August 11, 2015 – 7:03 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
He sat on the bed, nervously awaiting the arrival of his guest. The windows overlooked the parking lot of the motel, only a truck and a few other cars sat with his own red sedan. He stood, heading for the ineloquent view in full, his stomach filled with fluttering bugs, crawling ones too. The parking lot was surrounded by small areas of businesses and the old highway leading back into town. Multiple cars flew by some only actually going by. A couple pulled into the BBQ restaurant across the street. His stomach growled a bit with the no food he had been consuming. A hand pressed hard on his aching gut did little to stop the incessant gurgling. His sightline caught two people getting out of a car in the parking lot of the restaurant across the street. The guy lit a cigarette, leaning on the driver’s side door of the dark blue hatchback. The girl got in front of him, resting her head on his chest. He in turn wrapped one arm around her waist. After a few minutes, they had gone inside for their nightly meal. There was still an hour or so before his guest would be arriving, perhaps he could run over and grab a beer. The thought processed for a minute before he sat back down on the bed, picking up the wallet from the nightstand. He quickly counted through the cash, finding that he should have enough for even two pints. Restaurants usually have bars where food isn’t always necessary to obtain a seat. The main, and deciding, factor was that the pint may settle his nerves. A quaff for a qualm. So he stood, gathering his wallet, glasses, and sunglasses, and his cigarettes. One pack was half-empty, the other three were stacked neatly on the nightstand, a grey BIC lighter beside them in case his pink one died. The small lamp shone down on the shiny plastic that wrapped the cardboard, his mind draining his attention to what could be happening at each point where those packs could be opened. And they all would be.
As he went for the old, brass knob on the door, his thoughts stopped him, making him turn to his bag next to the surprisingly newer modeled television. The television itself had a cluster of dead pixels in the bottom left corner, not that it disrupted the program very much. Its accompanied remote had been crusted with something that was dry, but also sticky, leaving him no choice but to control the television by its hard wired buttons along the right side. He turned it off before digging through his bag to collect the items he needed to complete his thought. A bag of marijuana, and a glass pipe. On the bed, he cut some of a bud up, enough for a quick bowl and one for when he returned, and saving enough complete buds for later when his stomach would turn rotten, growing upset and pained, which history would guarantee him. When he was satisfied with the small pieces of pot, he packed some into the little, triangular bowl to its brim. A problem arose when the aspect of the smell hit him. There was a small patch of trees just behind the building that he had thought to use, but wasn’t sure if that was the safest place to smoke a bowl. He went to the window in the bathroom, opening it as it was heavily frosted and reinforced with wires. The trees were obviously much too thin to shield, being able to see the cars on the parallel street driving by. Getting into his car was a possibility, but worries of someone seeing him suspiciously crunched down were too great. He let out an annoyed sigh, staring down at his hand, the green and orange crumbles, and the black-resin soaked pipe. Still considering, he shut off the light, causing a sudden silence. He spun, eyes locked to the ceiling. He flicked the switch back up, the intake fan began to hum, spinning and buzzing an invitation to finish his thought. He quickly pulled the bathroom door closed, shut the window in case he started to cough, which wasn’t unheard of, and then balanced himself on the toilet seat. The fan worked perfectly sucking up the sacrificed smoke between each puff and the inhaled cloud in full. Amazingly, he didn’t even cough this time. Relieved and satisfied, he placed the pipe in the nightstand’s drawer before walking to the restaurant for the pint.
July 17, 2014 – 2:27 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD -- Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“Why do you think you’re here?”
“After years of doing this on my own, I’ve lost control. So…I guess I am relinquishing it, myself, to you. Was sort of forced into it, but this is right. Right?”
“Right. Is this what you want?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been sure of my wants,”
“What about needs?”
“Needs?”
“Yes, beyond necessities…food and water, love, companionships of all sorts,”
“I need all of those things…I think,”
“You think?”
“Well…sustenance…yes,”
“So, aside from sustenance, what do you think you need?”
“I don’t know,”
“Have you ever felt as if you’ve been deprived of something in your life?”
“Lots of things,”
“Like what? Examples if you please,”
“Things…objects for Christmas as a child…going out with friends at times…what else could I have been deprived of besides things,”
“It’s possible to be deprived of lots of things aside from objects,”
“Examples?”
“Some people are born or brought up in a way that can cause those people to be deprived of natural feelings,”
“Feelings?”
“Yes, natural ones can be interrupted by mental disorders,”
“Are you asking if I feel like I have been deprived of a feeling?”
“Do you feel that way?”
“Sometimes…I guess,”
“What feeling do you think you’ve been deprived of in your life?”
“Affinity,”
August 11, 2015 – 7:56 PM
Site 13 BBQ
16 Paris Blvd
At a table in the restaurant, he waited for a server to come take his money and pour a cold, frosty beer for him. He was going to have a seat at the bar like he had envisioned during his short walk but the hostess, while young, was much more attractive than anticipated, or even thought of. She asked him if he wanted a table, pulling out a single menu, slightly smiling at him and batting her long, mascara accentuated lashes. At first he thought she may have actually found him remotely attractive, but then he began to panic. Was she using her facial features to flirt with him? Was he supposed to flirt back? How the hell was he supposed to do that? Was she batting her lashes? Or was a small speck of dust or mascara caught in her eye, just under the lid that caused the need to blink a bit while conversing? She probably smiles at every customer that walks in like that, doesn’t she? And then three of the longest seconds had gone by. Right about where her possibly forced-out, fake smile began to fade, words that didn’t seem to have an origin exited his lips. She simply nodded at his request for a beer, turning away and walking to a nearby table. When she turned back around, he hadn’t moved. He had just stood there, intensely mulling over his thoughtless words. She had asked if he wanted a table, not his choice of beverage. Then, when he realized she had attempted to lead him to a table where he could drink that beverage, he stupidly stood there. He quickly caught up with her, now avoiding eye contact, and pulled out one of the chairs as he thanked her. She set the single menu down on the table, noticeably pressing all five fingers down, holding it there. His eyes slowly looked up from the edge of the table, following her dainty fingers and thumb formed arch that flowed into her wrist and forearm. She was leaned in a bit, that same smile on her face, telling him his server would be with him soon. Part of him knew she was flirting with him. He wanted to flirt back, but his access to that section of his brain was sometimes restricted, leaving him no choice but to long for a cigarette, panic and scream in his own head, and only let out a silent nod to the world. This, of course, caused the gorgeous emerald-eyed brunette to lose her cute smile and head back to her podium by the door, forgetting about the guy that didn’t seem interested on the outside; only assuming it was the same on his insides too. He reached out for the menu, using it as a defense and cover. He didn’t even want food, just beer. A male server took his order of one pint of Molson’s Canadian, taking the fumbled with menu as well, which was a catastrophe for him. The drink came quickly, as did it go. He couldn’t sit a table for two by himself, consuming alcohol. He knew it must have looked pathetic, a loner with no one, drinking his problems away. A spectacle for the others around him. A topic of conversation for groups or couples, discussing how embarrassing it must be to sit alone, or why he was alone; stood up? No friends? No one to care enough to have a quick drink with him? Even family? All of this transpired in his head, causing him to grow warm, feeling like he was sweating. He had to get out of this place, this socializing place where people of all kinds go to communicate and meet new people. All terrifying aspects to him. He stood too fast, bumping the table and knocking the pint glass over and creating a loud bang. His eyes shot around to the many eyes that were either staring back or quickly turning back to their conversations or meals. Just another reason to discuss the loser sitting by himself. He was now so flustered, he just turned, heading for the door. As he neared the hostess’ podium, is eyes uncontrollably looked at the girl’s ass. She turned around to him, his eyes going all the way up to her precious gaze. She smiled again, brushing some stray hair from her face. That’s when he realized he had forgotten to pay.
July 17, 2014 – 2:36 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“Are you saying you lack the ability to have affinity or have you grown to be that way?”
“I’m not sure,”
“Well, have you always felt like you couldn’t reciprocate that type of emotion?”
“I guess so,”
“Guess how?”
