Alright, I didn’t lie but I certainly didn’t tell you the entire truth.
In my last entry I said “no more”; I may have exaggerated. I’m sorry to have worried you.
You might have noticed that I have not been myself the last few months and for that I do apologize. I hoped that writing regularly would help curb my symptoms but it turns out that talking only made it worse. Three weeks ago, I had James drive me to the hospital where I checked myself in to the psychiatric ward. I was quickly diagnosed as having minor schizophrenic and violent tendencies. Basically they called me delusional.
I thank god that part of me was still sane because I didn’t turn myself in. I told the doctor about my desire to tear off his balls and make him eat them while I carved pretty pictures into his chest with a scalpel but I didn’t once mention my recreational activities.
So I guess, to him, the blood fetish…thing was a bit out of the blue. Which actually turned out okay. They asked me a lot of basic questions like how much sleep I get, what my diet is like, what are my stress levels, how often do I have sex – relieve tension. He didn’t really go that deep in that initial examination, now that I think about it.
Although the sedative makes the memory a bit fuzzy.
I was much more lucid in the second interview the next day. I told the doctor that I was having problems finding release, and I was feeling anxious and – a bit – paranoid because of a work incident involving the death of a colleague. This, in turn, lead to loss of sleep, difficulty with intimacy, and a general break from reality.
And he bought it. I can’t believe it.
After that, I kind of got bored.
The nurses gave me some anti-psychotics which stabilized my mood – and made me incredibly hungry; I swear I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last three weeks.
I had to talk to the resident psychiatrist once a day; we mostly talked about my mood in the moment and he asked a lot of questions about my stressors.
He kind of looked like an owl. I took to calling him Archimedes behind his back. And to his face.
So anyways, after about two weeks of daily sessions with Archimedes, they deemed me healthy enough to make short visits to my husband.
I checked myself out instead; on their condition that I continue to visit with Dr. Owlface every two weeks and I continue to take the meds they provided me until they decide I can stop. Like a good little patient anxious for release I agreed to their terms and was released to the care of my loving husband.
After the first two days of therapy I grew quite bored. The rooms may not be white and padded but you're cut off from the outside world, for all intents and purposes. Warm lighting, comfy beds, three meals a day with a nice high for dessert, what more could a girl ask for? Except maybe a metal fork or a newspaper; or a hot shower where you weren't carefully monitored for fear you'd use that time to kill someone or yourself (in my case it was more the former but still).
But I did use my time wisely. I spent it thinking about why I was there. That, combined with my doctor’s advice, cemented my resolve.
Dr. Owlface, for all his faults, gave me one very important piece of advice: “reduce your stressors” he said “and, if possible, remove them completely.”
I know my stressor, I know why I was there; Daniel Westburn is his name and, if possible, I will remove him completely.
I will destroy him.
Not only did he cost me my sanity, he endangered my family, my livelihood – my life. So I will do the same for him. I will find the people most important to him in the world, and I will make him suffer. I will make him watch as I endanger his family, his livelihood, and his life.
And when he is begging for death: I will not grant it.
Daniel Westburn will pay for the things he’s done to me.
But enough of that, I have good news.
Early on Saturday morning, James picked me up from the hospital and quickly informed me that the kids were both staying with friends so we had the next 24 hours to ourselves. Of course he had a “welcome back to reality” present which involved a woman in the trunk of our car; a university student he’d picked up walking home late at night. We found a nice, abandoned construction site with no security (and no traffic cameras in the area – there are some benefits to marrying a cop other than his handcuffs).
Then he handed me the knife.
That girl just stared at me, challenging me to go through with it. Her eyes were green – a beautiful shade of green – it felt a shame to waste such fierceness but it had to be done. I had earned the right to use that knife. The knife gripped with white knuckles, staring at the girl. She didn’t scream. James had a hand over her mouth, and another arm around her shoulder, holding her in place. She didn’t struggle, she didn’t scream.
How can someone be so calm in the face of death?
I didn’t actually end up killing her. I made a few nicks in her neck but not enough to bleed her. I’ll admit, not killing someone for nearly three months is longer than I’ve ever gone. My hands were shaking too much to really get the job done but luckily James was there – like he always is. He snapped her neck and put her back in the trunk before guiding me back to the car. Then we drove to the river and dropped her in.
Well, James did. I sat there. I watched.
I know it doesn’t really sound like good news but I promise you it is.
James has never killed anyone before – not with me. He always watches me. Sometimes he’ll pick out the victim but he’s never taken a life with his bare hands.
He understands now. My lust for blood, my need to take life.
He understands me.
After we got home, we made love in our bed for the first time in three months and it was beautiful. It felt wonderful; sweet and wonderful because he understood. I love him so much.
And I almost lost him because of that man.
It will never happen again.
As always, dear readers,