The Fake Diaries

The night we finally owned our piece of territory was a night like no other. The rivals grew and grew. We stayed the same size, but our tactics got more and more fierce. Thanks, in large part, to Andy. I had ideas, too, but I kept them to myself. They were too much. Until that night.

They had burned the diner. Her parents had burned alive. His, too. I liked him. We made each other laugh. Andy wanted to end it, said it had gone too far. But I wasn’t going to take that. None of us were.

They had taken up residence in an abandoned warehouse, one of a thousand in the area. We broke into every liquor store and gas station we could find looking for anything flammable. They all celebrated at their headquarters, knowing it would take time for us to come up with a real plan.

We started the fires on every side, leaving no safe exit. We threw them into the windows, soaked the doors with gasoline, lit trash cans and threw them in. It was an inferno within the first minute. Just before the roof collapsed, a few of them made it out.

We waited at either end, just in case. Most of them were on fire trying to put themselves out. Andy and she beat the few that emerged, breaking bones and letting them burn a little. When they were sure no one else was coming, they found me.

Her brother just stood there, not moving. She screamed. Andy tried to stop me. When the first had run out, I slammed a metal pipe into his face. That metal on bone sound, reverberating through my arm and into my skull had shocked me, but it didn’t stop me.

They never had a chance. Even after they were dead, I kept going. Nothing else felt like the first time. There were still cracks, lots of blood, but no sound like the first time. No smashed face, stretched by fear and shock.

***

The voice started after that night, at first speaking in a voice of metal and bone. The more I listened, the clearer it became. It helped, told me what to do, how to stay on top of things. But it screamed, yelled and accused.

It always insulted. It became the voice of my mother for awhile, piercing and nagging. After my father died, it became his voice. That’s how it stayed for awhile. Never good enough. Always so stupid. Always causing my own problems.
But it wasn’t my father or my mother. It wasn’t her either. I’d learn who it was after I met her for the first time, face to face.

The only voice now was my wife’s. It wasn’t always pleasant either. Especially not when I was drunk. Not after the day I’d had. No, I wasn’t going to listen to that voice anymore.

The booze I used to drown out the other one only gave it a megaphone. It shouted my wife down. All the horrible things it had told me it spouted at her, but she didn’t back down. She was braver than me, trying to shut it up for good. But we wouldn’t have that.

I slugged her, hard, in the face. Still no cracking. I had been out of practice. I hadn’t had a fight or had the thrill of being chased in years. Had it been a decade? My fist hurt, but there was still blood. It had shut her up, but it wasn’t enough.

I slugged her again in the stomach, just to feel good. And it did. She was still conscious. That was better than most had done. I finished off the last beer and threw the bottle against the wall. I had to sit down to stop the spinning. It wasn’t just the booze, it was the thrill. After so long...

Her open eyes were staring at me. I wouldn’t to stop them. But I couldn’t. She had been pretty good to me, after all. I couldn’t part with her. At least, not with the routine she represented. Maybe if I took a little of her away at a time, I could bring myself to be without her. But it all went black before that...

Ok, I didn't mean for it to take this long. Sorry. Weekly or bi-weekly from now on, I promise. But my online promises usually don't mean much. Enjoy whenever it's updated!

( Men Kill, Women Comfort Part IICollapse )

Sorry, I know it's been a long time. I've been working on that big ole script and haven't made much time for this. This is the first part of something that's already written, but needs some work, so I'll post in installments. How often? Keep checking back! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

( Men Kill, Women ComfortCollapse )

I watched him die. I stood over him and looked into his eyes. I didn't want to. While my eyes moved to meet his, I knew it was wrong. I knew that I should have looked the other way. It was wrong to watch this, to watch this man suffer after I had caused him to.

But I could feel the hand of my father forcing my head down, the way he had when I was young. He wanted to acquaint me with the realities of life and death. I closed my eyes and tried to look away then, but he was right.

I knew that now, looking into the cold emptiness of this man's eyes. There were many more men to kill. I had to know what it was like. I had to know what I was going to do to them, what it would one day be like for me. I couldn't afford to be shocked when I was surrounded by those eyes.

