**This was a recent assignment for my degree. In it we had to write a 900 word story following a theme, the theme for this being a diary. In it we follow the thoughts of a man who has lost grips on reality and is, apparently, trapped within his room. Leave a thought, I'd love to come back to this.
Blood in stool again. Will have to re-evaluate diet and go a little easier on the sauce. The corpse in the corner of the bathroom is beginning to reassemble itself again. Before long I am going to have to axe it back into a bloody brick-a-brack. I should really find a more permanent solution but you know what it’s like; you have a bad day at the office, answering to idiots the entire day, come home and the only thing you’ve got to eat is homemade pasta that is fourteen days passed from being inedible and even longer from edible, and the neighbour’s cat has somehow found its way into your house and shit on your favourite leather armchair. The only thing that makes you feel better is disembowelling and lopping the parts off a corpse of a body of a complete stranger who appears to be invulnerable.
We all have days like that right?
There you go. I’m not alone after all. Try to think of the last time you thought about murder. I guarantee you enjoyed it, and why? Because nobody caught you. And every time I take a swing it is nothing but cathartic. Each swing is at a different person. Each swing a tiny shot of dopamine. The arm? That’s my neighbour. The chest? My boss. And every digit on the hands is every moron that I spoke to that pissed me off. There’s a release within the muscles and before you know it one giant blast of euphoria that has me in hysterical laughter and tears. Actions with no consequence; now that’s my idea of a beautiful world, like enjoying a vindaloo without having to deal with the flop sweat and the barrage of stomach cramps and…
Note to self: Reduce the number of times I bring shit up in a page. Possible complex.
Point is there is no such thing as murder if your subject can’t ever die.
I’ve no idea where the cadaver came from; the thing just appeared one day and ever since I’ve been using it as my own personal stress machine. Occasionally the head finds its way back on and we talk for a moment - me to it because it usually lacks a jaw.
Occasionally, I like to watch the eyes reform in the sockets as they always change colour from brown to blue to green and violet. I like the violet best. Often, I keep them untouched.
I’ve no idea what it is either. I'm unsure if it's human - when it’s not a broken jigsaw - or if it's male. I tried kicking it in the crotch a few times, but the damn thing didn’t even so much as blink. I took another moment to wait for it to heal. I enjoyed watching the sinews and bones and the pale skin stitch itself back together whilst I hum Frère Jacques and wash.
Shopping is done. Wanted to make pancakes and bacon but the milk in my fridge shares a large resemblance to the rice pudding my grandmother used to make.
The body is talking. I can't understand it. It’s not a language; more of a series of clicks and gargles but each time it holds its hands up as if it was begging for its life.
Well, I suppose I better get in my cardio for today. For today's regime: cricket bat with Kenny Loggins, Danger Zone.
P.S. Bruises have appeared on my body and ribs are sore. Unknown as to how they got there
Coughing and spluttering.
The lining of my chest feels like it is on fire. There is blood, lots of blood. My lips and beard drip and drop with claret onto my bare chest. That corpse is back again; its legs akimbo, clothes were torn, and the head has somehow managed to reattach itself. Also, the skin still hasn’t managed to grow back yet, so I am constantly met with the lidless stare from a pair of precariously balanced, bright green eyeballs and an endless smile.
It knows it’s winning. I’m sure it would be laughing if it could but fortunately I’ve ripped out its voice box and have been using it as an ashtray.
Carmen Suite No.2: Habernera plays in the background. The place stinks of rotting meat and shit. I can't even tell if it's that thing or me anymore
Haven't left the apartment in over two weeks. I honestly don't know if I can. My legs have given in. I feel weak and my head is throbbing; I can feel my heartbeat in my tongue.
The creature is standing above me, almost fully healed, its wide eyes constantly flit from me to the window and its lipless smile has an endless vengeance written on it. A cold realization is spreading through my body.
This is my last entry.
First entry. Blood in stool again. There appears to be a body rotting on my floor. It is conscious and that of a man. I should report this to the police, but a better idea has spawned in my head.