Round and round, back to the start. Full circle. Ha. Ha. Ha.
I kept an alarm under my pillow to wake me up each morning for the past five years. I know, they told me, the others repeatedly told me, told me, told me, told me, don't do it, but I couldn't sleep alone. I forget who I was on those nights. Every damn night I went to sleep waiting for that fucking alarm clock to ring-a-ding-ding against the side of my head, and every morning it did.
Then one morning, I woke up, and everything was quiet for once. Everything was red.
Red, satin, frothy, cool, and milky. Everywhere, on my hands, on my face, in my mouth, running down my chest, red everywhere.
Red, satin, frothy, cool, and milky.
There's something profound to waking up in a bathtub filled with your own blood, even if its not from your body. A precious sense of understanding that comes with seeing your reflection, in your own warm juices. It clears conflict... offers firm resolution... the heavy scent of iron, easing your aching mind. Five years, all of it a compacted into a fast descent down a steep hill in a corvette with no brakes, like blood stained pages hastily jotted down by someone who would forget it all the next day.
What did you think, kids? I died, like the rest of you pricks who couldn't manage to dodge a few bullets? That I just rolled over, made my bed and decided to disappear. No. No, no, no. If we are going to end a show, we are going to end it with fireworks and severed limbs. I'll be the one to tell you when I'm dead.
Now, we start again. Like clockwork.
I can't remember where we left off. Running together, round, and round, and round, and round. I know the pages came from different books but I went and mixed them all together, and now the itch is back. Dying, strangling myself, strangling my cat, strangling my love. Itching, itching, itching to feel the rush she gave me, the rush she gave me, the rush it gave me to watch that bastard's eyes roll back into his head as he realized I had switched his insulin bottle for heroin. Was that me? Heheheh. Fuck, it gives me headaches to think about.
Reminds me of Jennifer. She was the first one to help scratch the itch. She always had splitting headaches. Jennifer was a doll, but death doesn't favor the beautiful, and damn did her head pop right open like a watermelon when I face-fucked her with that cement block. Talk about feeling pressure around the sinuses.
That unbearable need to start again didn't stop there. I remember I was on my way to the office, wearing my favorite tie, taking a peak at myself in the reflection of a window on the street when David bumped into me. Nice kid, very apologetic. Ruined my tie, really fucked up the stitching throwing his body around like an alligator doing death rolls while I strangled him in an alley not far from where we met. A shame, again, I can't begin to emphasize about how much I really like that tie. That was back in Chicago, of all places, back before I packed up my bags and started traveling again.
That's when things really started again. Nothing like life on the road. Really, there is no easier find then hitch hiker, its like driving up to a Mcdonalds and order a burger, and its even that much easier to walk away from. Heh. Things were just like they were five years ago, except even better, now that the big man hasn't been breathing down my neck for results.
Back to chasing after kids scared of the dark, givin' them a reason to be scared. That's growing up. Realizing monsters are real, and that they are freaking artists. I remember once upon a time, you two would have killed me over this shit, but suddenly, everyone wants to be like me. Blood bath after blood bath, after blood bath, and now you're the one inviting me to the party. Hehe.
With all this demand for blood, I have to admit, its a good time to be on the market again. Good old Jack-O, I'll paint your roses red.