I watched his soul leave his body, his corpse left empty and meaningless. Whatever was there, what was, what could have been, was gone. As I watched, I could feel a piece of my soul leaving as well. My body wanted to vomit, my mind wanted me to scream, my heart wanted me to cry.

But my soul was silent. I had lost the capacity for feeling. Feeling for others, anyway. My tears ran dry, though my body still heaved and my breath came short. I knew I had done something very wrong. Not the killing, but looking at such a lonely, important moment. At looking at something that never should have been. At enjoying it.

It made me stronger, it made me a better killer, but it was wrong. But I know longer know right and wrong. I know only that I've crossed the thin thread of slaughter. The difference between selecting and killing multiple, specific opponents and cleaving anything that entered the zone of death I called my own. Now, there was only to be a twisting tornado of blades and blood: Slaughter.

Two souls were lost that day, but many more lives would follow.

Brief intrusion: I will try to spill the whole story of Baby Gracie's birth for those who care and those who don't at some point. Thought I should actually write something for a change today, though. Back to the black:

The drapes flap at my entrance, but not a sound is made. None can see me. None but her. As I watch, she opens her eyes, slowly coming to life. As her mind wakes up and her eyes adjust, she sees me.

What she sees is a man in a nice suit. The man is, of course, dead. Locked away, deep within, burning. The suit is in a dump somewhere, moth eaten and filthy. Buried, forgotten. She's little different.

The face of the man brings her comfort. She's waited so long. She knew they'd be reunited again. She's wrong, but let her enjoy it. For now. All things are temporary here.

She speaks his name and the grin stretches the old face, as she last knew it. Many see a younger version or a better time. But the best time for her was the last time. It's quite romantic. The only thing more tragic than separating them would be for her to go to him.

I speak her name and tears emerge. They usually do. These tears are few though. She knows. Either that it's a dream, or it's time. She's been ready. No one visits. No one cares. Except that one nurse. She'll be crushed, of course. But she'll know it's for the best. It always is.

She takes my hand and I squeeze her. The cold beneath is masked by the warm illusion of remaining love. Does she only remember what she wants to? Has she forgotten all the fights, the disappointments, the hurts? Or do they hand on to hold back an even greater love?

Or has their love so transcended it all that she can perfectly picture every moment, good and bad, and love him still? It's rare these days, but it happens. True love. It's taken many a soul from grasp, but sped far more to it.

She says many things. I can understand them of course, despite the sagging left side of her lips. It must feel good to be heard again. The head cocks lovingly, almost like the cockerspaniel she had when she was 6. That was what first brought them together.

She finishes by saying that she's ready, how she knew he'd be the one to come. Such a loving, patient woman. She always was. Not that she didn't lose her temper, but with a man like him, she should still be ordained a saint.

She feels the warmth of the hand fade away and the cold fingers stretching across her. She is filled with emptiness, all that is her departing slowly. She can see the blackness coming over her. At last, the shell remains, here to rot in its temporary world, waiting one day for completion.

She feels the light and warmth returning, but not like before. Things her body could never feel nor her heart comprehend. Before it's finished, there is a twinge of sadness as she realizes that he is not there and never will be. It will fade. All things fade away.

It's birthday month! In 2 weeks and 2 days, I'll be 25. Twenty freakin five. I never really thought I'd make it that far. I was shocked at 20. 25's just too long for anyone to ask. I guess when you spend 5 straight years wanting to die and off and on for a few years after that, life expectancy tends to drop.

I feel old. I definitely peaked around 21. I wrote like crazy, was in my best shape since... well, elementary school, probably. I lifted all sorts of stuff, got up without grunting, napped after a hard day's work, not after a long day of sittin around. Went where I wanted, did what I wanted and was just generally a young person.

I don't actually think I'm old. But then again, if life expectancy continues to rise, and barring any major health problems, I am at least 1/4 dead. And all my physical strains and laziness is probably due to the 20 odd pounds I've packed on in the last 4ish years. Or maybe it's a chicken and the egg kinda thing. Am I fat cause I'm old, or feel old cause I'm fat?

Part of me has always thought I never really had long. Never had health problems really. Not physical, anyway. Maybe it's because of the fog of depression and not wanting to go on so long, the idea that going for about 75 years seemed like too much to fathom, but I don't know. Just seems like 25 might be pushing it for me.

