You know I think the worst thing about going crazy is knowing that it's happening and being unable to stop it.
My dreams of murder have become too gruesome for even me. They're cannibalistic; but I play with my food first. In my dream, I straddle a man tied naked to a steel table at his wrists and ankles. He has bite marks everywhere - like he was attacked by something inhuman. He doesn't make a sound and somehow I know it's because there's no one who can hear him scream. And I like that. I love it. And I'm straddling him while he's staring up at me with these sad, blue eyes.
Even as I drag the blade up his body with enough pressure to break the skin from navel to sternum, he just stares at me. But his heart is beating fast – there’s so much blood. More blood than I can hold in.
So I lap it up with my tongue. It’s sweet and salty and tantalizing. I’ve tasted it a hundred times in my dreams and it still makes me quiver in anticipation. I love it.
I crave it.
It’s my aphrodisiac.
And he’s still staring at me. Like watching me drink his blood is turning him on, too.
And I don’t want to stop.
So I nibble, and I bite, and I swallow. I can still taste the blood as I write – though to be fair, that might also be from chewing at the skin of my nails – chewing on that muscle, swallowing down bits of broken bone. I want to cut off tiny pieces of him and just taste him forever.
Instead, I…put his cock in my mouth and never look away from his sad, blue eyes. Everything tastes good with blood.
That’s when I woke up in a sweat.
I tried to kill James. I woke up and I was straddling him. I had a knife to his throat. And he was looking at me with such sad, blue eyes. Like he wasn’t scared of me.
He was scared for me.
I remember looking down at his chest while I still had a knife to his throat – so close to making him bleed – and I saw scars. Fresh scars. Knife marks. I’d done this before.
The love of my life.
I can’t believe I would do that to him.
He knows now. He knows everything. He knows that I’m not going to work, he knows about the voices and the nightmares that aren’t really nightmares. He knows how hard it is, there’s no hiding it now.
The love of my life.
What am I becoming?
Oh, and my mother came to visit. Did I mention that? Last week, she stopped by in the middle of the week to "chat"; like we do that all the time. I think Heather called her - mom's number is in my file. I think she's worried about how crazy I've been acting at work – when I go to work. I want to fire her but she's not wrong. I'm falling off the deep end.
I just wish I could sleep without tasting, or worrying, or dreaming.
This is going to be a long week.
As always, dear readers,