A knife. A trembling hand. A sweet-scented candle. Vanilla, I think it was. Or was it tropical flowers? Whatever… details. I can’t recall that scent. I feel it, but I can’t quite place my finger on the name of the aroma.
Anyway… where was I? Oh, telling you about my day, dear Diary. So it went just like a normal day.
How I love it! Writing with invisible ink! I keep my secrets so well-hidden in here! Not even I myself can understand. So if I were to make a plan about hiding a dead body, this would be the best place. No one would bother to read an empty, old notebook, right?
The problem is that I remember I started writing something here yesterday… but I don’t remember what it was.. Was it…? No, it couldn’t have been that. I swore to myself to never speak about it with anyone. Not even to you, dear Diary. I’m sorry, old friend. This secret I shall keep away from your rusty pages. I can’t bring myself to do it. I really hope I didn’t begin to tell you about that.
I started writing between your yellow pages years ago, dear Diary. When you were new. And had white pages. And a nice, colourful cover. And you know me better than anyone. Do you know what I wrote yesterday? Or the other day? Of course you do. I, on the other hand, don’t. Do you remember what I wrote last week? Last month? Last year? I do, but only vaguely. I can’t help laughing when I think that I remember that only because I have been far more mentally sane than I am now.
I’m wondering if I’ve lost my mind. It might have happened. Because of the tragic event that occurred on the 10th of August. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Well, sadly, guess what: nor will you ever know, old friend. Everything that happened that night will be clearly known only by me. I will go into the grave without having told this to anyone.
Where the hell is my mind??? I even forgot about you. You were lucky that I saw you while unpacking my things. And lucky I was, too, for finding my pen with invisible ink. I couldn’t write here without it. Why was I unpacking, you may ask. Obviously, I had to pack first, right? I did. I moved out of the old house. They almost caught me.
Those guys… they were ugly as hell, let me tell you that. None of them were worth even a please-don’t-let-the-Police-catch-me fuck. I have my own standards.
Lucky enough, I didn’t need to fuck with any of them. They didn’t see me. I was as invisible as this ink, I guess.
But I ran away. They almost caught me. Thank God they didn’t. I wonder if they know who to search for.
It seems like I did something bad, dear Diary. But I don’t know what.
I promised not to tell you something. But I don’t remember what it was… the chocolate that I stole from my mom before I moved out? I should call her and let her know that I took it. I don’t want her to get scared at the thought that a stranger broke into the house.
I don’t like it in here, dear Diary. It’s too much light. Here, the sun shines too strongly every day. Funny how I sound like a vampire. Funny how I even drank blood. What do you mean, whose blood? I don’t even know.
Wait… I am having a fit of laughter right now. I simply confused it, my dear friend. I- I literally thought it was apple-juice. Or Cranberry juice?
I love cranberries. I’m going to buy some, actually. I’m leaving for the market.
Dear Diary… I’m bombed. Literally drunk as fuck. I’m having fit after fit of laughter out of nothing. You know why? Cause I figured it would be good to make myself a smoothie with cranberries and Vodka. Turns out it tastes better than I expected. But it killed me. I’ve no idea how I can still write. But behold, a wonder! I can!
What was I saying? Oh yeah. Cranberries. Have I ever told you, dear Diary, why I love them? They have the same colour as blood. And who doesn’t love a good drink? I figure cranberries can do a good drink, regardless of what you mix them with. And blood does, too.
Have I told you that I drank her blood? I don’t think I did. My hands were shaking. I remember I told you that. The knife did some strange twist in my hand… and guess where it landed! Can you guess? Wait, I have to stop laughing. Why the fuck am I laughing so hard at my own jokes? I’m crazy, dear Diary. Let me tell you that. I know it for sure. Bat shit. Maniac. Lo-co!!
Blood tastes good. It’s soft, you know? Sweet but salty. It’s got a smooth texture. Slips down your throat easier than any shot of alcohol. I indulge myself in a nice little drink from time to time. I allow myself a minute or two of pampering. I deserve to feel good. Don’t therapists say it, too? My therapist used to say that.
Before I killed her, that is.
And did I do anything wrong, dear friend? It was purely therapeutic. It helped me cope with my emotions. I got to understand them better. I got to understand my needs and fulfill them, as she used to say.
Where did the knife come from? That’s something I don’t recall. A detail, I suppose.
