The girl’s eyes fall on me during her ordeal, and I find myself staring straight into her soul. She begs me to save her.
I beg her for forgiveness.
Then I turn around, bend over with my hands on my knees, and puke on the expensive, hand-weaved red carpet.
Great, first thing in the morning I’ll have to get this to the steamer.
2 years ago
When reluctant sex with paid hookers turns into cold-blooded murder, you know things have gone downhill quickly.
It’s been months since they were happy with just claiming a girl’s body. It’s despicable that I even think of this, but what they do now is worse, even though I didn’t think it could be possible.
They’ve started murdering their victims.
A lot of them.
The first one I have to clean up makes me puke all over the place. Blood is spilled everywhere, and the smell makes me dizzy. And it’s only from a gunshot wound. In hindsight, it wasn’t so bad. Not compared to the bloody mess that their butchering makes. Humans have become fodder to them. They slaughter them like animals, ready for the meat house. Legs, arms, heads, cuts, bruises, beaten, violated with objects … everything comes to pass.
Whatever is in the books will happen, regardless of the moral implication. This is so wrong.
And I participate in all of these scenes.
They force me to watch and clean up afterward. The rooms are used extensively, so much so that I do not feel at home in my own building anymore. Everything is a lie. This whole place, my life, it is all built on lies. During the day, I pretend to curate books, while the night brings me uncontrollable monsters after whom I have to clean up.
This is what they wanted all along. I know, because I asked Arthur why they chose me for this job. Arthur told me that he needed me because of my past. I thought it was because of my ability to select the proper books for them to read. Turns out that wasn’t the case. I didn’t realize it was because I had already killed someone and they were looking for someone who could not only cope with death but completely shut themselves off from it, too. The perfect cleaner. The perfect assistant. And soon, the perfect accomplice.
I will fall straight into the depths of hell with them. It’s where we all belong.
7 months ago
For the past year, I have been participating in their so-called hunts. They go after girls or women, forcing them to perform gruesome acts. They even bring them to the forest nearby and hunt them like they’re game. I refuse to participate, but they force me to come along. I shoot deer instead of their victims, just to take my mind off what they’re doing. What we’re doing. I play a role in this, too, and I can’t forget that, ever.
What they do to these women is despicable. Not just women, but men, too. Anyone and anything that catches their eye. I witness and help. I help cut off clothes, help them succumb to their desires. I’m a monster, and yet I cannot resist.
I do not read those same books. Instead, I keep to the romance novels, the ones that are safe, but within their scope of approval. I find it hard to admit that I actually do find it satisfying to fuck these girls. That they do as I tell them and that I can recreate a tale spun by another. That I get to live out my fantasies.
But I can’t let myself get carried away. Distracted by all the ripe plums this world has to offer me, it has become difficult to focus. Difficult to resist.
I find myself plunging deeper into the darkness. I participate in deceiving women, capturing them, and using them for our own pleasures. It’s even gotten to the point that I can only get off if I have my women strapped, begging for mercy, and reluctant to give it to me. I thrive on their pain, live to break them down. They made me this way. I am a monster, and I know it. It weighs down on me, even though I try to ignore it. It has become increasingly hard for me to find anything redeeming about this world. Knowing they rule it with wealth means there is no escaping them, no escaping pain, blood … death. I sometimes wish that I did not know this information, so that I could live a happy life, albeit a lie. Maybe living a lie is better than facing the damned truth.
Truth is where people are slaughtered like animals, where people get used like items, where I am but a pawn in their scheme. I’m not just emotionally sickened by what they do … by what they make me do, but physically as well. My energy has been drained. My will to live is waning. Sometimes I find myself staring at the knife, wishing I could cut my own throat so that it would all be over.
I wish I had the guts to go through with it.
The world would be better off without any of them, without me. I am part of this game, whether I want to or not. I take part in these crimes and take no responsibility or judgment for it. There is nothing worth living for anymore.