I have no special knowledge from God or real sense of the end nearing. It's just picturing me at 30. With, like, a house. And car payments. No kids, thank God. It is now, or soon will be, physically impossible. HAHA! Take that unborn burdens! Sorry, that was too far. I love kids. At least the ones related to me. But I'm pretty sure I should never be a parent. That could go on for a whole other update.

Anyway, 30's not old, either. It's just picturing me all grown up and mature. Granted, I'm married and employed and pay taxes and whatnot, and have developed the ability to not go insane at every one of life's little hick-ups, but I sure don't see myself in a tie-wearing scenario.

I've chilled out a lot since I was 20, so maybe it'll happen. But I kinda like where I am now. Able to deal with life and be semi-responsible (don't tell that to my wife, though), yet not given up on ideals, dreams and passions. Maybe my perspective of all that is a little skewed, or maybe I was just made to be weird in that kind of way. Sure hope so.

I know I'm meant to be a screenwriter, so that helps. We're the slobs of the entertainment industry. It would be shocking if I did wear a tie. I'll be living my dream (even though it'd be in California, at least some of the time.) I wouldn't be a college graduate. Could probably find a slick tax attorney to get me out of paying taxes (just kidding.)

But for all my desperation to be somewhat youthful, I definitely don't want to end up 64 with a pony tail and flip flops. That's worse than pants up to your nipples and less hair than a plucked chicken. I just want to be what I have been, only without the suicide and addiction.

On the other hand, I do have Alzheimer's. Or something. Seriously, I can't remember a flippin thing. Maybe that's because I have a dear wife who cheerfully reminds me of everything I'm supposed to do or said I was gonna do. But it's been a problem for a long time.

I guess the important thing is to stay in touch with God and be what He put me here to be. He keeps you from selling out your causes and dreams by admitting that there's a very good chance that you will be broke and possibly even dead because of them. And also admitting that such is by far not the worst that can happen to you. He keeps you young, keeps you from worrying. The only reason to worry is when you're not doing what He says.

I don't really think about the future cause I know I'll never get it exactly right. Anything can happen. I can get rich tomorrow and die Thursday. Or I can sell one screenplay, then become a tax attorney. I already have glasses. Reading glasses. 'Cause I'm old. Or I can beat out Tom Hanks as the number one box office draw. Whatever happens, I don't worry about it till it comes. And then I trust and try not to worry.

If I did die Thursday, I can't say I'd be sorely disappointed. I've had a good run, short as it actually is. I've failed God, walked next to Him, followed Him when it made the least sense and when there was no other choice.

I've plunged head long into God knew what for love, twice, and never regretted it. I traveled 4 hours, one way, every weekend for months for love. In a car. That uses gas. But I didn't have to pay for it, but I would have is the point. I got married, had a cat, bought a car.

I had a good family, hated em for awhile, then loved em after I moved out and still do. I've had good friends that I've loved and lost. Some I just lost touch with. Some I need to email when I finish this. But I still think about em and pray for em.

I found myself after a long time of searching. I am, more or less, who I want to be. I'm doing what I wanted do. I'm with who I want to be with. I go to a church I'm committed to. I sin less now than I probably ever have, not that that's saying much. I'm heading in the right direction. I even lived to see all the Star Wars movies. That, I was worried about.

If I died, I'd be sad to leave everyone behind. I couldn't care less what happens to me, but I'd die totally satisfied if I knew they'd all be alright. But until that day, I'll keep following where I'm supposed to go. I'll give some dirty looks to the right people along the way, and a hand up to those who need it.

At least I'm not looking to die, now. I think this is the right place to be. I don't want to die, but I'm not clinging to life for... well, dear life. God'll take me when He wants me. What am I gonna do? I want to stick around, but I'll throw my life away if I'm called to. Life's less stressed when you accept that it's not really yours anyway.

Hope I didn't depress anybody. I hope, instead, that everybody can learn a little something from this. Even if it's just to see all the Star Wars movies. Enjoy life and God bless!

