Eating her fingers like they are just another meal.
A few things about Marie.
Marie is a modern girl. She does a great Kubrick Stare (see above). She hates kittens and Goths. She likes to wear old-fashioned dresses. She threw up watching Twilight. Her favourite writer is Henry James. Marie is a modern girl with a twist. Marie is me.
Why modern though? Well, let us for a moment consider this diary. Diary is not something you post publicly. You don’t blog it. You don’t Facebook it. You don’t Instagram it. You don’t Twitter it. You are supposed to write it for yourself, for your own ‘therapy’ and ‘enjoyment’ (haha). But modern girls are different. They are all over you. They do it before you have a chance to pull down your pants.
Besides, there’s this murder. You see, I was a little less than honest with you yesterday. I do know where this murder is to take place. And this is where blue turns to grey and the cold blood thickens in my fingers so that I can hardly type.
The murder is to take place in this house.
In the house where I was born and have lived all my life. My parents’ house, sprawling and pointlessly huge. Always susceptible to old friends and distant relatives passing through town willing to see my mom and dad (explain that) and tell me how beautiful and grown up I’ve become. When so clearly they do not remember or give a damn. So yes, there will be guests at Christmas. Eleven of them, including myself. Each one a suspect, a victim, a witness, a murderer. In the next entry of my diary, I will try to describe them to you.
Late at night, I press my ear to the wall and there are sounds I do not wish to hear. There is something gathering in the hall. Maybe you don’t know (and why would you?), but a murder consists of millions of scents, movements, vibrations that are slowly coming into place. This place.
I think I should bring my thoughts in order and make this diary appear more structured. In the meantime, this will have to do.
P.S. 17 days.