𐠒

Violence and perversion is beautiful to me

Parfois, quand j’étais plus jeune, mon père m’emmenait faire de la randonnée avec lui. Quand le temps est devenu froid, il a préféré camper pendant la nuit. Presque chaque nuit, il me réveillait au milieu de la nuit, fortement en état d’ébriété, et me claquait la tête au sol encore et encore. Ses mains étaient toujours lisses de sueur, sa prise lâche et maladroite. Si j’avais vraiment voulu partir, j’aurais probablement pu m’échapper. Mais je ne l’ai jamais fait. Je ne sais pas pourquoi je ne l’ai jamais fait. Se faire tenir est réconfortant, non ? Le fait que j’ai recommencé à lire m’a inspiré à écrire une fois de plus. Beaucoup de médias que j’ai consommés me font souhaiter être à nouveau en vie, pas d’une manière que quelqu’un d’autre que moi pourrait vraiment comprendre, j’en suis sûr. J’ai un peu peur de me repousser dans la psychose. Je ne veux pas, mais je me retrouve tellement paranoïaque à propos de tout. Je pense que j’ai besoin de tout perdre à nouveau pour devenir quelque chose. Devrais-je me sacrifier ? Serait-ce une belle mort pour un homme comme moi ? J’ai fait des choses extrêmement sales ces derniers temps, et cela me rend heureux. J’espère aller encore plus loin. J’aimerais qu’il soit possible de poursuivre encore plus de carrières professionnelles. Être juste infirmière et mécanicien automobile ne répond pas à mes désirs, et je crains que la psychologie clinique n’ait commencé à se sentir un peu terne. Tout ce qui est basé sur la science et la dentisterie sont de beaux domaines qui valent la peine d’être examinés

I have written my entire life, not out of a desire to have an outlet but to contaminate, to feed my sickness into whoever finds themselves reading. Something in me has seriously changed. I wish to understand but I fail to. It makes absolutely no sense to me, and it feels as if I keep trying to make sense of it and give reasoning, but no matter how much reasoning I provide, it remains senseless. It’s not that I no longer care. I feel defeated. I’ve lost against whatever I have been fighting for years, and I’ve submitted to it. I allow it to consume me whole. It’s no surprise it ended this way. I have not once failed to contaminate. Even where I prayed not to. I was born filthy and unwell

I have always carried this profound urge to commit the most morally corrupt acts. Surely my self control exceeds what most people could imagine

And to be completely honest, reflecting on my torment now brings me a strange kind of joy. Is that normal? It killed me, but it felt so good. I imagine this is what it feels like to fall apart completely. I feel compelled to reveal everything in excess, exactly as I have been doing. It feels strangely liberating. I simply view it as pathetic to spread my corruption onto someone who does not deserve it

I’m sorry for being so cruel to you

Set aside the circumstances, and you would see the cruel, filthy man I truly am inside. I hope you are aware that I do not deserve pity. If my place was otherwise, I would inflict the same suffering without hesitation. I have turned into everything that once killed me, and I cherish it. I love bathing in this filth, I have truly lost my mind. Can you imagine being as pathetic as I have become? I have become disgusting and filthy again, to the exact degree I once was, and still I feel no remorse. There is a strange beauty in it. I love being this filth. It brings me profound happiness to hurt, to bring pain. It feels like my only purpose now. Everyone keeps wounding me, and I find joy in it. Hurt me, Kill me next? It means nothing anymore. Imagine living my life. Could you become a normal, functioning person overnight in the name of love? I cannot. I am sorry, but you and I are not the same. You are not as far gone as I am. Your reasons are not mine. We will never be the same. Even if you see echoes of me in yourself, you are pathetic for whining about your misery. If you cannot handle such small pain, you are truly lucky for never knowing a life like mine. If I were in your place, I would never take it for granted. I hate you for your privilege. I have always been seen as the privileged one, have I not? It makes me laugh. It makes me laugh so much. I am the prostitute? I am the raped? I am the murderer? I am the one left alone in the end, and I am the monster? So tell me. What is your reason for wasting your life so pathetically? My mind refuses to accept it, none of it adds up. I cannot help but feel that nothing is truly there