“I guess that I hold onto grudges for years…I still hate people from elementary school that bullied me,”
“The hate you feel for these people, does it ever make you sympathetic in any way?”
“Sympathetic for the pricks that made me feel inadequate for years? Like a loser? For the girls that told me I was ugly to my face?”
“So you feel no empathy for these people?”
“No,”
“Even if you heard their lives had fallen into disrepair?”
“Still no,”
“Why not?”
“Pricks shouldn’t be allowed to have it good,”
“So, you feel like the fact that their lives had crumbled a in way is some retribution for how they treated you?”
“Not just about me. Who cares about me? I’m just some asshole they decided to kick around. That kind of retribution is about everything they did that resembled what they did or thought about doing to me. The problem is those people don’t or rarely get their retribution. They grow up being dicks to people they thought lesser of, and then it sticks. Then they get the promotions, the raises, the things people work, strive for. And how? By doing fuck all, lying through their teeth, and being handed praise. Praise for idiocy, theft, and laziness. So, no, I can’t feel empathy for people, no affinity for them,”
“None of them?”
“From what I’ve seen…that’s a disgustingly high percentage of the human race,”
August 11, 2015 – 8:28 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd
Back at the motel, he retreated to the bathroom with his pot smoking supplies like it would save him from any other uncomfortable situations. The fan, as planned, sucked all the smoke easily up and out. The THC absorbed into is blood through his lungs, relaxing is mind a bit. So much so that he decided in favor of another bowl, going to his bag for the pot. He quickly pulled off a small amount from one of the bigger buds in the bag and broke that into smaller bits, placing them into the pipe’s bowl. Up on the toilet seat, face as close as possible to the fan, filling his lungs once more. He held it in, wanting to make the most out of it, to relieve his mind some more, for longer. The hostess’ confused and awkward facial expression from him putting down the crumpled ten dollar bill on her podium was still haunting him. He could only imagine what she did when he turned, speeding to the door, pulling in his panic despite the large PUSH sign. The smoke exhaled with a harsh burn. His eyes began to water, lungs feeling tight, mouth dry, throat itching until he started to cough. It wouldn’t stop. He dropped down to the floor, leaning over the sink, hands gripping the edge as saliva dripped from his lips. Only small volumes of air were able to find their place in his lungs.
A loud banging came from the door to his room. His eyes shot to his own reflection in the mirror, filled with forced-out tears from his continuous coughing. He pressed his hand, slapping it in place, over his mouth, shielding the loud and obnoxiously distorted breathing from the other side of the door. Another few loud knocks sounded after he had exited the bathroom, still coughing, hand concealing his involuntary breathing spasms. He took the biggest breath he could, holding back the itching in his throat, and then peered through the peephole. It was the man he had paid when he rented the room. He stepped back, horrified of the circumstance, his body forgetting instantly about the need to finish coughing. Why was he there? Did he know what was happening in the bathroom? Did the fan’s exhaust point run through the main air-duct? Effectively ripping away his assumptions of secretly partaking in a bowl of marijuana? Or were there cameras, covertly placed to spy on unsuspecting women or couples performing amorous activities? Or, perhaps, the man had been nearby, close enough to hear the uncontrollable hacking caused by the burning bowl of marijuana? What if it smelled in the room? His coughing had completely subsided, but his throat was now gooey, one thing he knew would impede his speech; also the ability to breathe properly. What if he smelled, reeked of pot? With no other option fearing another set of knocks on the door, he pulled it open, immediately thinking of the tell tail sign of marijuana use, the bloodshot, glossed-over eyes; more results of the coughing. The man smiled, holding out a credit card, saying it had been left in the machine. The card was transferred, and with a smile from both men, thanks and welcomes, the door was shut, and relief was had.
June 22nd, 2015 – 2:41 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“So you think that most people of the world are bad people and should be punished?”
“Sure, why not? Most are depraved and will fuck you over for their own needs,”
“Punished by who?”
“Whoever. Whatever,”
“By you?”
“What power do I have to do the punishing?”
“You have plenty of power to punish people that you believe should be punished,”
“Like what? I’m just a paranoid loser that comes here once a month for some pills and a chat because of a mistake that I don’t even remember,”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not your own person,”
“Is that why the pills I take change my brain so much that I barely recognize my own thoughts sometimes?”
“The pills are meant to help you. Do they help you?”
“Mostly,”
“What about the rest?”
“Whatever is in my head, the things you said the pills would stop, he’s still there…especially if I forget one,”
“A higher dosage, paired with a benzodiazepine could be prescribed,”
“Sure,”
“We have plenty of options,”
“To what end? Will I always be dependent on pharmaceuticals to quiet my head?”
“Not entirely,”
“But a little?”
“We are working towards a position where you’d only need something for a quick relief, to keep you on track,”
“So, I’ll be stuck taking pills, even if it’s one a day or every few days…forever?”
“When you first came in, your main goal was pills to stop the problems in your head,”
“I guess,”
“Do you think they’re helping?”
“I guess,”
“Are they not stopping the voice?”
“Sure, but it’s still there, fighting to control me,”
“When was the last time he took control?”
“Last week…I think it was,”
“Had you forgotten to take your pill?”
“The one before bed,”
“Then it happened the following morning?”
“Yes…at the store while getting cigarettes,”
“What happened?”
“Well, I went out to have a half-smoke because I only had one full one. But I dropped it on the ground, soaking it,”
“And this triggered you?”
“It definitely irritated me,”
“Then you went to the store, I presume?”
“Yeah, I gathered my stuff for the walk and headed out. When I got to the store, a couple was going in. They had been up all night obviously, going to find food and drink and well…the girl was very pretty…her body, the tight, short clothes she was wearing, her hair…soaked with rain,”
“Did you have the same urges you’ve described before?”
“Uh…yeah…the want to rip her clothes off and fuck her was pretty strong,”
“Do you consider that to be another trigger?”
“The biggest, especially when their tits are showing,”
“So what happened next?”
“Well, my eyes were glued to this girl…and that darkness…the switch was being touched. I could feel myself losing myself…my whole mind turning inside out…into him,”
“At this point, he took over?”
“Sort of…he was replacing my thoughts with his…beginning to take control of my actions,”
“Continue,”
“Well…I tried to ignore him and buy my smokes, and then I decided to get a drink…my gut was telling me to forget it, but I…he wanted a closer look at the girl’s body,”
“Is that when the switch occurred?”
“Sort of…I, like, blanked out and walked to the big fridge. The girl was standing right there, her jean shorts not even below her ass cheeks, and her cleavage was so big, her nipples might as well have been out,”
“And what did you do?”
“He…took control, grabbed an energy drink, turned to her, said nice ass, and then grabbed it, squeezed it…hard,”
“What resulted?
“I’m not entirely sure…the girl yelled something at me, and pushed me away…called me a pig, I think,”
“And what did her boyfriend do?”
“I don’t know. The next thing I knew, I was behind the store…viciously beating the guy’s face on the ground…the blood,”
August 11th, 2015 – 8:37 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd
He laid down on the bed, his head falling into the pillows, which were cool, giving him some relief from his warm body. An added bonus to him. He melted into the custom bedspread, the sheets, pillows and cases, and comforter; all of it was brought from his home, freshly washed. He let out a long sigh, half-smiling to himself for getting away with his illegal deeds. Now, with the gratification of beating some sort of system society had in play, he wanted to do it again. Though, his body was so sunken into the mattress, his brain didn’t want to allow him to get up. Even if it was for another smoked bowl of satisfaction. One thing that was calling to him were his urges for nicotine and other various chemicals, and the resulting tar and carcinogens and highs. He knew the addiction he had succumbed to for so many years wouldn’t stop tickling his insides, gripping his brain until he rose from the clean, custom bedspread and stepped out to sooth his hourly affliction. It took some time, but his body eventually slid off, his feet securing to the carpet. He quickly grabbed a cigarette and lighter, wishing, even considering smoking a cigarette in the bathroom. It may have been a nice day, still there was just something about smoking inside places. The ability to sit somewhere comfortable and smoke a nice cigarette. However, knowing the fact that cigarette smoke was far different than marijuana smoke, leaving a much longer lasting aroma, admittedly disgusting when compared to the scent of marijuana, he stepped outside.
