Journal #1: 

The letter was sent to me early this morning. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t light either. The paper was almost yellowing, as if the ink slowly sucked the life out of the paper to give its stems, its words vitality. The black ink popped out of the page, but the ink was also runny, and there were a few splotches of something. I don’t know what. Tears? 

Awful. The letter was awful. It was sent to me early this morning, and yet I took the entire day to just open it. It’s dark. It’s cold. I don’t want this letter. I don’t want it. You can’t make me.  

Journal #2: 

I read the obituary this morning. The air was fresh. The moss was dewey and soft under my feet. This place is calm. Peaceful, even. I should come back more often. The light shines right on my face and warms it up, but my feet are still cold. Why are my feet cold. What good would it do to have my feet cold? 

I still think about the letter. How could they think it’s me? I don’t do anything out of line. It’s not me. Why is it me. It can’t be me. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here. With the trees. With the animals. With the birds. 

I haven’t seen any animals since I came here though. Only the vultures. The crows. The ravens. The crows are so loud. I hate them. They have small necks I could wrap my hand around. The trouble is catching them. It’s hard to catch a bird. But it would feel good to have that on my hands again. That euphoric feeling of that shiny metallic liquid. 

I long to feel it again. I need to feel it again. I think I’ll go find some birds. 

Journal #3:

I think that my time here is limited. Dark walls encase my being. I hear stuff. At times. 

At first I thought it was the voices, but it’s not. 

Loud alarms. Barking dogs. Voices. 

I think they found the birds last night. 

It’s just a bit dark down here. 

The voices now have faces. They’re misty and dark, but I can see them. 

Before there were just voices. They tell me things. How to properly gut a fish. How I could kill someone with a bottle. Then they tell me to do them. 

I don’t say no to the voices.

Sometimes they take over. That’s when I see red.

I love the color red. 

It's pretty. Sparkling. Red is the color of love. The color of hate. It’s such a versatile color. 

I want to smear it all over my body and sing praises. To dance in front of a burning fire, with the smell of corpses. To have it be my reason for living. Everything I do is to see that glorious red color. I crave it. To have it on my hands is a blessing. 


Journal #4:

They’ve found my last hiding place. I like hiding. I want to hide more. 

The voices tell me to go South. I go South. It gets warmer and warmer as I go.

They chase after me night and day. I can see the voices. 

They have bodies. Their clawed hands grasp at my body and leave marks. 

Not red marks. Black marks. 

Black oozes from my body. Ichor that is not from the gods, nor from the mortals. 

I am not a god. I am not a mortal. I am above both, and the voices have given me this new gift. 

I desire more of this black ichor. 

And the chase continues. 

 

Journal #5: 

It was a raging fire. Bright lights. 

White, not black.  Blue, not red. 

Claws from my voices free me even more. I want to have my red. The sweet, slick red that caresses my body. It cleanses me better than any sort of water that they could ever offer me. 

I crave the red, to see it dripping once more. 

Instead, black comes from me. They chain me up like a dog, they throw me in a cage, like some sort of sick animal exhibition. There is just one zoo, and the only animal you see is me. 

The mortals have gotten away with too much. I must strike them down to the mortal plane. I will have thousands of them trapped within my mighty grasp, their red dripping from my hands, and that will fall on the scale of justice. Justice will be served. 

 

Journal #6:

    The voices are fading. 

    They tell me to return to my kingdom, but I have one more hour. 

    A feast is laid out for me, fitting for kings. 

    I am not a king. That is a title for mere mortals. I am not a god. I am not the mortal’s salvation. 

    But there is something that I can thank the mortals for. 

    For giving me the chance to return to my kingdom.

    The voices have disappeared, but I know they are waiting for me. They will be my advisors. They will guide me, like they’ve always had. 

    I will not be bound anymore.