Quel étrange exil de ma propre langue ? Il m’est impossible de mesurer toute la forme de ce changement parce que la distance entre qui j’étais et qui je suis devenu semble trop large pour tracer avec certitude. Je n’ai plus parlé avec aucune facilité jusqu’aux derniers mois de l’année dernière, quelque chose en moi s’était simplement retiré. Cela me fait parfois peur, cette reconnaissance des parties qui sont mortes et qui ne reviendront jamais. Je me demande si c’est le résultat final de tout cela. Après cette visite à l’hôpital, j’étais convaincu que je ne parlerais plus jamais. Je doute que cela aurait été différent pour quelqu’un qui avait subi la même convergence de violence que moi à cette époque. Une mort tragique me conviendrait bien

Even after waking up that night, the taste of blood had persisted on my tongue. I stayed in that basement for what felt like an eternity, inhabited by nothing but hatred. It left me with nothing but guilt and shame as I scooped up the remnants, watching detachedly as they slipped through my fingers to splat loudly upon impact. At times like this, it seems far more logical to allow my thoughts to swallow me whole? After all, it’s the only way I know how to turn these memories into words. Every noise sounded like flesh and entrails slapping against the pavement. There was a trail of mud and water inside, all the way down to the basement, where I had scooped the animal up with violently shaking hands, setting it into a simple black shoebox and tying it closed with a ribbon. I had dragged my hands over my face, smearing the blood further into my hair and skin. I ended up unlocking the shed and pulling out a shovel, trudging back to find a small spot beside a wilted flower bed. Then I dug, slipping every so often into the mud only to whimper and pull myself back up, shucking off my bloody uniform jacket and tossing it aside at some point, leaving myself in nothing but the soaked white button up. I was weeping; the gag still hung around my neck, stained a dirty red. I kept sniffling and wiping the water from my eyes, crying even more frantically after I had thrown the used shovel into the pile. On instinct, I ended curling up with my forehead resting on my knees. The position was uncomfortable and strained my back, but I could no longer gather the courage to look at what I had done. I just kept repeating that I was sorry. I hadn’t even put my shoes on, which left me standing in muddy socks. I couldn’t help but wonder if the dog had a family. I hoped some child was not waiting by the window for their pet to return home. If there had been a collar, it could have been removed. I kept asking myself if I should have found the owners and given them back the body, allowed them to at least bury it themselves. What right did I have to give it a funeral? Like I hadn’t snuffed out that life with my own two hands. The squirming animal had only felt like some sort of worm trapped between my palms. He struggled from all sides in a vain attempt at freedom. I gave him a few attempts to loosen my embrace before grasping the top of his head and twisting it violently while pulling upwards, a jet of blood ended up soaking the gag and flowed down my face. Each impact sent organs and entrails flying through the room and onto me. I felt like a child destroying another’s toy, pushing my fingers where the head had been before tearing the small body in half. I had already felt the heartbeat inside much earlier. Whatever carnage that was already devouring me tripled when I had seen that small helpless creature. I was choking against the gag, praying with all my strength to lose consciousness before I had the chance to kill. Can you believe he only got up, dusted his hands, then passed behind me before demanding me to do it? I should have turned around and killed him right on the spot, as soon as he severed the bindings on my arms even

Using my worn boxers to wrap my bloody wrist. Avant Garde much?