The sun was now setting, filling his eyes with an orange sky, teetering off into black abyss, speckled with stars dying light. He stared up, cautiously stepping out away from the door, wanting to see more of the natural colours. His mind was still relaxed, able to enjoy everything momentarily. The wondrous, but mere seconds when nothing else matters except that moment you are in. Where you forget everything harmful, all of it draining out, disconnecting you for those very brief moments. And then he’s back. The sound of cars also disrupted his attention of watching the stars come out in the east. The restaurant was much busier now, making him glad he had gotten out of there when he did, not forgetting he was a humorous tale to them, the hostess. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, always watching it to see how far it would go. This one landed on the curb, roughly six feet away, before rolling into the gutter.
An eighteen wheeler came roaring by, only beginning to slow. He watched it until it stopped at the red light, wondering, if not imagining how easy it would be to jump in front of it. The same genre of thoughts that had plagued his mind for as long as he could remember. His strange mind confused him all through school. He’d find himself staring at his classmates, wondering and wishing that they had the same brand of horrifying, tear inducing thoughts. Instead of talking about it, fearing ridicule or degrees thereof, he kept it to himself, letting it be nothing much at the time. Not that he didn’t have plenty of reasons to feel that way all throughout his life.
June 22nd, 2015 – 2:50 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“So let’s say this was you doing this,”
“It’s not,”
“For argument’s sake,”
“Okay, what if I’m doing this?”
“You have said that most humans should be punished because of misdeeds, some of which you directly relate. Could you have created this other person to act out the thoughts we’ve discussed here?”
“I’ve always had him in there in some form. He didn’t have the ability to control me until I took pills, those little white fuckers,”
“But only after you stopped, correct?”
“Yes, after taking those, pot and alcohol didn’t shut him up the way it used to. And they made me, someone who barely knows what happiness feels like, feel even less,”
“Are you still using marijuana and alcohol?”
“Of course. The pot a bit less lately,”
“Do they help?”
“It went from help to able to tolerate,”
“But when you take your prescription, they help?”
“I’d say so,”
“Good…okay, you’ve mentioned some desires in the past,”
“Which?”
“All of them. Have you acted on any?”
“Only in my head so far,”
“So far?”
“Just a turn of phrase,”
“These imaginings, are they about real people?”
“Sometimes,”
“Like when?”
“Random times…variously throughout the day,”
“So they are real people?”
“Well, yeah…sometimes,”
“Can we discuss the ones that make you uncomfortable? Briefly?”
“Fine…I mean, I guess,”
“Why do they make you uneasy?”
“Because they’re not right, and also, you’re a woman,”
“Would you be more comfortable if I were a man?”
“Well, no…I mean, like, I’d still be uncomfortable because a man may think it’s just as abhorrent and offensive,”
“Pretend I don’t, or wouldn’t,”
“I just know it’s wrong,”
“If you know it’s wrong then you should discuss it so we can work past it…the girl in the store…”
“What about her?”
“When you…he was taking control and grabbed her. Did you like it?”
“I’m usually to awkward around women, so being that aggressive made me uncomfortable,”
“But on the level of it being an attractive girl, did you like it?”
“Well, of course, but mostly ashamed that I couldn’t stop it from happening…like, that’s not okay to do to a girl,”
“What about if she had of acted opposite, would you have done anything with her?”
“Done anything with her? Why would she? For one she had a boyfriend, and for two, what kind of girl would fuck a guy that grotesquely groped her ass?”
“Say for argument’s sake,”
“Uh…probably, but that wasn’t me doing it…even if a girl talked to me, unless I’m drunk or high on something where he could help me get words out beyond how ya doin’, I freeze and panic in my own body, and then she goes away after usually seven or eight seconds of silence,”
“You say that he will help you achieve sexual desires if you’re inebriated?”
“Yes, but the last time I let it go that way, I woke to a crying girl tied to my bed,”
“When was this?”
“A month or so ago,”
“Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”
“I was worried about possible repercussion,”
“It’s fine, please…”
“Well, I, uh…woke…came to…when I was in my bathroom…naked…doing drugs,”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Coke,”
“I thought you had ceased your drug use?”
“I did…I don’t know where it came from,”
“So, he acquired the drugs?”
“As far as I know…I have no memory of buying it,”
“Okay…go on,”
“Well…I was…uh, in the bathroom, completely high, and had several lines cut up in front of me. My whole face was numb…and that’s when I heard the banging and the voice,”
“What did it say?”
“He told me to have a turn,”
“A turn? You mean with the girl?”
“I assume so,”
“And did you?”
“No…I went into the bedroom and found the girl tied up and crying. I quickly moved to her.
“What did she do…her reaction to you?”
“She was scared…sobbing,”
“And what did you do next?”
“I told her I was sorry and that I wouldn’t hurt her”
“And she?”
“She was hysterical. Then I managed to convince her I wasn’t a threat and untied her,”
“She believed you?”
“Yeah…she agreed to not call the cops on me seeing how she apparently let me…him tie her up,”
“May I ask why she was crying?”
“I’m not sure for certain…it was either something he told her or that he left her tied up naked and in the dark, with tape over her mouth for three and a half hours,”
“How was this situation left?”
“I drove her home and promised she’d never see me again,”
“Have you thought about her since then?”
“Of course. Everyday. She was gorgeous,”
“Does that make your needs worse?”
“Not as bad as it has been before…masturbation helps a little.
“Do you use pornographic materials?”
“My mind…when I’m doing that…he puts dark stuff in there, rough bondage and violence…so I’ll use pictures or videos to avoid that,”
“The videos you choose…are they violent?”
“On occasion…he has preferences as well, but that’s rare. They make me feel…I don’t know, ashamed?”
“Why ashamed?”
“Because I shouldn’t be interested in that stuff…the stuff he’s interested in,”
“Does it give you any relief knowing that enough people find those types of videos attractive to have multiple videos across multiple websites?”
“I suppose…but I’ve never met anyone who likes videos of girls pretending stuff like that,”
“Have you considered seeking out a girl that is willing to pretend that sort of stuff?”
“To what end?”
“Theoretically speaking, it could be used a part of your therapy to act out these needs in a safe environment,”
“Am I crazy, or are you telling me to get a hooker,”
“My God, no,”
“That’s kind of how it just sounded,”
“We’re going to back track, but hear me out,”
“Uhm…okay?”
“When you were with your wife, you had the ability to act on these aggressions in a safe environment,”
“And look where that got me….too far into it and an ex that thinks I’m a mentally ill freak,”
“You’re not a freak,”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re an individual that has problems, just like everyone else, and has seen in himself his errors and wants to fix them,”
“That’s fine, but do you have any idea how long it took me to find a girl like that? Let alone managing to bring up such desires?”
June 23rd, 2015 – 8:09 PM
Easton’s Apartment
187 Grey Ave.
He had collapsed mentally, but was hiding it well from anyone he thought would know his secrets. Mostly it was the people in the hallways of his building. He’d practiced in the mirror various facial expressions for various occurrences throughout the day, seeing how each one felt. The main concern was his eyes, the pupil dilation. It, particularly, was quite obvious at times. He noticed it, the exact gauge, when he checked in the mirror before leaving the apartment. There were points where he wouldn’t leave the house either due to the size of his pupils or hallucinations of sometimes horrifying people blocking the door or crouched in a corner, ready to pounce. This day he had to get out. All day he was confident in going out to meet someone, anyone, to put himself on the line. He had enough supplies for the night and more hidden in a hollowed out book should someone come home with him. Along with three packs of cigarettes, and four pre-rolled joints for when his stomach turned rotten. Time was going by too slow as he almost expected it to. His apartment seemed like it was shrinking, getting smaller on all sides. He pressed his back into the couch, closing his eyes, shutting out the moving world and shrinking room around him. His body slowly adjusted with his eyes to the lack of light, feeling his brain sink a bit, reacting to the comforting dark silence.
July 20, 2015 – 2:11
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“Would you like to share, explore these thoughts?”
