#crackheadsolo

It’s been five already? I thought there might be less so get me how you get me when I say I feel absolutely smug about pulling through with this shit for as long as I have. I’m not usually the kind to sit down and you know…Write in a diary. That’s so what a girl I’d fuck would do and I’m just not into stuff like that but since this place gets more and more boring by the second, (Well really freaky and useless but boring…Yeah that’s the worst I am going with today.) , I have no choice but to find my own entertainment between these thin ass nasty walls.

My handwriting’s kinda hard to read sometimes, the shots I usually am very resistive towards, make me all dozy and they affect how my body reacts. I’m not a fan of that. It’s kind of weird having to be who you are and think the way you do but to have your body give out and not act the way it used to…

It’s kind of scary. Hah…At the end of the day, I am what I fear most? That sounds so fucking poetic right now, I can’t even…

Anyways, I haven’t been able to write more because of an unfortunate incident that I will speak about in another time and at a different place.

I want to talk about Cannon Fodder today. I feel like no one will be bothering me for the next few hours so it’s the perfect time to get to writing.

First let me start with explaining what Cannon Fodder means for those of you who are dumb enough to not be into strategy or you know war shit in general. I used to love it when I was in middle school or some shit but that got old as fast as it got cool.

Cannon Fodder: noun

Noun:  Cannon fodder

Soldiers regarded merely as material to be expended in war.

I have my own understanding of Cannon fodder and I pull the card out each time it’s necessary.

Before I thought I only killed because I was bored, because I wanted to experience but once I had sacrificed more than anyone ever does for experimenting , my own version of cannon fodder in my head, I realized that if I wanted to, I could not quit. It wasn’t a habit I picked up while hanging with the wrong kids. It wasn’t a habit at all. It wasn’t like smoking and it isn’t…I can see it so much more clearly now. I need it. My life depends on it. My entire future has been built on it, my entire ideology, my entire being. If you take that part of me away then there’s no Mason left. It’s just….Some person stuck in a fucked up asylum that no one really gives a fuck about.

Because you don’t talk about those stuff. What are you gonna do? Open up a conversation about old people who use diapers and are being treated wrongly in an asylum a few states over at the dinner table like ‘Hey, mom have you heard about that old woman who got raped in that asylum?’ just doesn’t make sense so society kind of just ignores its problems. It’s better for everyone that way. No one wants to deal with those stuff and when you do, you are labelled an activist who lives a life differently than of others and those people who don’t understand you keep announcing to their family and friends that you are just experimenting and/or trying to give back and some people nod and awe about how much of a good person you are while the others ask ‘So when is he going back to school?’ because that life isn’t just realistic enough for them. Because you just can’t live with helping people. You have to go to a good college and graduate to get a good job. If you have a million dollar house and a smoking hot wife who cheats on you with the mail man and have a two year old with an over expensive manny , THEN you can start talking about people like me and actually doing squat about it. Even then everyone speaks behind your back like ‘Yeah he’s rich so he feels like he needs to give back. Poor guy. His wife cheats on him’ or ‘ Oh that thief is doing charity? Yeah vigilante? When are the police putting these people away?’

So there really isn’t any pleasing them. You have to be who you are fully. This is who I am and I’m going to talk about my pawn.

Back then (When the story I am about to tell took place.) I didn’t really know who I was but I was beginning to realize that this for me was more than just a game and a hobby. I was understanding the highs and lows of it slowly slowly and well…Like any other teenager does, experimenting with my craft. Practicing you could say…

I can still feel how cold that basement was….The cold, moist air and how it made my nose turn red. How the excitement had me on edge. How happy I was that I got another one. I don’t remember her name now but I do remember how she looked.

I remember her fair skin and how it shivered beneath my touch.

That was when I developed my love for blades.  

The night was silent. Almost too cruelly silent that the blowing wind outside hurt…No…It burnt. The cold always burns doesn’t it?

I could hear slow tiers over the wet ground pulling to their homes. Something so silent, so quiet, so slow and calming helped me be at peace. To feel like I was at ease, like I was home when in actuality I wasn’t. Have you ever felt like that? Like your home is another place?

The mud and puddles made a loud sound as I made my way to the building. From outside just an abandoned warehouse but on the inside, my very own factory where my dolls were made. Given…I knew nothing about my message or why  I was doing it, just that I needed to and more so…I wanted to.

The entire process excited me, it turned me on, made me happy and made me yearn more than I have ever for anyone. I wasn’t just someone begging for another person’s affection, I had my own collection, my own fantasies and my own world, my own piece of heaven on earth and I savored each and every moment before I even knew what I was going to do with it later on.

She was in the place all others were, hanging from the ceiling with the cotton tied behind her head to prevent her voice from getting out. The screaming to me was never as important as the squirming. I need to know they’re afraid. That’s for me the key.

And she was.

She was passed out when I got there but as soon as the sounds of me working my tools rose, so did she and as soon as she did, she started crying. Going through the same motion they all go through, asking why they’re there and why I’m doing this to them like they haven’t done anything wrong in their lives…I mean it’s pathetic. Come up with some new lines will you? But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy each and every bit of it!

My keys made a clinching sound on the iron table I had brought in with myself and after that I sat down, drawing her into my notebook exactly as she was, even with the drool running down her chin as I had the other girls, while she cried and tried to break free.

I remember her frantically trying to get away and crying with every pant. The sound chains and ropes moving around so angrily made me look up and roll my eyes with a shaking head. “It’s not going to work.” I had told her and after a few more minutes of fruitless movements, she gave in entirely, breaking into tears.

Her cheeks went red like a girl’s does when you’re complimenting an outfit you really couldn’t give less fucks about and soon she was just hanging there. Tired of trying, tired of begging.

When she had thought she was going to die, I woke her up with my blade removing the skin of her finger carefully and once she screamed from the pain and ruined my perfect calculations I stabbed her in the palm.

You’d think it’s hard to do that but it isn’t. We’re all just flesh and bone. Like steak but…More alive.

After she was done screaming and I was way done pounding into her, she kept asking why I did it.

Over and over and over and over and over FUCKING AGAIN.

It pissed me off at some point so much that I stabbed her at least twenty times…She was on my goddamn nerves AND she ruined the method I was trying to develop but then it hit me..

I was not angry because she kept asking me why I did it, I was angry because besides wanting to and needing to I really didn’t have an excuse.

That’s when I realized she was a pawn all along. All of them. They were just soldiers I needed to sacrifice to realize that not only the kill is important but so is the message behind it.

So I knew I needed to practice more. Not with my disposal ways but also with what I wanted to say with them. Every artist makes art to say something and that…was my art. My own piece. My own war.

I needed to find something to say and to say it through the girls I killed. Otherwise I’d just be a useless serial killer who raped and killed random girls.