the land of ted

since the day it seemed like a viable option to touch that blade, my life has felt like an abandoned hospital. out of use, entirely forgotten, but still being drip-fed just enough electricity to keep the lights on. i'm thought about sometimes, looked at sometimes, but nothing quite fulfils me like the red rivers of rage. when i find someone, someone perfect, a person the world won't miss, and i have them to myself? i feel whole again. it's all there once more.

the day i learned the power of a blade against skin, i was fifteen. i'd heard people talking about harming themselves, the circles of friends i had pretended to like. even at that age i wasn't connecting with people the way you'd think i should, but the people who even dared to speak around me mentioned things of razors, even just the sharpest things people could get their hands on, and they would hurt themselves with them. i thought deeply about it, looked myself up and down, over and over again until i saw the spot i sought after so intensely. my right thigh. i found that day, what damage a knife can do, but i wasn't exactly hoping for anything below skin-deep.

the first time i had someone to use a blade on, i was seventeen. i found a razor, meticulously sharpened it for weeks. i would stay awake thinking about it's edge, almost atoms thin, able to provide such pleasure to me but such pain to others. i found a man, a homeless man named alfred, and i brought him with me into the pits of hell i feared for quite so long. i had no regard for his dog, but he cared about it so much i let him watch as i decided that my first true act of violence wouldn't be against a human. perhaps i needed a warmup, something to make sure i had the hang of things, so after a little deliberation, i asked alfred if he'd ever seen a brain before. he told me not personally, but he'd seen pictures. the look of abject terror on his face was quite satisfying, as he was so intensely stupid i could almost watch it dawn on him exactly when he realised what i was going to do. well, i took my swiss army knife out, extended the sharpest tool i could and retracted everything else. while we were in that alley, i'm surprised nobody heard his screams, but i suppose screaming for help doesn't do much under cover of darkness. the first thing you learn in rape prevention is never to scream for help. if only alfred had taken a class to prevent how disgusting he was to the world, his rotten clothes hanging off of his emaciated skin, his malnutritioned stomach drooping over him as he stumbled his way from bench to sorry bench, maybe i would've spared him.

the dog's head split open a lot easier than i thought, cutting from the line between its ears all the way down to the scruff of its neck, and i let alfred see his pink, wrinkly, precious brain. as i sliced, the blood ran in a thin, viscous line down the back of its neck while it flailed, but once i had yanked the wound open to show alfred the brain of the vile thing, the dog made a horrendous yelp, which made me start. i had so much disdain, that i decided i simply did not want that dog making another noise, so i kicked its ribs in. with every blow of my foot, the pale white fur got redder and more matted, darker and the structure of the filthy canine got less and less recognisable by the minute. once i had finished with that thing, it seemed the best course of action to bring alfred to my garage.

he was a wonderful first experience in the taking of human life, because he let me take my time. my first port of call was to get rid of his disappointing, vile mop he called hair, black and tangled, lying in greasy locks about his head. i sliced it off with as much precision and patience as i could muster, trying to keep up my facade of coldness while my heart was pounding out of my chest with excitement. it was if this void of my abandoned heart had filled, with the blood of someone else, but blood nonetheless. his hair was like a black puddle on the floor, soon to be replaced by a red puddle once i had done my grisly work on alfred the way i'd been waiting for, for so long.

once i had completed my preparations on the man, i got to work on my true objective. i wanted to start simple for my first execution, to take off his head. i didn't have a big enough blade for the work i wanted, so i had to saw through his skin, into his muscle, through gristle and bone. i enjoyed it so much i could almost count ultraviolence as a hobby, grinning all the way through the relentless sawing and hacking i was doing at this vile bastard's neck, just to get through it. the parts that made my skin crawl were the first sight of blood, and the severing of his windpipe. it was still moving in conjunction with his sunken chest, and it was like watching a nature documentary, except i was the predator. his head was almost like a trophy, because his lifeless body was of no use to me, but his head, with the throat hole exposed from the bottom, still containing small particles of dust and food, his rotted amphetamine teeth, his eyes almost so blackened they had retracted into his skull, that was what i wanted.

tw: pretty heavy violence, animal cruelty

since the day it seemed like a viable option to touch that blade, my life has felt like an abandoned hospital. out of use, entirely forgotten, but still being drip-fed just enough electricity to keep the lights on. i'm thought about sometimes, looked at sometimes, but nothing quite fulfils me like the red rivers of rage. when i find someone, someone perfect, a person the world won't miss, and i have them to myself? i feel whole again. it's all there once more.

the day i learned the power of a blade against skin, i was fifteen. i'd heard people talking about harming themselves, the circles of friends i had pretended to like. even at that age i wasn't connecting with people the way you'd think i should, but the people who even dared to speak around me mentioned things of razors, even just the sharpest things people could get their hands on, and they would hurt themselves with them. i found that day, what damage a knife can do, but i wasn't exactly hoping for anything below skin-deep.

the first time i had someone to use a blade on, i was seventeen. i found a razor, meticulously sharpened it for weeks. i would stay awake thinking about it's edge, almost atoms thin, able to provide such pleasure to me but such pain to others. i found a man, a homeless man named alfred, and i brought him with me. i had no regard for his dog, but he cared about it so much i let him watch as i decided that my first true act of violence wouldn't be against a human. perhaps i needed a warmup, something to make sure i had the hang of things, so after a little deliberation, i asked alfred if he'd ever seen a brain before. he told me not personally, but he'd seen pictures. well, i took my swiss army knife out, extended the sharpest tool i could and retracted everything else. while we were in that alley, i'm surprised nobody heard his screams, but i suppose screaming for help doesn't do much under cover of darkness. the first thing you learn in rape prevention is never to scream for help. if only alfred had taken a class to prevent how disgusting he was to the world, his rotten clothes hanging off of his emaciated skin, his malnutritioned stomach drooping over him as he stumbled his way from bench to sorry bench, maybe i would've spared him.

the dog's head split open a lot easier than i thought, cutting from the line between its ears all the way down to the scruff of its neck, and i let alfred see his pink, wrinkly, precious brain. as i sliced, the blood ran thin, but once i had pulled the wound open, the dog made a horrendous yelp, which made me start. i had so much disdain, that i decided i simply did not want that dog making another noise, so i kicked its ribs in. with every blow of my foot, the pale white fur got redder and more matted, darker and the structure of the filthy canine got less and less recognisable by the minute. once i had finished with that thing, it seemed the best course of action to bring alfred to my garage.

he was a wonderful first experience in the taking of human life, because he let me take my time. my first port of call was to get rid of his disappointing, vile mop he called hair, black and tangled, lying in greasy locks about his head. i sliced it off with as much precision and patience as i could muster, trying to keep up my facade of coldness while my heart was pounding out of my chest with excitement. it was if this void of my abandoned heart had filled, with the blood of someone else, but blood nonetheless.

once i had completed my preparations on the man, i got to work on my true objective. i wanted to start simple, to take off his head. i didn't have a big enough blade for the work i wanted, so i had to saw through his skin, into his muscle, through gristle and bone, but the parts that made my skin crawl were the first sight of blood, and the severing of his windpipe. it was still moving in conjunction with his sunken chest, and it was like watching a nature documentary, except i was the predator. his head was almost like a trophy, because his lifeless body was of no use to me, but his head, with the throat hole exposed from the bottom, still containing small particles of dust and food, his rotted amphetamine teeth, his eyes almost so blackened they had retracted into his skull, that was what i wanted.