There are a few things that I want to go over first before I do a real update. First of all, as far as I know my husband wasn’t targeted. He never witnessed anything (unless he kept it from me) I always under the impression that he was mugged by a totally random stranger. I do think that it is strange that I do have someone coming after me now though. I do think it’s a just a crazy coincidence but I guess that anything is possible. Sadly at this point, it is too early to tell. I don’t know if the person watching me is a stranger or if it is someone I know but I do intend to find out. People were also throwing out that the person who sent me the warning could be protecting me from someone else but I don’t understand why they would send me random pictures of myself taken at various locations.
Unfortunately, all the pictures were just of me. No one else was in any of them and the pictures were all in random locations that I go to while I run so nothing stood out.
Anyway, after I read the message, I called my best friend Kendra right away. Being my best friend, I knew she didn’t mind if I called her early. I wanted her to come to the house to look at the pictures and help me figure out the message. I thought that maybe she could help me think of anyone that could possibly be doing this to me. I guess she noticed the panic in my voice because she was at my door within 15 minutes after hanging up.
"Thank you so much for coming over so quickly. I am really freaked out right now." Kendra had a confused look on her face and said, "Victoria, what the hell is going on? I know you kind of explained it over the phone but I could hardly understand you." I sat down on my couch and sighed. "You know that I go running every morning at exactly 4:30. Well, this morning when I got back there was an envelope at my front door."
I handed Kendra the envelope of pictures and told her to go ahead and look inside. She pulled out the pictures and looked at them slowly. “I..I don’t understand Vic?” she said shaking her head. “Turn them over…there is a single word on each picture. At first I wasn’t sure but then I figured it out. It says You are being watched. Proceed with caution.” Kendra looking confused again handed me back the pictures.
"Kendra, would you mind staying with me for a couple of nights? I don’t want to be alone." I said looking hopeful. I didn’t want to go to the police just yet because if this was threat, I know that going to the police could just do more harm then good. Thankfully, Kendra agreed. I relaxed a little bit knowing that I wouldn’t be in this house alone. I shouldn’t have.
The first few hours were uneventful. We hung around the house and just talked about possibilities of who could have taken the pictures. Sadly we came up blank. I don’t have any real enemies and I don’t know of anyone that would want to hurt me. We finally decided that it was probably either 1.) A complete stranger that just watches me run everyday or 2.) This was done by one of my friends as a sick prank. Kendra seemed to be leaning towards it being a joke.
That night we decided it would be best to stay in, order dinner and watch some movies. Kendra wanted to take my mind off of the whole situation. By then it was dark outside. Kendra and I were eating dinner when we heard something outside. It sounded like someone was messing around the house again. Kendra got up to investigate but I stopped her. “May..maybe we should just wait.” I said nervously. Kendra rolled her eyes and opened the front door. “Vic, just wait here. I am sure it’s nothing. I will go outside and look. I bet it’s someone screwing with you..I will be right back.”
That was last night. Kendra never did come back..I waited for a few minutes. Finally I took a flashlight and went outside to look for her. Nobody was outside my house at all. I even walked a little ways up my street calling for her. She just seemed to disappear. That was the final straw. I was going to go to the police station. I ran back inside, threw on my jacket, grabbed the envelope of pictures and headed for the station.
Walking inside I grabbed the first officer that I saw. “Sir, I need your help. My friend disappeared and I think I am being stalked. She might of been kidnapped..ple—” “Hold on hold on, slow down. What is going on?” the officer looked concerned. I gave the officer the envelope of pictures. “Here is proof that I am being followed. This was on my door step early this morning and now my friend is gone. There pictures of me running in different locations.” The cop took the pictures out of the envelope and looked through them. He had a strange look on his face. “Ms, do you have any idea who could have done this?” “No.” “Well, these aren’t pictures of you..” he said handing the pictures to me. I gasped and a lump caught in my throat. I was looking at pictures of my house. Kendra’s car was in the driveway.
I am sharing my story on here because I don’t know what to do. I am really scared and I need your advice. Any help would be wonderful.
My life use to be pretty good. I live in a decent neighborhood in a very nice house in a nice part of town. I use to also be married to the love of my life until a year ago when my husband was killed.
He was leaving work late one night when he was mugged on the way to his car. They never did catch the guy but apparently he was carrying a knife and wearing all black. There was only a couple of witnesses and they said it happened too fast to really get a good look at the guy. Especially because of the black clothing and it being dark outside. Obviously since then my life hasn’t been the same. I have nightmares almost every single night and I have to go to a psychologist. Anyway, I guess that really doesn’t have much to do with my story but I wanted to give you some background information because it was a major tragedy in my life.