I lie down on the table, terrified. I should have seen it coming. It was all my fault. A life lived in waste and debauchery does not come without expense. He ties me down, strapping me in tight. I feel the bindings almost cut into my skin. I can't move an inch. Each hand, each foot, my own head is unmovable. It's so I don't hurt myself, but it scares me. It hurts. Everything about it will hurt. Quickly, I forget that he is here to heal me. I forget all that he's done for me until now.

When I first felt the illness, he listened and told me what was wrong. I had to change my life. But I was young. I wasn't ready to change, to sacrifice. I went on as I had and the pain got worse. All the pleasure I once enjoyed was marred by the constant pain. Eventually, the pleasure became the pain. Every night, the flame of the illness was lit. Every night I burned until I could no longer sleep. I was in constant torment. Now it has reached it's zenith. This will pain unlike any other so far, and he will cause it.

His hand pushes down on my chest and I see a glint in the corner of my eye. It's just out of my sight, but it's there, sharp and shining. Sweat pours from my body. I want to escape, I want to move again. I want to escape once more into the night, just once more. I don't want this. I'll let the pleasurable pain and painful pleasures of the night outside kill me. Just not this. Anything but this.

When the illness got so bad that I could no longer go out, he brought his son. He had always been a friend to me. He always listened, always laughed and always tried to tell me what I was doing wrong. I knew he was right, but I wouldn't listen. I had, at one time, even hit him for what I thought was his nagging. I denied his friendship. But he never left me. When he came that night, he knew the risk, but he did it anyway.

His own father bled him. His red life fled from his body and ran into me. I instantly felt life returning and pain receding. I could breath, move and speak again. I saw the father weeping over the corpse of his dead son. I stayed with him that night. The next night, I said goodbye to my old friend and his father. They left me on my own to handle my own affairs for the evening. I went out that very night. The feeling of life left me. The pain returned, somehow worse than before.

I didn't speak to my friend's father. Often I saw him searching me out, but I hid. Just for one more night, I always thought. But it never ended. When he stopped looking, the pain got worse. I still didn't stop, though I cried out his name all day and all night. He never came. He did not walk where I walked.

At last I went to him and begged for his help. He didn't throw me out. He didn't hit me. He didn't insult me. He asked me to follow him. I did. Now I lay here on his table, dreading that glint. It comes closer and I try to pull my head away from it. It's what I've feared every time the pain pulsed through me. Its pain can be no worse than what I feel now, this I know. But it will be new, it will be sharp and there will be no way to stop it.

Outside in the darkness, I hear the pack of my old friends calling my name, bidding me join them. My dead friend's father hears them, but does not acknowledge them. My mouth, I still can move. I beg to be let free and to join my friends. He will not stop me. Their cries grow louder. They insult the my friend who died and his father. As I hear their call, as I dream of the night I could have, the pain flares up once more. I close my eyes, and wait for the father to do what he will.

I feel the knife cut into me. The sharp instrument inflicts a dull pain at first. It's so sharp, I almost don't feel it break through my skin. But as the father drags it down, I feel my flesh being rent apart. If I weren't tied down, if I could move as I desired, the knife would plunge deep enough to kill me. Instead, I gnash my teeth and scream. My friends hear me in the distance and renew their calls with greater fervor.

At last, the knife stops cutting. I am open, my innards out for all to see. The sharp pain covers that which I felt before with its intensity. I can barely breathe in this torture. I damn the father for cutting into me so. How can such pain bring healing? How can a man who wants my good do such a thing to me? I call him a fool, a trickster. I call him evil. My friends pound on the door and hurl insults of their own at both of us.

His hand passes into me. I feel his every movement, his tightening grasp. He grabs onto the torturing thing inside of me. Once he finds it, his grasps is unbearable. I scream out in pain and horror. I'm going to die. I just know it. I feel his hand pass back through the way it came. I feel the emptiness, the hollow from where he pulled the offending part. I curse him for removing that with which I cannot live without.

I scream nonsense, the screams of my friends becoming louder and less meaningful. I can't see anymore. I only concentrate on the pain. My old pain is gone, but this new pain is so sharp, I can't bear it any longer. Then I feel the needle, breaking more skin. I feel the thread tighten the flesh, keeping out more illness, more pain. Each pinch hurts more and more. The cool air on my innards ceases. There is only pain and stinging sweat. At last, I can bear no more.