I almost pushed you to end your life tonight, simply because I didn’t feel well. What kind of cruelty is that? If my hands had been the ones that gently pressed the knife against your chest, you would have accepted it. You asked me if I would end your life for you, if I could hold your lifeless body afterwards. With every word tonight, I can’t help but feel immersed in a spiral. I feel violent and yet I can’t stop crying. I’m upset that you allow me to treat you like this. I’m exactly like my father, I feel it, I feel it deep inside me, and I want you to hate me. I want hatred to fill your heart towards me. When I was fifteen, my father often locked me in the closet. I particularly remember one night: he was drunk and thought I had taken something that belonged to him. In a fit of rage, he threw the bottle of vodka on my head with such force that it broke on me. Almost immediately, he heard a knock on the front door and pushed me into the closet in a panic. My face was dripping with blood, my hands were soaked and I didn’t even understand where all this blood came from. All I knew was that my body hurt and that, whatever I did, I could not calm the terror that inhabited me. I remember the moment he reopened the door. It was so sudden that my head immediately rose to see if he was looking at me. I tried to press myself against the wall rather than move forward, but he took me out by grabbing me by the arm, then he twisted my two arms behind my back. One of his friends was there too. He told my father not to hold me like that and to look at how terrified I looked. He gently ran his hand through my hair, then asked him to let me go. The man slightly lifted my hair away from my face, but it froze when his fingers touched my ears. Did he realise that my ears were pierced? He asked my father if he wanted me to end up like an animal, and that was the kind of thing he really should have disciplined me for. His answer was that I was already an animal. I remember how his friend gently moved me away from him, and I tore his face with my nails before throwing myself towards the door. I remember being terrified. I just kept running. I was so afraid that he would catch up with me after running away like that. I knew that if he caught me, he would really end my life. It was the first time in my life that I entered a church. In front of me were two closed glass doors that separated the entrance hall from the nave. There were rows and rows of benches, all occupied by people. I didn’t know what I could have looked like at that time, but I knew I didn’t look good. I could still feel the blood on my face. I couldn’t go through those glass doors. There were other doors that started from the hall. I pushed at one of those doors instead, and fell on a staircase. After taking one last look at the singing congregation, I closed the door behind me and slowly climbed the steps. The staircase did not lead to an attic. It didn’t even lead to the bell tower. Instead, I found myself in an unused choir stand that was now used as a storage room. Several old pieces of furniture were scattered on the floor. The stand opened on a bird’s eye view of the rest of the church, with a wooden railing at the front. I found a perfect place between a grand piano covered with a cover and the railing, where I could slip. I did it, then I wrapped my arms around my knees. I turned around and looked at the congregation through the railing. The song ended and the pastor began to speak. I remember observing the grey haired man with a vague interest. It was so foreign to me at the time that some people were able to believe in a God

I feel predatory myself, and this idea amuses me. I am so ashamed of the monstrosity that I was. I am everything that has ever destroyed me, and I love nothing more than condemning myself more to this damnation. My body denied me years ago; it hates me, and I hate it in return. I wonder why I have always fled this, even if I am painfully aware of it: it dictates each of my actions, each of my decisions. Ninth grade was the second time I let this consume me, exactly as before. I can’t help but feel a visceral disgust directed towards those who witnessed it. So many memories that I had managed to bury, now overwhelm me and my mind is on the verge of implosion. Many people from that period have said the same thing to me, and it leaves me with a strange, slimy, almost repulsive feeling? A mixture of gratitude and self disgust that turns my stomach. How could I be both an executioner and a saviour? How could these hands that have done so much harm, despite everything, stretch the good one? I feel deceived. I really began to feel a lack of emotion earlier? It was as if everything in me was anaesthetised, and yet now everything overwhelms me more violently than I have ever experienced. I am no longer a child. No one will ever understand the extent of what happened to me; nothing can explain or express how nauseating all this remains. I remember lying on the floor, my phone barely out of reach. All I heard was this ringing that resounded in my ears, again and again, while I was being raped. I didn’t even manage to dissociate myself; I was terrifyingly lucid, hyperconscious of every second. I don’t think I can ever erase this memory. I even remember who was calling me. I’m so disgusted that I can’t help laughing at my own misery. I want to throw up everywhere. The first time he raped me, he kept repeating the words I had always begged him to love me too. I ended up cutting myself uncontrollably the same night. In my head, I told myself that I had the same power over myself that he claimed to have, and that I could kill myself just as he could kill me. For the first time, the idea of dying seemed sweet to me. I remember whispering that I would wait, but I will never know what I was really waiting for