I’m screwed. I’m fucking screwed. They’re here! I mean, at the door. They’re bangin’ on it. I locked all the doors in the apartment. I’m in the bathroom. I know they’ll find me, eventually, but I don’t want them to take me away. I am a free soul. They can’t take my freedom away. I won’t allow them to.
My hands are bleeding as I write this. The blood makes a bit of the invisible ink become rather visible. But only in some places. Just a couple of letters are showing.
Dear Diary, with my last powers, I want to share with you and only you my secret. Before I die, I want you to know, old friend. You ought to. You’ve been here for me when no one was. You will continue to be, long after I’m gone. Please keep our confidentiality the way my therapist couldn’t.
Coming to think about it, dear Diary, I didn’t kill her because she broke the patient-therapist confidentiality, or because she was not helping me. Oh, she did help me a lot! She did help me realise who I am, what I am and why it is so hard for people to stick around with me. I’m a born killer.
I always loved the taste of my own blood (and of others, when I got the occasion). I enjoyed going hunting with my dad when I was a kid. I enjoyed seeing the cowards and those inferior to me suffer. I guess that’s the animalistic part in human behaviour that hasn’t– nor will ever– change. I always…
But that’s another story. Where was I? Oh, therapy and therapists. And dead therapists.
You see, she was helping me a lot, this woman. She was so kind to me. So sweet, so polite. Too kind, too sweet, too polite, if you asked me. Ah fuck! I can’t feel my hands! They’re just… numb. And I think they’re in… I must be quiet and finish my story.
My nervous, dying handwriting must be looking hideous. Luckily, no one will see it. So now she’s dead. Somehow, I decided to follow her advice and meet my needs, accept and embrace them. And my biggest need was the need of blood. After slicing her up like a baker would slice bread, I made a canvas out of the walls of her office. Everything was so quiet… I enjoyed the serenity that Death brings to the table. After all, everyone needs to bring something to the table, right?
I brought Miss Evanna. Death brought me peace. But not for long. Anyways… I remember having unleashed my art… Oh, how clearly I see it now, as my whole life passes in front of my blurry, unfocused eyes. I made a canvas out of the office walls. Yes, I did that. I painted rivers of blood, and smiley faces, and bleeding hearts and… oh, that’s how they caught me…
Like every artist, I left my signature in the bottom right of my work…. I wrote my name… how stupid I was!
Uhh… I hate myself for being so stupid! But it’s okay. Death will embrace me even though I’m stupid. Why is everything getting dark? I’m scared of the dark… I also hate the light, but that’s another story. I wish I could write in your blood-stained pages until my last moment, dear Diary. But I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’ll try. But I don’t…
I hear their footsteps. They’re close… Fuck it! I don’t want to be saved… she tried to save me. But she failed. Actually. She was my salvation. Jesus! I don’t remember when was the last time the Voices were so quiet… the last time my thoughts were so clear… Wait. I do. When I cut her throat. Yes, that was it.
She saved me. She might have died not knowing it. But she saved me. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be breaking free from here right now.
I’m going to faint. I struggle to stay some more, write something… I have to write this. I have to leave with a joke. Like my favourite actors. I ought to leave people feeling good when the curtain closes. What people?
Moral of the story: get yourselves a therapist, fuckers! You all need one! You think you’re mentally sane???? Bitch, you can’t be! You’re not as mad as me. But you are still fucked up! Everyone is!!!
Shit, I gotta put the pen down. If I don’t, I’ll stay around longer than I planned. They’ll find me. I’m laughing too hard at my own fucking joke! I’m nuts! I’m…
“DEAD! SHE’S FUCKING DEAD!”
“Wait, what? Did you check her pulse?”
“Of course I did!”
“Yo… what the fuck is this mess?”
“The bitch killed herself…”
“Hudson, take your phone out and record me.”
“Yes, sir. Speak!”
“We have arrived at the killer’s house and she’s swimming in a pool of blood! She was a fucking maniac! We heard her laughter mere moments ago. She’s cut her wrists open, from the articulation of the hand, to the one of the elbow, on both arms. There’s an old, colourless notebook thrown into the bathtub and it’s all full of blood. There’s a once white but now dark red pen blocked in the sink. This whole place looks like the Red Room and it makes me shiver. She was definitely a schizophrenic but was not given the help she needed. I feel sorry for her. We’ll call for a team of criminologists to see if they can identify any information about her, apart from what we know now. Hudson, let’s get outta here. Mission accomplished… kind of. You’ll write the report!”