Every morning I get up at 4:30 to go running. I have been doing this for the last 9 years and some people think I am crazy for doing it considering the manner that my husband was killed in but millions of people go running everyday without being murdered. Besides, it helps with my stress. Even my Psychologist thinks it’s good for me.However, the last few days something weird has been going on. I am being watched and followed. I have no idea by who but I am pretty sure that I am in danger.
Everyday when I go running, I am pretty much gone for around an hour. Well today when I got back home, there was an envelope on my front door step. I thought it was a little weird because it was only around 5:30am and most people aren’t wake that early but then again, I was awake so I was probably just being paranoid. So I went inside and threw the envelope on the kitchen table. I would open it after I took a quick shower.
I get in the shower and the half way through, I swear I hear a weird noise coming from outside. It sounds like someone messing around the house. So I jump out of the shower, dry off and get dressed. I then run outside and start to look around my house. Nothing. My paranoia is just really getting to me for some reason. I shrug it off and go back inside the house. I remember the envelope so I decide to open it. To my horror, it is a bunch of pictures. Of me at different places during the last week or so. Most of them are of me running around my neighborhood. I turn the pictures over and each one of them has a date from when it was taken and a word written on the back. I’ve read enough crime books to guess that the words on the back of the pictures were probably suppose to be put in order to create some kind of message. After staring at the pictures for what seemed like hours, I was right and I had it figured out. It was simple, they went in order from the date they were taken. I put the pictures in order and read the message.
"You are being watched. Proceed with caution."
I knew driving that late was a bad idea, but after having a little heart to heart with my old friend Jack Denials for the past 4 hours I guess my judgment was a little unsteady at best. Just as I was about to celebrate making it the 5 miles home I ran into another one of my old friends. The first I saw of the trooper sitting by the highway was when all the gizmos and gadgets on his car lit up like a broken mirror reflecting my headlights, “Fuuuuuck” I thought to myself as I watch him begin to pull out of his hiding place to follow me.” Just my fucking luck I guess, figures I would catch a charge just a mile from the house” I mumbled to myself instinctively keeping quiet since I had a law dog on my trail, like a rabbit hunched down in the weeds.
Suddenly my hazy mind gathered up its last wits and gave me bright idea. “Yes” I whispered into my shirt as I turned on my blinker and pulled into the old All Washed Up carwash. My drunken fingers managed to fumble a couple dollars into the machine and I selected the longest wash from the menu trying to look as normal as any other redneck in a jacked up dually washing his truck at 3a.m. “The fuck?” the machine said my wash couldn’t be taken at that moment and to please wait for the attendant. “Son of a bitch” I couldn’t believe it, I was going to be screwed.
I looked around to see if the boys in blue had followed me in and the coast was clear. I seriously doubted any attendant would be along to help anytime soon so I slapped the hell out of that old menu and said “Well I’ll be damned” when the car wash started running. My luck had turned and maybe this half-baked idea could save me after all, I thought. BOOM!!! I nearly shit my pants when some loud banging and popping started coming from inside the wash, I turned half expecting the cops to be shooting at me.
I slowly relaxed my face and saw that the wash was empty, say for a flashing yellow sign with a cartoon turtle giving me the thumbs up to enter and “Get all washed up” it said. I cranked my truck and started inside, a large grin stretched out like a lazy cat across my face as I listened to how loud my exhaust pipes sounded inside the concrete box, like a giant bathtub. I rolled up windows, turned on the radio, and kicked back for the best wash my old truck would ever have. The slow Thump Thump Thump of the machine wasn’t exactly matching with my song so I had to turn up.
The bright light pouring through my eyelids gave me a start, my first instincts told me it was a police flashlight beam sliding between their slits. “Oh fuck” it was daylight, I started my truck and pealed out for the house, half asleep, half drunk still, and glad as hell not to be in jail. I got home safe and sound before I realized what a complete idiot I had been, my shoes and jacket were in the back of my truck, I jumped out to find a totally different scene than anything I expected.
A cheap gold watch still wrapped around the wrist of a knurled claw like hand. All I thought was pleas wait for the attendant, that’s what it said. It wasn’t long before a saw the familiar blue lights of the law dogs coming down the gravel, I knew I was fucked then, but I got to admit my truck was cleaner than ever.
I won’t say I was excited to be there. Excited is the wrong word to use when visiting such a dark piece of history, a place where so many souls passed. I had been granted unprecedented access to the camps where the Nazis had committed horrible atrocities. As a historian, I was excited, but as a human being, I felt an unexpected lump of dread mixed with the vague feeling of disgust.
