You know well how I've always confided in you throughout all these years of my truly miserable life. How I've always sought solace from the harsh truths of ugly reality by flipping through your pages. How I've poured my heart out every time I was faced with a crisis so profound that I felt I had no reason to live anymore. To put it in short I've always shared a much deeper and better understanding with you than any of the people I was always surrounded by. But I'm afraid this is going to be my last possible entry.
I'm suddenly hit by a wave of nostalgia as I try to get a better grip on my pen and continue writing. The days of my childhood flash before my eyes as if all of it had happened just yesterday...the way that drunken bastard would lie slumped on the bed all day, drool oozing out from the side of his disfigured mouth, while my mother tended to the Jensen's rose-beds with loving care. Despite the fact that we were always struggling to make ends meet, pay for my school tuition and rent I always remember her humming that tune from 'Sound of Music' as she watered the plants and trimmed the bushes. And I loved to watch her sing and smile.
I still recall those terrible evenings when that merciless sonovabitch would beat me into a bloody pulp and venture outside with our meagre savings for the day to get himself another bottle. And my mom would sit in the farthest corner of the room all hunched up crying, partly out of fear and partly out of disgust. I wish I had the courage to drive a knife through his heart and put an end to our agony. But sadly enough I was a coward back then. I was only 14.
My mom died soon after and I ran away from home. Years passed by and I built a life from scratch. Got a job with the police department, married Eileen and settled down. I thought I could finally overcome the torment and the anguish I had suffered at the hands of my cruel past. But maybe that was hoping for too much.
Ironic how everyone always raves about the word 'family'- how this single entity binds the essence of love, strength and all relationships. But has anyone ever considered this? That your family, too, could ruin you in a way that you would never have a chance of being whole again.
Or maybe destiny always chooses to play the crudest of jokes on me barring the rest.
That woman I loved with all my heart...that woman who I thought would usher in a new period of happiness into my life...failed to understand the real me. That goddamned crazy bitch would always suspect me of having other women. My late night shifts would propel her into a state of nervous frenzy and these, in turn, would lead to violent outbursts. She was beyond all reason when she had such 'fits'. My poor daughter grew up witnessing our daily scuffles. There was no doubt that she would stray.
I killed them.Eileen and Anne. I murdered my family in cold blood.
I also killed that nigger my daughter was dating. And I'm not one bit guilty about it.
He was going to die anyway. A person solely surviving on pot cannot hope to live for long. And how dare the motherfucker touch my daughter? My beautiful Anne?
How dare he get her pregnant?
It's only because of him that I had to take my own daughter's life.
She did not have a chance at a normal life anymore. At the tender age of 16 she was already a whore doing drugs.
Yes she was better off dead.
I killed Eileen because she made my life hell. And had she been left alive she would have made life hell for others as well.
I don't regret killing them. In fact I experienced a kind of carnal pleasure as I stabbed that nigger 22 times and dragged his body into the dirty canal running behind the factory.I hope he rots in hell.
I killed Eileen with equal ease and agility. I loathed that bitch down to her very bones.
But killing Anne was the hardest. I smothered her with the pillow. I hope she didn't suffer as much.
I needed to write all this down so that when the police arrive in the morning they get to know the truth. They need to realize that I'm not a psychopath.
They need to know that I killed for a reason.
That's all. I can't write anymore. My hands are shaking so damn violently.
I can see my pistol on the dining table.I will kill myself now.
And I'm not a psychopath.
P.S:The plot,the characters and the feelings described in this piece of fiction have been conceived from imagination and do not necessarily reflect my personal opinion.