With the last drop of blood from my old friend's veins, I cry out "Father!" The pain stops. The sewing ends. My muscles relax. My bonds are undone. I am free, but I remain where I am, where the father lead me. The pain still throbs, but with decreasing intensity. I see the father and he smiles, tears in his eyes. I never realized that he could hear my every scream and felt my every pain. He shows me the source of my pain, a hideous, black thing.

I loathe it and throw it into the fire and watch it burn. The father puts his arms around me, his new son. Outside, the screams of my former friends still pierce the night, but in another language. One which I no longer understand. The pain will go away. The scar will last, but with it, will last the lesson of this night with the father surgeon and his son who died to give me life that I could throw away, or, as now I shall do, live.

In sanity is the idea that a piece of paper is worth several thousand dollars and at least four years of one's life.
In sanity, one thinks that a thousand dollar piece of paper will guarantee a life of comfort and luxury.
In sanity lies the belief that all are meant to live the same way.
In sanity is the feeling that one is worth only what one is paid.
In sanity is found the thought that a marriage without children is empty and pointless.
In sanity, one believes that a parent is only as valuable as their child.
In sanity is the idea that one's child must be kept constantly busy whether he or she likes it or not.
In sanity, a child is only as valuable as his or her achievements.
In sanity is working one's whole life to enjoy only the last, brief and painful years of it.
In sanity is working a job one hates to get money that is never enough to buy things that never satisfy.
In sanity alone is promiscuous sex assured as passive, recreational and meaningless.
In sanity one can be in love that is comfortable, passive, unchanging and painless.
In sanity, love is effortless and takes care of itself.
In sanity is the comfortable acknowledgment of a higher power with no strings attached.
In sanity is the belief that one can mix together religion as a salad bar, taking all one wants and leaving that which one does not.
In sanity, the only morality is that which gets you ahead or gets you off.
In sanity are people who believe that every aspect of their lives can and should be planned without any hitches along the way.
In sanity, art is an industry.
In sanity we are told that art, any means by which we express ourselves, is nothing more than an unstable career choice.
In sanity is the thought that art is a choice.
In sanity one finds entertainment that is only unchallenging, inoffensive, thoughtless, soulless and geared toward the lowest wrung of societal taste.
In sanity, violence is always wrong and always avoidable.
In sanity that which does not immediately satisfy is without merit.
In sanity is the life of paper: Diploma, Degree, Certification, Paperwork, Marriage Certificate, Mortgage, Birth Certificate, Paperwork, Retirement Plan, Death Certificate.
In sanity is one always in control.
In sanity, only that which is popular is worth considering.
In sanity one must form thoughts, opinions, feelings and lives according to those of all others.
In sanity, one hides his or her own thoughts, opinions, feelings and lives.
In sanity, such an act shall have no consequences.
In sanity, those who follow the rules, work hard at the right job, procure and produce the right family shall always succeed.
In sanity is the nexus of endless expectation, constant worry, consistent disappointment, unlived life, unfelt love and never ending labor.
In sanity, one finds happiness in this nexus.
In sanity is silence.
In sanity ain't me.

Father,

Whatever voice I lack in life, give it to me on the page. Reach into my heart, beyond the artifice and superficial, through the maddening currents of bitterness, sin and desire, down deep into the core where no one goes and of which no one knows. Reach in so deep it shakes all that is me to its purest foundation, devoid of baseness and falsehood. Rip away every wall, tear down the defenses, break apart my mind to go deeper into my heart.

Take it all from me and throw it against the screen. Splash it in blood of black and white for all to see. All that I don't want to say, all that I didn't know I had, pull it from the dungeons within and bring it to the light.

Shine Your light on it and let the reflection pierce my eyes. Set my hands alight to burn away the impurities. Mold my mind to Your desire, my will to Yours, my heart to Your standard. Speak to me and through me. Use me and that which you've wrought in me over a lifetime to make a spark an ever burning flame. Let it consume questions with undeniable answers.

All that is wrong me, bring it out to be judge by the Light. Burn it on the altar of this work and make something purer and greater than any human can hope to produce alone.