“I guess,”
“For starters…have you been using?”
“Uh…a little,”
“What about your prescription?”
“I stopped those,”
“How come?”
“They don’t help,”
“Is that you or him saying that?”
“Him, I guess. He won’t let me take them anymore,”
“Mentally or physically?”
“Both…he poured them all into the toilet,”
“Did you go get more? You have refills,”
“I tried,”
“Tried?”
“He made me piss my pants when I got to the pharmacy,”
“And you got recreational drugs instead?”
“I guess I did. I was high and had a substantial amount when I woke up,”
“Was anyone else there?”
“You mean, like, a girl? No,”
“Have you been interacting with anyone?”
“Yes actually…that girl,”
“The one you found tied up in your bed?”
“Yes, she contacted me a few weeks after everything,”
“What was her reasoning?”
“She said she couldn’t stop thinking about me,”
“Which part? Him or you?”
“Me…the guy that untied her and apologized, and I guess the guy that fucked her, too,”
“What did she say?”
“That she wanted to hang out again,”
“Is that not a good thing?”
“Well, yeah, it is,”
“But?”
“But what if I hurt her for real?”
“Do you think that’s a possibility?”
“Always…he hates everyone”
“Is this girl aware of your condition?”
“Sort of,”
“What’s sort of?”
“Well, as I said, she wanted to hang out, but I kept making up excuses and continued talking to her through text and on the phone. She confessed that she had gone through my bathroom when she was there…found my pills,”
“What did she say about them?”
“She asked what they were for and why I took them,”
“And what did you tell her?”
“After some prodding from her, I told her that sometimes my head switches and I act differently…bad sometimes,”
“How did she react?”
“Not as I expected she would,”
“Was it negative?”
“No, actually…she said that her brother had mental issues and that she understood the severity of those issues,”
“So what came of it?”
“Extensive conversations through text and phone calls and we went out a couple times to the bar,”
“What would you talk about?”
“Everything,”
“Examples?”
“Our pasts, beliefs, likes, and most recently…sex,”
July 23, 2015 – 8:53 PM
Easton’s Apartment
187 Grey Ave.
His dark silence turned to bright flashes and screaming. Once again, he was forced to get up to find something to amuse his brain, to distract it as much as possible. The time to leave was nearing. It seemed like it had suddenly crept up on him. How long had be really been sitting there? He stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette, the easiest way to distraction, peering down at the parking lot. The array of cars did little, nor the visible lettering on nearby signs. Both of which he had seen countless times. All the cars in the same spot, unintentionally separated by colour. Four red, five black, two white, and a blue truck at the end; closest to him. Then, before he knew it, his cigarette had depleted down to its filter, the cherry aiming to burn his fingers. Which, to him, would be punishment for wasting and taken as such silently. He flicked it out into the air, watching its distance. This one went out roughly seven feet before falling next to the blue truck, barely missing the large box filled with tools sealed with heavy padlocks.
Beyond the parking lot, on the opposite side of the fence, was a heavily used road. He’d spent many a night watching the car and traffic change from multiple, hesitant drivers cautiously keeping within the speed limits to the 2:00 am, single cars speeding well beyond the limits posted on the signs. Depending on his specific situation for the night, he’d see them turn back to cautious. He had lit another cigarette, consciously smoking half of it before his mind zoned out again. The original thought crossing his mind being that of the possibility and probability of meeting someone. The heat of the burning cherry snapped his mind back in, flicking the burnt out cigarette with a mostly annoyed sigh, watching it land next to the blue truck again. More time had in fact gone by, not enough, but enough to decidedly leave.
July 17, 2014 – 2:04 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“So, what brings you here?”
“A uh…court order,”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. What is the reason?”
“Don’t you know if you’re aware of the court order?”
“Yes. I’ve made myself fully aware of your personal situation,”
“Then cut the bullshit, please,”
“Do you think you don’t need to be here?”
“You’re the doctor. What’s your professional opinion?”
“My opinion is that of the court’s,”
“That I’m crazy? A psychopath? Someone unfit for common society?”
“No, you are sick and need help,”
“And you think you can help me?”
“I believe that I can help you if you help me help you,”
“Through talking and more drugs?”
“That, and giving you the confidence to continue your treatment,”
“I’ve barely had confidence in myself my whole life…how could you give me something like that?”
“By showing you that you should have it…that you have a right to it,”
“Well, the last time I had…full…confidence…I ended up here after the asylum,”
“It’s the actions your confidence allows—"
“Forces,”
“Forces inappropriate actions…these are the things we are here to work on,”
“Inappropriate? That’s one way to put it,”
“Could you explain to me how you were forced?”
“Well, basically…it’s…uh, like, a switch…on off sort of thing,”
“What happened when the switch is flicked?”
“I turn into…him…he takes control,”
“Are you able to see what’s happening?”
“Yes and no. Yes, I can see sometimes. And no, because I’m numb to what’s happening and don’t remember much. One thing I know is he is looking for something,”
“I see…so the switch was flicked. What happened after the incident?”
“I went home…my wife saw the blood all over me…freaked out and called the cops. Now I haven’t seen her or my daughters in almost a year,”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Terrible,”
“Why?”
“Because I committed a murder…which I have no recollection of, and more so, had no control over,”
June 23, 2015 – 9:30 PM
Easton’s Apartment
187 Grey Ave.
He decided to say screw it and left for the bar 9:30 pm. It would take him roughly a half-hour to walk there, with an extra two or five minutes each at the bank and convenience store. His mind was keeping close watch on the everything around him. He hadn’t walked around with this caliber of substances in a very long time, high school he thought. And with all his random encounters with police, he had every right to be nervous. All the dealers in town walking around or carelessly driving with mass quantities of their product, they’d be overlooked when he appeared. Still, he was sure he could pass a body search with the item taped to his upper-thigh. He managed, as far as he was concerned or knew, to walk like everyone else, keeping his head down, but up appropriately. For a total of three times he had to nonchalantly cross a street due to people. The second set was a group of three girls. He attempted to stay on track, seeing their attractiveness, their tight, skin-revealing clothes. Then a panic set in and he pulled out his phone, unlocked it, obviously looked around at the houses that meant nothing to him, and then crossed over. He couldn’t help but keep an eye on the one brunette that had on tight jeans and a modest top with pin-straight hair. In doing so, he caught them looking back right before they began, what looked like, snickering. Was it at his expense? Regardless, it made his concern about his appearance grow. What would everyone else think of it? He sat down on the curb with a depressed sigh between two cars, pulling out a cigarette and his phone. Using his phone’s camera to check his face and hair didn’t help, just making him feel more stupid for doing so. He was always able to see himself as objectionable, despite the random people and past girlfriends that had told him otherwise. He couldn’t believe them. He had a mirror. The cigarette went by too fast again even though he had smoked the entire thing, flicking the butt and gaining an intense craving for another as he watched it fall and hit the ground like he had betrayed it.
He stood up, continually telling himself that all three girls wanted him, their snickering being at the delightful thought of all three blowing him in unison before hard and rough intercourse. His blood rushing to his dick signaled it was time for a pill. With another less depressed sigh, he returned his buttocks to the concrete curb to dig into his shoe. There was nothing there. Had it fallen out? Or had he forgotten? He wasn’t completely sure. This was no concern or problem to him. His other items, substances, were sure to subdue most unwanted or unfavorable involuntary actions. When he arrived at the bar, it was dead. Only the bouncers were hanging around, talking to the servers and smoking. He skipped over the nightclub and entered the neighboring bar. An older man sat with a beer near the taps, staring down into the bottom of his glass. The bartender came out of the basement, arms stacked with cases of bottled beer. He took an immediate notice of him and came over with a half-smile after setting the boxes on the floor, asking what beverage was needed. A single gin and tonic was ordered, laying down a ten as he sat on the closest stool. The other man slowly looked over, locking his dark eyes. He nodded, and then threw his eyes back to the bottom of the beer mug secured to his hand. He looked like he should be pitied, but he wasn’t by anyone. A man with no desire than to drink himself to death. Though, when this was fully considered, perhaps in more detail, it didn’t seem right. Like this man was playing a charade. Draining his own drink was easy. Watching this man continuously stare down into his glass containing nothing but beer bottoms, growing warmer by the second wasn't. His own glass was now mostly void of liquor, sliding it off to the side while expecting either a fresh one when he returned or the needed last sip still remaining there untouched.