The gates proclaimed that work would make you free, but the truth was that no matter how hard they’d worked, some would never see freedom, much less family or friends again. The structure of the place was purely Nazi, they had organized and filed humans, the way they organized and filed everything else, only the humans, in the cramped file drawer sized beds were never meant to be saved the way the paperwork documenting the horrors of their disposal was.
I toured the rooms full of shoes and prosthetics. Braces, arms and legs made of plastic and Bakelite standing at attention as if waiting for an owner who would never return. Then came the horrible chamber where so many met their chemical death..the reaper named Zyklon B. In history books , they always make it sound like the gas killed them quickly, though not humanely, but the walls of this hideous room tell a different story, a story of nail marks dug into the walls..a story of children lifted upon shoulders , towards the imagined clean air that didn’t exist..a story of crumpled and emaciated bodies, lungs aflame, struggling to wring life out of the death filled air, and failing.
After my tour of this dark hell, I felt sick in a way I couldn’t explain, as if snakes had wrapped themselves around my very soul and writhed around my heart..choking it. I wanted to feel tears, but instead a queasy feeling worked at my stomach and my throat felt dry and itchy. There would be more to see, later, but for now I bade my guide a farewell and climbed into a waiting taxi, which took me to the small boarding house I was staying at, with its impeccably kept walkway and stairs, tidy, and very German.
I wondered if the people who had lived here before knew what was going on in the hell down the road, and like so many other people, had been silent about what was going on, for fear that they too would become ashes. The weight of being part of that machine of death must have been confusing and awful, though not excusable. I splashed water on my face in the sink adjoining the WC and went to my room to lie down. Downstairs I could hear the Frau of the household singing as she made what smelled like some kind of strudel..a smell that would normally have driven me into her kitchen to steal a bite, but now, I could not think of food, my twisted insides refused to let me.
The blanket was soft, faded, and very clean, and I closed my eyes nearly as soon as my body touched it. The old farmhouse bed squeaked a tiny protest before giving in to my weight, and the coolness of the pillow felt like heaven to my fevered brow.
I don’t know the moment I drifted off to sleep, but I remember my dream, because it was vivid, and because it frightened me. I was standing on the back deck of a large stone house, overlooking that hell of a place I had left today..only in my dream, it was running again..the stink of human bodies and sweat wafted from behind the wire, there were people yelling, and some crying..but it was faint, and quickly silenced by a shot. There was a tall man in uniform standing next to me, a look of pleasure on his face, he spoke in German, but like most dreams, I understood every word. “It’s efficient, a good way to get rid of the sickness plaguing us. Don’t you think, Frauline? “ he looked into my eyes, and I understood then that he could see me. I looked away from those stone cold eyes and down at my shoes..dream me, and somehow real me, were deathly afraid to do more than that under his gaze. “Ach, don’t be like that, kitten, you know they are like cattle, they must be dealt with, they ruined our Motherland , now we take back what is owed to us.” His arm went around my shoulders and squeezed gently, but firmly. He reached for my hand and I followed him into the house. Inside smelled of leather and books, of sweetness and luxury, unlike the tainted air outside, laced with death. The furnishings and art spoke of stolen wealth, and the scary man lorded over all as if it were a castle.
I sat next to him while a tired, thin looking woman served us beer and strudel on a low table in front of the sofa. Her hands were clean, but the nails were broken and ugly, and when I looked up into her eyes, I felt as if her sorrow would break my heart. I quickly looked at my own hands instead, as the uniformed man put his arm around my shoulders again, and leaned over to plant a kiss on my cheek. Another uniformed man came in and sat down, he was clearly a guard, he smelt a little of the outside, of gun powder, and aftershave applied too heavily. He sat down across from us and began talking to the terrifying man who kept his arm around my shoulders. I understood from their conversation that the man I feared was in charge of all he surveyed, at least in his mind and in the minds of the men around him. I heard what happened to the person who had been crying. My stomach recoiled as they laughed, I grabbed my beer and drank deeply, hoping to shield my face so they wouldn’t see the recoil. Soon the second man walked out onto the deck to smoke, and the man with the hard steel eyes was back to casting them on me. He leaned in for another kiss and I screamed.
