. I guess the only thing I would have to worry about then is how to end it. I am terrified of drowning so that would not be an option. In addition, I believe that I deserve a slow and painful death.

It is not as if I have murdered and raped anyone but failing as a writer is an even more serious crime done onto myself than killing someone else could ever be. Fire - fire is a good way to ensure that I suffer in the worst possible way. I get to smell my own flesh melting away as it slowly slides off my bones, bubbling at extreme temperatures. Yeah, I will douse myself in gasoline I guess, why not? I am already walking through the flame of failure; it will be a fitting death for a slumping writer like me. No one will miss me. Jerry will be too preoccupied thinking that his wife is some angel watching over his shoulder. I will just fade away with time, to be forever lost. One positive about me is that I am very organized. Mostly because my mother and father raised me that way. The workstation is the only place in my apartment that is constantly in shambles. The ashtray full of cigarette butts shows just how stressful my writing sessions have become. Before I start writing, I like to take about 10 minutes to reflect on everything bad that has happened to me. The pain usually motivates me but lately it has just made things even more depressing than they already are. Still, a man must dig deep to find the most hurtful things so the good becomes more valuable. It is as if the more you eat shitty food, the more you are going to want a taste of a nice meal. Then once you finally get that meal, it is the best meal you ever had. My pain reminds me why I need to finish this book. It keeps me alive and motivated to achieve my goals so I can finally be happy one day. After I am done my own personal mental beat down, it is time to write.

Opening up Microsoft Word is one of the better moments of my day. At that point, I still have hope. There is a blank canvas and my mind is the paintbrush. I can do whatever I want with that paintbrush. It is my great escape from a rancid reality. I could paint a gory bloody picture for the world to look at in disgust or I could make a thousand rainbows for everyone to stand under singing in joy. However, let us face it; I like the darker side of life. My rainbow is full of dull colors and there is no music, just silence and a steady downpour of black rain. I was never the type to want to write fantasy, or love stories. My genre is horror dabbed in a bit of tragedy. Normally when you think of horror, you think of monsters and ghost but not me. I focus in the real horrors of life. The stories that parents would never tell their kids at bedtime. Real pain is the best way to relate to the world. My college literature teacher once told me that it is not sex that sells; it is tragedy that makes the most money. That was before he had been found in a closest at school, hanging by the neck. My story has always been a tragic one so it made sense for my work to follow. I read a lot of newspapers and online articles for dark inspiration. The media loves misery. I had even thought about writing about Erica's death - turning her story into some sort of sleazy tale of love and revenge. I don't think Jerry would of appreciated that but that was at a point where I wasn't sure if I wanted to be his friend anymore. The story would have been sort of a parting gift. That way he would be too pissed off at me to want to be friends. Here I am again, finding every way possible to take my mind off writing. Whom am I kidding? I cannot do this. I just am not motivated now. I have just spent the last hour or so thinking about death and all of my failures. I think it is best if I make my way to Jerry's before my mind drifts even deeper in the abyss. Last time I spoke to him, he sounded broken up about the anniversary of Erica's death. It has been a year so you would think the man would be slowly getting over it but he just is not. In fact, he says he misses her more than ever.

It is not often that I get a reason to leave my apartment - not that I try give myself many reasons to leave. Since I do not get out much, I really do not find the need to shower every day. It sounds bad, but it saves me money on the water bill. I barely ever have much left over after I pay everything else for the month when I do; I usually go and buy a new videogame or update my already robust movie collection. That includes the adult films as well. I do not know what the hell I'd do without my right hand and a fresh bottle of Jergens. Which reminds me; I probably should not leave the house backed up. It is better that I relax; trust me. Out the door I am, into the cold streets of Brooklyn, New York. My neighborhood has condemned buildings on every corner - occupied by the dirt that sweeps in from the streets - mostly homeless junkies and hookers. It is a predominantly an African-American area - which I do not mind at all. I know I was taking a chance moving here but just like everywhere else I go - no one notices the thin, quiet white boy with the long dark dirty hair, shades, and Kangol hat. I am invisible to the world it seems, but it really does not bother me. I do not need attention like most of these whiners in this country. It is like Liam Gallagher said in that Oasis song - "You go your way and I'll go mine".

My way has brought me to Jerry's doorstep. He opens before I even knock; as if he were looking out the window like a sad puppy wagging their tail as they await their owner. I stepped in behind him. He sat down on the couch to put his shoes on and I realized how he looked. He looks as if he just got in from an all-night keg party. His hair is uncombed, and he reeks of cigarette smoke. "Hey man are you okay", I said worried. "What man would be okay on the one-year anniversary of his wife's tragic, bloody, and untimely death?" Jerry asked rhetorically. I would not have had answer for a question of that magnitude even if he sincerely wanted to know.

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