In the bathroom, his dick out, he painfully peeled back the small bag held in place by duct tape. And then, with what he assumed to be a similar amount of time as urinating, he had stuck the bag back in place and fixed the parachute of drugs between his bottom lip and gums. He went back to the bar after thoroughly washing his hands, opening the door with his forearm. His booze had been taken away, leaving him with nothing to wash down his drugs. Not to mention the bartender wasn’t in sight to take a new drink order. By this time, the Zig-Zag rolling paper had been soaked with saliva. The intense, salty flavor was creeping its way through his mouth. Only a minute had gone by, the bartender still had not returned, and his mouth was watering. Each tongue curling swallow needed his hands tightly gripping the metal legs on the stool, like the temperature helped some way. Another minute had gone by, no bartender, mouthful of drug laced spit, and no drink. The other man glanced over, giving a strange look, as if he could see the cause of the obvious discomfort. Did he? Could he? That’d be impossible, wouldn’t it? After a total of five excruciating minutes, his gums now on fire, the Zig-Zag surely empty and shredded, the bartender finally returned with another armload of beer cases. This time he ordered a tall, draft beer, luckily without using more than one word as it would have resulted in drool. He quickly downed the entire drink, savoring the flavor that wasn’t intensely salty. The brighter side, however, was the prolonged exposure to drugs by way of his lips and gums, swallowing the resulting saliva. All of it coming to a head when the dissolved chemicals hit his bloodstream much quicker than just swallowing them wrapped in a Zig-Zag, aside from snorting; that was usually reserved for cocaine, which he had some of. Enough to get a girl high, but also not enough to not have the need to go home for more.
He went out for a much needed cigarette, finding a small crowd had gathered out front of the nightclub. The scan he took was short, but effective. He took in details of everyone. The stature of the guys, the everything visible about the girls, what they looked like. But he wanted, needed the whole picture. 60% wasn’t ever enough for anyone, especially him. What good is beauty if it’s accompanied by an ugly personality? Therein lies the problem that had always posed complications for him. The actual act of speaking to them, introducing and presenting himself. Spoken words were always hard, sometimes impossible for him to accomplish. Even with guys he’d have a hard time relating. So he just sat down on one of the window ledges, the one farthest from the door and lit a cigarette.
The drugs were hitting him hard. Ecstasy was what he used mostly in high school. MDMA was stronger, purer, hit him differently, had different cues. And he had only placed 0.1 grams in the parachute. Regardless if he had sex that night, met someone, or even talked to a girl in depth, the high would make it a good night. Since he had been saving for this night, his pocket money landed on the bar to pay the fee for gin and tonics and more beer. All the drinks hitting the spot just right. The second he noticed a decline in his chemical high, around his third hour or just before but around the time of the third girl to smile at him while sitting at the bar watching the band. She was also the first to talk to him and was immediately offered a drink. She sat for one song as she drank, and then quickly disappeared only to reappear around another guy. That’s why he never bothered. He headed for the bathroom. Being able to bring his drink with him, he was able to not look foolish carrying it with him to the bathroom without anyone thinking he was doing something strange had there been only a few people. Both bathrooms, allowing the two sexes, genders access, had lines and the third’s lock was broken; completely unacceptable and unusable to him. He leaned on the wall at the end of the line, thankful he didn’t actually have to urinate. But he also kept sipping on his drink subconsciously which posed a problem of not having or being able to acquire a drink like the last time. All in all his main concern was if his state was noticeable. He was still quite high. When you ingest strong drugs in small quantities, you should have the tendency to push it and see how far it can take you. And the drug was beginning to take a turn, hitting his whole body like electric waves digitally passing through his entire being. Now everything was about how messed, fucked up he looked, thinking he must look like Beaker from The Muppets. No one was even looking at him, the three girls, thick blond, two brunettes, one equally thick, and two guys, one bathed in cologne.
A random brunette came walking up, completely catching his attention. She popped up on her tiptoes for a second, looking at the closed bathroom doors before glancing back over the rest of the bar. She was considering peeing outside he assumed, something he surely would have done himself and would encourage anyone to do. She looked very sexy to him, but now his mind was like a flipbook, back and forth between his appearance and being horrified of saying something to her. He was too fucked up. His pharmaceuticals were interfering with the unnatural high he had forced into his body. Suddenly, she turned back around, directly making eye contact as he hadn’t realized he’d been staring at her. In a painful rushing wave, he smiled at her, knowing it must have been a gross, cross eyes, weird, unnatural looking expression. She quickly glanced over him, letting out her own cute smile and choosing her spot against the wall next to him. Her back, exposed at the top, was only pressed to the wall for three seconds. She turned, leaning her shoulder and becoming very close to him. His entire thought process now was not moving his right arm the inch needed for his elbow to come into contact with her cleavage. He knew she was looking at him. He knew it, turning his head to her. She was looking at him with a faint smile resting below dilated pupils, and then she spoke. Each word had the excitability of a child, like she was using them for the first time in fluidity. At first he couldn’t quite hear her, but with a little drug and alcohol induced confidence, he turned to her, making touching each other only a motion away. She told him that she had done some cocaine a bit ago with her friends, but couldn’t find them now. He replied, sinking his lips close to her ear, causing her head to rest on the side of his, telling her that her situation would work out and that he was about to drop some more drugs. Her eyes lit up asking if she could have some for money. He quickly agreed, saying money wasn’t necessary because he didn’t charge pretty girls. It sounded horrible in his ear, but after that, she had a hand on him almost like she was holding him in place. He knew he was probably being used, but he didn’t care. He’d never find another wife like his ex. Person by person, they neared the bathroom, him fearing her friends would come and distract her or disapprove of him. But her chocolate eyes were all on him. He was exuberant, actually smiling with, at, and because of her. This girl seemed perfect to him, a gorgeous brunette in tight jeans that liked drugs, and possibly him. He was begging for her to be a sexual deviant, but was doing his best not to immediately sexualize her. Minutes later, he was standing across from her in the bathroom. That’s when it dawned on him, he’d have to pull his pants down to gain access to his drugs. She smiled at him, watching his confidence shrink. With no other choice, he motioned one minute and turned away, undoing his pants. She was quiet in all this, but giggled when he turned, drugs in hand. He twisted the bag open, pulling out and dropping in her hand his second last parachute. She quickly gobbled it down, taking the offered gin and tonic for chase. He did so as well, using water after the realization that faucets exist. Then they both stood there, staring for a moment. She giggled again, looking him up and down, saying her name was Brai, while offering her delicate little hand. Instead of shaking it, his eyes turned black.
July 20, 2015 – 2:21 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD – Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“Sex?”
“Yes?”
“What kind? Are you referring to your desires?”
“She likes some of the same things,”
“So the search for the perfect girl didn’t last long…ended abruptly?”
“I guess so,”
“Is she the only one?”
“Yeah, sort of,”
“What’s sort of? Is there another girl?”
“The same night Lexie first messaged me, I was waiting for the bathroom and met this girl named, Brai, but it actually turned out they were friends. Lex was at the nightclub,”
“What was her reaction? Does she know?”
“Well, yeah…said she didn’t care,”
“You say she didn’t care? Did something happen between you and this, Brai?”
“Well, we both went into the bathroom,”
“Were you using?”
“Oh…uh, yeah…was already high before I took more drugs with her,”
“You’ve said recreational drugs have helped in the past, was he present during all this?”
“Something was different…like he was satisfied with something. Something I didn’t know,”
“Tell me what happened,”
“He only took over for a few minutes,”
“What did he do?”
“For me, it was one second she was telling me her name, the next she was blowing me,”
“And you don’t remember what happened in between those seconds?”
“No clue,”
“If this girl was willing to perform oral sex on you, why doesn’t your girlfriend care?”
