I’ve got one holy life to give.
And I’ve got something like an hour to type all this. My last words. My final entry. One hour. One hour. One hour. I’m stuck.
M. M is a great film by Fritz Lang. Postal code… Sorry, been there done that.
One hour. I’m sorry for all the typos and mistakes you will encounter (big words: Jack’s idea) in this entry. Girls have to be dramatic sometimes or they are not girls at all. Christ, I have so little time.
Because I have to get back to the table where Christmas presents will be unwrapped and admired and kissed for. I don’t quite believe anyone would wish to kiss me for my Christmas presents (unless it is Eric of course, who would sell both of his kidneys for a quick chance to kiss me), but there you go.
Ah so where did we stop? The doorbell was ringing and I was the one to open the door. It was Dennis. The smart reader would have guessed. That same perverted expression in the eyes, but in reality I was almost happy to see him. A new face in this god-forsaken madhouse. He looked fresh and despite a huge packet of Christmas presents he looked all right. He lowered his head to kiss me, I averted my face, he didn’t make a lewd remark.
Is Dennis the murderer? Or is Dennis only a red herring in this story? Which isn’t even a story but a real life?
The day. Like any other Christmas Eve really. Cooking, ogling the tree, laying the table and having that sense of silly excitement.
Certainly everyone knows about blood now. I mean, it’s literally everywhere. You can’t go and have a wee without a streak of blood dribbling down the door. What is more, they know what is coming. Jo knows. Hilda knows. Peter knows. My dad knows. My mom knows. Emily knows. Eric knows. Tom knows. How do they know? Well, that was easy. Last night I couldn’t sleep, again (sleeping pills don’t do it anymore), and so I took some sticky notes and put them on every door inside the house. Now of course it took guts. I was so scared to step outside my room. And what if someone could see me? I didn’t care. Ghosts, murderers, I had to let everyone know… And in the morning all my notes were gone. But never mind. I got what I wanted. They had read it. They know.
I will not have time to reread what I’m writing now, so in case there isn’t any logic or cohesion – don’t judge me. All this time, I’ve been good. In my own sick way.
The day. It was like any other Christmas Eve really, which makes it all so suspicion. I could see my note was heavily on their minds, but they still tried to keep their fucking festive spirits up. How can you keep a British spirit up? How?
And now there’s all that clattering noise downstairs. The food is good, I guess, but you can never tell at Christmas. It’s all delicious by default. There’s also all this noise which could mean so many things. And when I go down (in 12 minutes), what will I find? Everyone’s throat might be slit, and what a truly Shakespearean scene it will be. A mass murder. A genocide. It is awful. No, it is beyond awful.
But what if I find nothing and they are all waiting for me and for Christmas presents? Maybe it’s all about Christmas presents? These charming, useless things nobody needs? What if I go down and find that knife lying on the table, waiting for the right moment?..
In which case I have to ask myself, before I go down. Do I have it in me, to murder someone? Can I do it? And who do I want to kill most? Because the murder has to happen, there’s no one, two, three, four, five ways about it. And can I be the murderee? Ah but of course. Everyone can be that. It's even easier than to be a murderer. You don’t have to be in any way special to be that.
And so I post this entry and look away from my computer screen. I will walk to the door. I will close the door behind me (or should I bother?) I will go down the hall and down the stairs. I will enter the living-room. I will the lights and the decorations. I will see all those faces.
And then it will happen.
P.S. If this is my final entry – goodbye and thanks for the company. I love you all even if it’s a sick thing to say that.
P.P.S. If this is not my final entry – I will greet you all tomorrow and tell the tale.
Bear with me, one last time.
Ah fuck it. Merry Christmas.