Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Killing Changes You.

Killing Changes You.

“I could get used to this!” was what I thought as I slit his throat with my sharp knife.

The precise blade slid ever so delicately through and through his skin without the slightest bit of hesitation. Blood spilled down his chest blanketing the white shirt in a dark crimson red. I was feeling very much like Hannibal Lecter when I licked the blade clean of his blood. Slowly, as I continue to clean my blade, I watch his body melt into the pool of red liquid on the wooden floor before me. You know what they say, the first time is all it takes to become addicted.

Killing changes you. Once you’ve committed the unspeakable act there’s no turning back. Funny thing was, I knew from that moment on, I was hooked. Who would be my next victim? See after all, this wasn’t planned. It was an opportunity. I seized it! The thrill of taking a life had always been on the top of my “DO NOT SHARE” list. You know that list of dark sadistic things that you just don’t share. Everyone has one, but you don’t speak of it.

I had to wait, like a predator stalking my prey. Watching… waiting... wanting… until just the right… moment. Perhaps this is how Jack the Ripper felt as he chose his victims? And who would catch me? I would be leaving the country in a matter of days. No one would be shocked if I never returned. No one could blame me for walking away from my dead end job, my artistic failure. Again, they might miss him? Doubtful, I surprised him. He wasn’t scheduled to return from his trip for a few more days. You know the type, workaholic, and no next of kin. Only leaves the house for the office and returns back promptly each day. The cleaning lady was the only person who would find the body, and she wouldn’t be returning until Monday. But again, my darkness consumes me and the wheels start to spin.

How many ways can you dispose of a body? Too many! Too FUN! Just as I’m dreaming up new, sick and twisted ways to make a body disappear… BAM! “I guess he wasn’t dead after all,” are my thoughts as I’m falling quick, looking up at this bastard holding his throat with one hand and a large blunt object in the other. I’m Out.

I often wondered what it would be like to be tortured. Today I find out. I’m bound (hands & feet) and gagged. He’s sewn up his neck wound and licking the knife – there’s blood – while I have to watch. “See, I guess two can play this game,” he says. It’s my blood… apparently he’s cut me, ten places I can visibly see in my arms and legs. But from what I can feel there are several more than that.

“You should have made sure I was dead!” With a sick sadistic smile he edges closer to me. “Cause you’ll never leave here now.” He grabs my neck, kneels down and slides the blade down my left cheek. I can feel the blood spill out, downward, as it mixes with my tears. “I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” he whispers in my ear.

Again no one would blame me if I never came back.

Killing Changes You. That it does. And there's no going back. Once a killer always a killer?  Eh??? Kidding with kisses. It's a bad joke. I am not a killer. Now in the writing of words of course I've produced a few. That can not be denied. I'm not exactly a criminal or an innocent either when it comes to creating such things. However this doesn't make me responsible for the reaction they produce. Why say that? You see, words can not be weapons unless you let them be. Actions can be seen in the same manner. Sometimes there is no fight. We only want to see one. There's a story of a Buddhist monk that I always think of when I feel like I'm being attacked. Want to hear?

There's a buddhist monk walking with his pupil one day. The monk sharing his knowledge of Buddha with this pupil and allowing the young man to take in all the teachings to interpret for himself. While the monk and the young man are walking another man quickly approaches. When the man comes to them they all stop. Instead of a greeting the man punches the monk and runs off. The punch sends the monk to his back upon the ground and he asks the student to help him get up. As the student helps the monk to his feet he is worried about his master but the monk insists that they should begin walking again. The student asks his teacher. "Shouldn't you do something about that man that hit you?" And to this the master replies, "Why would I do anything? His hitting me had nothing to do with me."

Anyhow... This is the first. The one that kicked off my life of whatever this and that is I do day in and day out. I'm still a designer and love to make things. And yes, I still take photographs for inspiration everyday. I can't imagine not being able to create or be able to express the emotion that's inside. But without a bit of death and grief none of this would have ever been.

Killing? A few of my favorite writers deal with darkness and a couple of my favorite artists have series of art related to killing. Both words and art aren't straightforward instances of madness. Rather they are powerful criticisms on destroying those things that you say control you. Because there is a message in darkness. Someone once told me if you listen to a sad song for too long it becomes a happy one. What is that? It's called flooding. Flooding is a method in which you are forced to look upon images or deal with subject matter that isn't comfortable until you are able to handle it. And sad songs can make the best company sometimes.

So... killing. Eh? Killing Changes You. That. That's what I know. 

Enjoy if you've never read this one. Kisses. m.

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