“Because this was before we got together, and she kind of pisses me off,”
“Why?”
“Well, I woke about halfway through her…doing whatever…and then she finished. After that I bought her a drink, she left and the next time I saw her, she was all over some other guy,”
“How did that made you feel?”
“Feel? I told you, I was pissed,”
“What did you do?”
“I bought another drink, had a cigarette…which is the last time I saw her,”
“Aside from anger, what did you feel?”
“That’s the difference between recreational and pharmaceutical…one supposedly fixes chemical imbalances,”
“And the other?”
“Brings you to heaven,”
June 23, 2015 – 1:45 AM
Two Doors
57 Market Ave
Last call had arrived at the usual time. His face was buried in the mug of beer in his hand, reminding him of the man from before, his other dilated, probably bulging eye was on the whiskey shot he ordered. Last he knew, Brai was necking it with some guy. He looked familiar to him, watching as she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. He knew he had seen him before, if not somewhere in the bar, but his face looked different to him, this he also knew for sure. At first he was blindingly angry, but the drugs saw to that, making him see that it didn’t matter. He thought it now stupid, thinking a relatable girl had been found, only to see her leave with another guy. Jealousy broke with the witness of French kissing. He took his shot and headed out for one more cigarette before cautiously walking home with a head full of drugs and lungs full of smoke. He sat down on the same ledge, having to twist his legs for any passerby. His body was wobbling, dreading someone asking him about his condition. When he finally looked up, giving his attention to something other than his intense and immense high, Brai walked by. He made no effort despite her being alone with a big breasted blond and his thoughts otherwise. She herself took it a step farther by subtly breaking those pretty chocolate eyes away back to the blond’s from his, effectively ignoring his existence. He was too high, too fucked up to care about even that his hopes had been high enough to crash down suddenly. He really didn’t care, he managed to live a once thought to be fictional fantasy on this night, with no consequences of attached strings. Not to mention it was the first in a long time. Masturbation can only be satisfactory for so long. With a hidden smirk, watching Brai walk away, his phone vibrated. He began his journey home, doing his best to read and respond to the text messages.
August 11th, 2015 – 9:53 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
The shower was running behind the closed bathroom door. The white-noise-like sound dampened by the old, cheap, wood door, adding a subtle nuance to his momentary trance. Television’s ordinarily loud commercials played, one in particular caused his trance. A late night call line, offering women that wanted to talk to men for $3.95 a minute after the first three. The set of tits holding his attention were big, round, and probably fake; belonging to a pretty face with long, pin-straight blond hair. He remembered this commercial. It had been on for years, which stood to reason the odds of talking to that actual girl, or any other girl of that double D caliber for that matter. But, he thought, what if? He expected it to be a recording like the one him and an old friend from high school had gotten when they called on his parents landline. $58.00 later and a disgusted, angry mother.
The clock read 9:59 pm, switching to 10:00 pm when he glanced at it. At 9:30 pm, when his guest arrived a little late, he instructed her to go shower, not liking the scent she had chosen, ensuring she understood not to put her clothes back on. She simply nodded, heading straight to the shower with barely an opposing thought. He watched her walk away in those tight jeans, low rise, that she was wearing before deciding to follow her in to watch her undress and smoke another bowl of marijuana. She watched him pack the little pieces into a bowl from the bag. He noticed this instantly, quickly offering out the fresh bowl. She smiled, reaching out for the glass pipe, only to have it snapped back at the last second. Her confusion ceased when he instructed her that her clothes needed to be removed first. A faint smirk was all she had to give as she gripped the bottom of her t-shirt, pulling it up to expose her torso to him. Her faint smirk grew to a wide grin, staring at him while she squeezed her own bra-less tits. With his own grin, he pointed at her jeans. She flicked her finger at the top button, popping it open and undid the short zipper, revealing her black panties, and then sliding them down over her ass seductively. He smoked the bowl, puffing heavily until it had all burned up, eyes all over the thick blond’s body. Holding the smoke in, he pulled her close, gripping her ass cheeks as he felt her curves on his own body. He put his lips to hers, lightly kissing before slowly exhaling the smoke into her lungs. She slid her hand over his dick, blowing out the aerated smoke before kissing him with tongue, pulling back with a cute expression on her face.
The shower was turned on full blast, the nozzle for pressure pushed to its limits, also in unison with the temperature. Steam billowed from over the red curtain, mixing with the marijuana smoke and effectively destroying any remaining scent that had incurred. He had supplied all the cleaning necessities, including shampoo and conditioner, a loofah, and two brands of body wash, an apricot facial scrub as well. That was his, however, easily disguised. His shampoo was hidden in his bag, being for psoriasis, he was quite embarrassed about it. The facial scrub was for blemishes, containing a percentage of salicylic acid found in most medicated shampoos, so it had become a commodity for him.
He laid himself out on the bed, already high on cocaine, he dropped some uncut MDMA into his palm and thinking fuck it as he strode his tongue over it, picking up each salty piece of the clear, crystal formed drug. His face looked foul, offended by the intense and obscene flavor that was adding to his growing gag reflex. He quickly took a long swig of the Wild Turkey bourbon from the nightstand. The placebo effect of the drugs was strong. Slight effects of the drug hit the user the second it’s swallowed. The fact of knowing what was about to happen to the user`s insides is enough to start feeling its, the drug’s, desired effects. This hit him good and hard. He stood, pacing the room, thinking of all that had happened before this moment. The pot smoking, the secretiveness of it, how stupid it suddenly seemed. The fear of talking to the clerk in case he had smelled the smoked marijuana. Then the hostess, how silly he must have looked, not even silly, he`d say fucking stupid. Not only that, but her in herself. The small hard-body she had, the obvious signs that she was giving to show she was trying to flirt with him. Them only being obvious to him now. He could picture millions of possible ways it could have gone, but none could ever be true for him now. He could only find frustration with his own shortcomings.
He looked at the digital clock, more time than he expected has passed, and now he was sure he was feeling the drug picking up its, and his pace simultaneously. His eyes began to pulse, going blurry as a fiery pain infested his insides like bugs. It burrowed from his stomach into his gut, and up into his chest, squeezing his lungs. He dropped to his knees, a force pushing him down even farther to his hands, elbows barely resisting buckling. The pain grew out, causing more burning as it moved to his back, right around his hips and below this shoulder blades. He tried to let out a pain filled scream, even a small whimper, nothing could escape his lips. His eyes bulged, both sets of lids tightening around his seemingly expanding eyeballs. He fell to his side, desperately trying to find his cell phone that wasn’t in his pocket to call 911, but when he stretched his arms out to begin a crawl, his back, already burning, felt like it was ripping. His whole body shook, each muscle restricting themselves to a twitching tightness involuntarily. That’s when his eyes caught sight of the black ooze pooling around him. It bubbled and steamed, smelling like a sort of pungent fungus. The skin on his back continued to rip and tear, something poking out from the inside just below his shoulder blades, fighting to get out. This went on for longer than he knew, his mind wondering where his guest was. Was she in the shower still? Or had she cracked the door enough to see him laying in a gooey, black ooze, writhing in pain, growing so frightened that she escaped out the window. Suddenly, the pain grew more intense, causing him to curl into the fetal position, only to have his body cracked back into a line like a mangled pencil.
