The pounding of the heart can speak a lot of things—fear, arousal, excitement, curiosity, sadness, and even death—as it slowly ceases its movement. All these heartbeats, one’s heart can tell. But I’m most accustomed to hearing two—arousal and fear. I am connected to both so much that I can hear it a mile away.
How did I get this uncommon ability? They created it. I made my body to dance to its tune, moving to its rhythm. I would say it was like a siren call, making the heart flutter in excitement.
To have it was to get a seed and a bit of watering. Nothing grows without a tiny spark of life. These things were born without a will, but with a little watering can create a flesh eating monster or a rose with thorns. I’m a rose with thorns.
The pump that released multiple essences and the hole that accepted its offering with open folds, created a mold, in it had a spark of another life.
“You’re a piece of waste. Worthless and stupid.” The neck made to support the head would groan out in anger, but the heart is shaking in fear.
“You only take with your foul hands. You grip, bruise, maim without remorse,” she would rattle out. Add a little cursing, the nightmare would be upon her.
“Then I should take more. Take what is mine,” he would say. He would look at the mold and say, “Grow up and let me take from you.” He did this while violating her, the neck. He did it right while the child was, showing the true power of domination.
He showed me the full terror of it and I understood fear. His actions of violating, forceful taking taught me arousal and I learnt its signs. The ability to sense fear and arousal was groomed by my parents. They became my demons, who drove me mad.
“Father and mother were the founders of my ability,” I confessed to my priest. To get what? Redemption?
“No! No! It is an evil act, not something to be seen as good. You need to be cleansed, prayed for,” my priest would say. I was prayed for, delivered, baptized. All these to be cleansed of what? A demon. If only it was a possession.
I caused fear in the heart of many and this turned me on, it aroused me like it did to my father. I loved the high feeling of power it gave; watching them shiver pitifully, cowering in my presence before I took what I wanted and left them empty like I felt.
The drugs added more to the ecstacy. It brought in image of delicacies I could take from, in the most gruesome of ways, I could taint. The rush of the pills were addictive, intoxicating and stimulating. I couldn’t do without having it around always.
I was falling deeper and deeper in the darkness. Sometimes I don’t remember doing it, but I sense the aftermath. I was slipping out of my mind, spacing out, having blank memories. Then the images came.
This is my last journal, a summary of the horror I have seen and done. I have gotten to the last page of everything. I hope the person who finds this journal can find what is left of me, before I disappear with secrets and move on to another tortured soul.
The things I once did with happiness, drove me mad. The white substance that gave me bliss, illuminated the path to take to end it all. The image was sweet and would be blissful till I become pale as ghost. There is no redemption or way out, not when the dark empty tunnel of my mind is fascinating enough to make me explore.