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.
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