August 11th, 2015 10:10 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd
I stood up, having needed to force my way out of that little shit, Easton. So many years were wasted stuck inside him, poking at his brain. Not because it was fun. It was. Simply, I was stuck as my energy wasn’t enough to manifest myself completely. There had been too much energy going to my alternate self at the time when I arrived here, so I found a newborn to infect out of boredom. Being stuck in a reality with no physical matter for 27 years can be a bit stressful; collectively and obscenely boring. I had to waste all my energy to take control over him when the half-way, mediocre girls were up for grabs. And where did he end up? Fucking therapy. With a psychiatrist that originally blamed it on marijuana. What a fucking joke. I made the guy believe aliens abducted him on the regular to perform surgeries to keep him suspiciously healthy. Aside from making him repeatedly stab that guy, and then fuck his, the man’s, wife, my favorite was having conversations with him in his own head. But as I had said, I’d usually have to control him just to get sex. Which was difficult. He was a loser that looked good and was a sciolist. I am much better. Girls saw past his fake charm, seeing the laughable cretin standing before them. When I took control, they’d flock. It was almost too easy. Still, I couldn’t gain any more energy. And the energy gained from having sex was only enough for obtaining more sex. Then his wife came around. She got really boring really fast after the wedding. Naturally I had to get out, so we killed that man. She freaked out and left him, taking those kids with her, while he landed in an institute. That was fun, drugs in limitless supply with dull-minded, numb people to manipulate. I even fucked one of the nurses, Hannah, and several of the other patients. After he got out, all he did was take his Abilify prescription and smoke pot. That resulted in me needing to have some fun. That’s when I met Lexie. Even I thought she’d be gone for good after what I did, so I’m going to fuck her again.
January 25th, 2014 – 2:27 PM
Dr. Yamuna Shretsikh Md, PhD -- Office
27 Shellington Cres.
“Is this you, Mark?” she asked.
“Sure is,” I replied.
“Why have you decided to come out?” she asked.
“Boredom, I suppose,” I replied. “Guy got kinda useless since he listened and stopped doing chems.”
“Seems interesting to me,” she said.
“Yeah,” I laughed. “Cuz of me.”
“Okay, what did you want to discuss?” she asked.
“Nothing in particular,” I replied.
“Well, you filled my patient with chemicals in order to come out—” she said.
“And my foreseeable energy,” I interrupted.
“Yes, he mentioned that at one point,” she said. “Could you explain that to me?”
“No, I doubt you’d understand,” I laughed. “What types of, like, psychedelics can you prescribe?”
“None to you, I’m afraid,” she said.
“You know I could kill you before you flinched, right?” I replied.
“Is that a threat?” she asked.
“Nope...just a statement,” I sighed. “Is your receptionist single? Nice tits on her.”
“Let’s discuss why you made him kill that man,” she said.
“It felt good. Boredom. He was in the way of me fucking his wife,” I replied.
“So you took joy?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, lots,” I smiled. “I make him jerk off to it.”
“Make him?” she asked.
“Yeah, show him, like, videos or clips you could say,” I replied. “And nothing else. He always caves.”
August 11TH, 2015 10:27 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd
Lexie stepped out of the shower, her wet breasts bounced as she grabbed a towel. I was in the doorway, leaned into the side with my shoulder, smiling. She came close when I reached out my arm for her, her leaning into me, noticeably feeling the difference. I could tell that she had become suspicious of me. She brushed it off, pulling my head down for a kiss. Easton was correct in saying there was just something about her. She made my head or I guess his head quiet of me. So I used her love of energy-increasing drugs, mainly cocaine, but loved Molly and ecstasy tabs to have fun and built up my own energy from the month or so of acquired-with-ease sex. Then I just planted the idea in his head. Let him live a fantasy of fucking a hooker in a motel room. Lexie was the one to do it. A little firecracker that was willing to fulfill even my needs of submission and lust. The one that could strangely give an unassertive, socially anxious loser an edge over my power. Being that she could handle it, that month previous, she became a commodity to me. I hadn’t been sure if I wanted to keep her as my own until this moment. I could see why he loved her.
August 11th, 2015 -- 11:31 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
I had her tied up to the bed, wrists secured by a set of handcuffs, high as fuck. She had started to cry when she realized it was me fucking her. Dumb bitch knew something was up for sure when I choked her unconscious. But even before that, it’s not like she wasn’t hesitant. She poked and prodded the notions of how I seemed different. The way I kissed her. How I moved. Even my phallic size and epidermal scent. The one that really threw her were my eyes. She kept looking deeply into them, suspiciously gazing at me. I tried to be careful. Still, she gave off concerned looks at I spoke.
“You ever done this before, baby?” Lexie asked, groping at my cock.
“Never,” I smiled, pulling off her towel. She looked down at herself, squeezing her own tits again with a seductive flick of her lashes.
“Let me show you a good time then,” she said, letting out a little giggle as she tweaked her nipples. “Just relax, baby.” She took my hand, pulling me in for another kiss and placed it on her left breast. Her tongue was delicious, immaculately using it. There was noticeable ability when she unbuckled my jeans without her lips and tongue missing a beat. She dropped to her knees, stroking my cock, but staring at the entire thing. I knew she knew it looked different. Before she could think another thought, I gripped the back of her head, grasping myself and shoving it between her lips.
“Fuck, so glad I managed to book you for the night,” I smirked, looking down at her eyes growing watery, showing fear of no oxygen. Her nails were now digging into my legs, attempting to struggle. I let go. She fell back, gasping for air and spitting on the floor. Her lashes flicked up, fluttering before practically flying forward for more. I knew she was used to choking herself while she gave her amazing blow jobs. That, however, was with that fucking loser. Not me. So I continued to tightly grip her head, squeezing her hair while I fucked her mouth.
“Fuck, Easton,” she laughed, wiping her chin.
“Shut up, whore,” I said, pulling her to the bed by her hair. Her eyes had a bit of confusion when I said that. She was fairly certain it was not Easton doing all this. But unsure of his acting abilities, she played along.
“I’ll be good,” she replied, trying to keep up. I threw her on the bed, keeping her head hanging upside down off the foot. I only pulled out of her mouth when it grew warmer, before she puked on the carpet.
“Gettin’ better,” I smiled, gripping her throat.
“Yeah?” she said, coughing and spitting as she wiped her eyes of her own saliva. I spun her around so her head was on a pillow, her once gorgeous emerald eyes now dilated and red, face soaked. She intently watched me. I knew she was trying to figure out who she was fornicating with. She knew my all-seeing eyes were the definitive answer. I just kept them away from contact with her’s while I gathered the cocaine. She quickly and happily, I might add, adjusted herself while I cut a line on her left breast, making it a circle around her supple, little, pink nipple. I rolled a twenty, leaning down with it in my nose to snort the drugs, and then sucked off the residue. She giggled, grabbing my hair to keep my mouth in place, even pressing my face into her chest. To my surprise, she let out a high-pitched squeal, telling me to bit harder. I moved down to return the favor, masterfully using my tongue.
“Damn, you taste good,” I smirked, glancing up.
“Yeah, baby?” she said, playing with my hair and moving her hips. “Did you make me a parachute?”
“On the table,” I replied, giving her a long stride of my tongue. She reached over, keeping her hips in place while ingesting the rolling paper, twisted up with MDMA as I called it, or Molly, as she purely called it. Drugs is what that loser called it, unless necessary, as if it were an attempt to avoid singling out a specific drug. To him, it made it seem like he had an addiction and knew all the lingo for purchasing. Though, he did in fact know them all for a just-in-case scenario. But he found that it was usually referred to as it. He hated buying drugs from strangers. Something he didn’t ever do by himself when he was younger. He avoided it at all costs, but sometimes was forced into going to a strange single-room apartment to buy ecstasy tabs from a man he had only just talked to on the phone after getting his number from an acquaintance at best. The guy was happy to serve a new customer, but seeing a doorman, probably armed and high as fuck, staring you down, leaning on the door, blocking the exit, and just asking for a reason to cut you down to size was a tad jarring for Easton. But it was worth it to him having his old friends see him as a hero for a brief moment. Sometimes he deserved things.
August 11th, 2015 – 10:12 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
The black ooze was boiling, burning his skin. His body still stuck parallel with the walls, lungs and chest in great pain. The air he breathed was residually the foul smelling steam, hurting his lungs further, like breathing deeply on an ice cold day. Only his eyes could move, forcing them upwards in hopes of seeing the bathroom door. He begged for Lexie to enter the room, rushing to his aid, forgetting all about their little charade. That’s when the ooze began to move, creeping away from under him. What was once a pool of a sort of dark matter, was now taking on a shape. His eyes could see all of this, like the ooze wanted him to see it. All of it, encapsulating him. Legs, six of them, sprang out of the moving puddle pressing the ends, the feet into the floor. They twitched as they moved, shuddering and emitting shadow like smoke. With all six secured, a tail and body rose up, creaking and cracking like broken bones. It had a hard shell, shining in the ambient light. The demon’s stomach surpassed the surface, vacuuming up the remaining ooze through an unseen hole. Its thin, piercing eyes, glowing red and leering at him. Despite the fear of being consumed, he could still not move, body stuck straight. Then the creature suddenly turned taking off and crawling up the wall to the ceiling, continuously glaring. More pain caused him to snap into the fetal position, the unseen presence forcing it, and then snapping him backwards, his head on the backs of his knees. He had to scream, but couldn’t. No matter what.