Let all who see know that it was not wrought with human hands. Let them hear Your call, let them see Your fingerprints. Set the light you've given me to shine. Make my life a perfect walk with You that even the blood my heart bleeds on the page will praise you. Use my life to direct me here. Just You and me. Let my hands tell the story you speak to my mind.

Let everyone see what you have wrought in me. Give them minds to know and eyes to see. Give them ears to hear and souls to wonder. Use me to save them as You used those I've known to make me Yours and to make me the man I should be, but not yet am.

Bless these works to Your Glory alone. Strip away the desire for money and fame. Strip away the love of praise and affirmation. Tell me only that You approve and that Your servant has done his duty. Let me feel you work through me, even when I question what emerges. Purify me to purify this. Make it the work of my life and make it worthy of Your Name, something I will never be without Your love.

Let Your Spirit shatter my flash and project His light to the world. Break me to make it right. Give me all I need to accomplish Your will and let mine be laid to waste if it differs from Yours.

I only want to serve You. If it means to never write again, so be it. But I pray, instead, that you make use of it. Challenge me. Break me. Hollow out a vessel, a temple, for Yourself. Take all that is wrong in me and make it right. Use me to reach others, even with this prayer.

I lay my life at your feet, for true life is with You. I await that day, but not idly. Instead, here I work to fashion for You a gift to enjoy as a wise Father to His simple son. Bless me to bless it. Everything is in Your hands. Use mine as Your own.

Marana Tha.

In The Name Of Our Brother, Your Son, Our Savior Jesus Christ,

Amen

I remember pulling out from the stop sign, then it all went black. I could feel the spinning, the screeching, but somehow the crash never reached my ears...

I'm awake, but I guess I'm too weak to speak. I can't even open my eyes. I need some more rest...

I don't know what they pumped into me, but I just can't wake up. I hope they stop giving it to me. I'm so weak...

I have to try this time. I have to concentrate and make the effort. Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Pull your lids apart! Open your eyes! Blink, at least. Pull them tight. This should be automatic, what's wrong...?

Just lift your finger. Please. Just move it a little. Wiggle something. Are you there? Come on, man, wake up. Feel it. Feel your body. Surge energy through it. Wake up! Wake up! Move! Listen to me...

HELP! HELP! I'M IN HERE! CAN SOMEONE HEAR ME! I'M IN HERE! PLEASE, LISTEN! OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SPEAK...

Moan, sigh, do something. Please, just let it come out. I can feel my throat. I can feel the air pass through it. Please, God, just open my mouth. Let them know that I'm here...

They only open my eyes to shine a light in them. It's a hospital. All I see is light, white clothes and sad faces. Please don't cry. Just come over and talk to me. I think I can hear you...

Until now, I haven't felt the pain. It feels like my body is still trapped in the car. I feel the pressure on every side. Every bone in my body must be broken. Whatever you had in me, put it back in. I don't want to feel this. Please, God, take it away. Can You still hear me...?

Think away the pain. Think away the pain. Think away the pain...

God, give me enough strength to scream or shout or just to groan. Please, let me let it out. Give me some way out...

The pain is leaving. I can feel a numbed sensation everywhere. Finally, some relief...

I feel something. A tickling. Move my arm. It's driving me crazy, scratch it! Move your arm, you know it's irritating you. Just a quick jerk. Oh no, don't let it be a spider. I hate spiders. GET IT OFF OF ME! GET IT OFF ME! IT'S CRAWLING... I can't feel it. Where is it? Did someone take it off? Why didn't I feel that? Is it still on me? I know it is, but I can't feel it. MOVE! GET IT OFF! GOD...

I don't feel the pain anymore, but there aren't drugs. I simply feel nothing. I'm not tired. I can't sleep. I'm always awake. I can't move. They barely open my eyes anymore. When they do, the sad faces are gone. I'm alone with my thoughts. I can't do anything about them...

I'm going to torture my mind. I'm doing to drive myself insane. I'll numb my mind and make it like my body. Goodbye sad faces. Goodbye spiders. God, I'm coming home. Please bring me home. Please make it stop. Please just drive me crazy so I won't feel anything anymore...