August 11th, 2015 – 10:14 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
“Easton?” he said, the voice echoing.
“Hello?” I replied, confused. That voice was generally just in my head. This was in my ears.
“Yer gonna go away for a while…forever,”
“No, I can’t,” I replied.
“You’ve got no choice,” he said, laughing. “This bitch is mine now.”
“Lex’s mine,” I demanded.
“No…no she’s not,” he said, stepping from behind me. “And I’ll decide when you can have the remains.”
“Please don’t do this,” I replied, only concerned for her safety.
“Shut up,” he said, kneeling down. He had manifested into a human form, my form. He was clean cut, short beard, naked. “I was gonna blind you from it, but I hate you so fuckin’ much, you fuckin’ loser, that yer gonna see everything.” He touched my forehead sliding his fingers over my eyes, closing them.
“Please,” I sobbed, begging. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I’ll be gone after this,” he said.
“Please,” I yelled, seeing only darkness. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the motel room the ambient light even darker, like someone put a dark film over my eyes. I managed to climb to my feet, my body just laying there not in any twisted shape, finding I had to use my own strength as I couldn’t touch anything. My hand had gone right through the dresser where the television rested, causing me to hit the ground again. When I looked around, he was walking to the bathroom.
August 11th, 2015 – 11:40 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
Lexie was still tied to the bed, her fiery eyes slick with wet, hot, horrified tears. Mark was smoking a cigarette on the edge, looking like he was enjoying her sobs, periodically picking up the mirror Lexie brought. The one she had always used for doing lines, or going skiing as she often called it. It was hard to say that she didn’t have a problem. Easton had seen her in a craving mode, getting angrily frustrated when the delivery was taking too long, if the pick-up was too far away, or the one time where they couldn’t get the cocaine at all. He didn’t like that she purchased an 8-ball for emergencies after that. But she was her own person, and even if he didn’t know what happiness truly felt like, he wanted her, his beautiful new girlfriend, to be happy. For she knew what that felt like. Though, that also scared the hell out of him because his ex told him numerously that she was not happy. How can someone who cannot feel most emotions, feel depressed all the time, consciously make someone else happy? He wanted to so badly, telling her she was his reason, how much he loved her, and then that night arrived. Not only was she now not happy she was terrified and mortified by the actions of a man who loved her dearly. His only hope now was Lexie surviving this ordeal.
But the fact of the matter was he was stuck standing there in a dreamscape of sorts. He was neither living nor dead, caught between two universes that overlapped harmoniously, except one could only contain one’s energy and mindset, no real human bodies or touchable matter. He screamed right next to Lexie until he had no choice but to give up despite having an endless air supply. All that happened was a turn and a smirk from Mark. Lexie just sobbed and sobbed, angering him even more. He couldn’t hit anything, his fists and feet went right through everything, even Lexie. So he turned his attention to the one who could hear.
August 11th, 2015 – 11:49 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
“Mark,” I said, trying to touch him, my hand going through him like a ghost.
“What, loser?” he asked, looking up. Lexie could obviously hear him, too.
“Why’d you put me in here?” I replied.
“Needs,” he said.
“Fuck that,” I snapped. “Let me out.”
“Well, see, there’s a problem there,” he said, getting up for a fresh cigarette. It was strange, talking to my own body. But it didn’t really look like me, the reflection I remembered. It was stretched and moved.
“Who’re you talking to?” Lexie asked, lifting her head.
“Shut up, slut,” he sighed in annoyance, bringing over her mirror set up in full. He even held the cut straw to her nose. I watched her take it, the line, eyes fluttering as the chemical took hold with an even stronger grip.
“Can you at least tell her something for me?” I asked.
“No, no, I don’t think so,” he said. “See…she’s mine now,” He moved to her. “All this…” He slid his fingers over her foot, all the way up to her throat, gripping it. “It’s mine. The skin, bones, brains, guts, and even the holes…mine. You’re stuck there now. Your body is mine, everything you had is mine.”
“How can you do this to me?” I asked, my eyes feeling like they needed to cry, but couldn’t.
“I am the Devil,” he said, smiling.
August 11th, 2015 – 11:56 PM
Morrison Motel
14 Paris Blvd.
Lexie was dead. He had to watch the whole thing. It wasn’t easy for him in any way. When he attempted to leave the room, he would suddenly be coming out of the bathroom, returning to the pain filled screams. He begged for it to stop, to end her suffering, but it went on. The savage murder went on. He sat there trying to touch and hold Lexie’s hand while she was hacked to pieces with a chef’s knife. Finally after a time lost to the ages, Lexie died at 11:59 pm on August 11th, 2017 from twenty-seven stab wounds to the torso. Mark smiled at him, leaving the white handled knife sticking out of her ceased beating heart, kissing her still warm lips just to spite Easton. The man who must spend eternity stuck in a room with the woman he loved hacked to bits. He fell to the floor, sobbing from the pain he could feel in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to feel happiness, if only for a brief moment. Some people are deserving of common emotions. Easton deserved nothing of the sort.
August 12th, 2017 – 12:15 AM
Paris Blvd
43.1858021, -80.3560830
I left Room 27 at 12:01 am. Easton was sobbing on the floor next to the growing cold corpse of Lexie, now headless. There are some girls I come across that I just need to keep. I was standing on the side of the road. It had been a quiet walk so far at this point. I lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the air. The night sky was clear filled with billions of stars. All of them shining down on me, giving mystical shows to anyone who chooses to enjoy the simple pleasure of their dying light. The moon’s light was bright despite it not being full anymore, still shrinking. I looked down at the body I was in. It can be difficult to modify a body. Mostly the face. Standard symmetry took some time to learn. But when you have an eternity to do as you please, you can teach yourself anything.
The odd truck passed by. One actually began honking at me, flipping me off for whatever reason. The only thing I could perceive as being the problem was my proximity to the roadside. A simple and obvious problem with that was that he himself was on the opposite side, meters away. I sloughed it off, inspecting the rest of the trucks and random, but few cars. I had nothing but fields on either side of the road, some houses that were void of light. With no specific reason, I chose to go left, walking over one-hundred feet, past sleeping cows, and two fences. The ground was damp, uncomfortably wetting the bottom of my jeans. Easton had made six 0.1 gram parachutes. He took three, which were still running rampant in my body. Lexie had two. One of which I forced into her mouth. It wasn’t so much forced as strong peer pressure. She took it, to, perhaps, bypass her deep qualms about me and what I was doing to her. Even though I made her scream with pleasure. The expression on her face when she had an orgasm was quite sexy, like she was telling me how much she loved it secretly. I suspected she had an inclination that Easton was there, forced to watch the whole thing.
I leaned back, thinking about her soft kiss, having myself ingested the last two parachutes. The short placebo effect kicked in almost immediately. Fortunately the real effects hit me quite quickly, forcing my eyes closed. Brilliant patterns filled my restricted sight. Before long, my mind trickled through many memories. Not only Easton’s, but mine as well. I’ve been through a lot during my lifetimes. This guy’s life being an interesting experience to say the least. I’ve also hurt a lot of people. Though, it’s not like I could possibly care about them or anyone. I only care about one person. My wife. In another place and time, I loved her and she loved me. But things came to light for her and she left me wallowing, finding putrid, disgusting things like self-loathing and self-pity and longing for things like human contact. That is over with now. So I’ve been travelling through lifetimes and universes, trying to find my wife. She wasn’t in this one in any form. She’s been hiding from me and I need to find her.
THE END