“Frau! Frau! Wake up! “ the lady of the house was shaking me gently, pleading for me to stop screaming. I did as soon as I saw her face and realized that she wasn’t the man with the frozen soul. I gulped, and apologized to the poor woman in my room, as she sat on the end of the bed looking more like a worried mother than an upset landlady. She handed me a glass of water from the bedside pitcher and sat back down, watching me with a serious look on her face. I had a horrible feeling she was about to ask me to leave, but instead, in accent heavy English, she spoke to me softly “I know you do work to tell a story of the past, but some past, it is never meant to be part of a story, it gets into a person and poisons them. I know about the bad things, everyone does, we must all relive the bad of our ancestors with shame in this place, but some things..not even we will know because it is dangerous. I know you go to that place, the place of death, but please don’t bring it here with you, and don’t take it home. He..er.. it is dangerous. Just remember, please.” She got up clumsily and left. I wanted to ask her what she meant, but her warning had made me feel uneasy, I was afraid to ask, she might tell me I had something to fear after all.
I dug a book about the flu pandemic of the early 1900’s out of my bag and read it until I started to nod off again. The rest of my dreams were normal and forgettable that night, except for the strangest feeling of someone else being there too, just out of sight.
The morning came in bright through my window, and I looked forward to a day full of writing, and another visit to ‘that place’. My laptop warmed my lap and I ate strudel that had been left for me. I typed the facts about what I’d seen the day before, my impression and thoughts, later to be added to my book. The night before lingered in my psyche, those eyes still burned into my memory. His kiss still burned through the dream on my cheek, like winter frostbite.
I finished working on my computer and showered quickly. I called a cab to take me to ‘the place’ and called my guide to let him know I’d be on my way. The nausea held off until the gate was in sight, and as I stepped from the cab, the details of what I’d seen in my dream crept back, lining themselves up perfectly with what actually was there. I had hoped for some obvious invention of my mind in details so that I could write off the dream, but I was having no such luck. My guide took me to see where the ovens had been, the next logical step in a gut wrenching process.
Today I felt less sick, but the anger that people could do this, still lingered with me. I spent hours there, looking, touching, imaging…filling my head with the horrors that my hostess back in town had told me not to. I studied the archives of photos and papers that were in the storage, too fragile to be out on display, and there, amongst them, I found him. Cruelly handsome, with piercing blue eyes and hair the color of autumn wheat, he stared up at me from his colorized photo. He had quickly moved through the ranks , knowing who to wine and dine, and had been given a plush appointment overseeing the operation of the camp..and he had made the best of it, the locals called him the Mayor of Deathtown, but everyone who met him only called him “Sir’ to his face.
I shuddered inwardly and finished my research. I prayed that I would never see his face again, but I knew it would haunt me. I shut down my work prematurely and set out for some lunch.
Back at the house I avoided the landlady. I felt as if she would be able to see through me and know what was in my heart. Instead I opened my computer and accessed the internet , looking for information on my inner torment. When the camp had been liberated , some of the prisoners, the stronger ones, had rushed their former captors, and with bare hands, torn them apart. It isn’t talked about, because it is ugly when men become so tormented by other men that they turn into animals, but as the Americans and Brits watched, they understood that this was justice for those tormented souls, justice that may or may not be served in the courts after the war was over. Had my nightmare man been one of those awful people, pulled apart by starved claws and skeletal bodies? No..he had known the jig was up, and fled, with stolen gold and art, to the Middle East, sheltered by those who also saw the Jew as an enemy, he slithered away from justice. There were sightings, for years after, in Brazil, in Mexico, America, but only later did they find him, dead in an accident, far less cruel than anything he had done to his victims. He was dead, I knew that, but I could still feel his gaze upon me, looking from beyond the grave, into my soul.
I shuddered slightly and pulled up my manuscript, “Get to work, you can shake him off that way.” I told myself. I worked on the details, small things have always interested me, and I wanted my future readers to know the color of the brick, the smell of the place, I wanted to drag them into that hell with me, all in the name of history and accuracy. They could live the horrors from the safety of their warm beds, at home. I typed away at the story for hours, the writing bug had bitten me, I love it when the words come easy. It seemed like hardly any time had passed, but as I looked up, I realized the room had gotten dark, and the house quiet, except the gentle ticking of a clock downstairs somewhere. My brain disengaged from writing and I began to realize that I felt cramped and sore. I stretched myself and laid down on the clean smelling blanket. There must have been some magic in that old farm bed , because it claimed me quickly into the land of sleep, like my own at home never seemed to, or maybe I was just exhausted.
I knew immediately that I was back in his world. My hair felt shorter, a wool skirt brushed my knees , my sleeves looked crisp and white. I glanced around and noticed shops as well as houses, some looked familiar, dirtier, maybe poorer, but the same. My boarding house stood down the lane, the shutters looking dingier than I remembered from my time, from the dust kicked up by the cars and motorbikes of the guards, who came into town from that place. The awful one. You could smell it, when the wind blew, a stench of dirty bodies and death, but then it was gone. I heard talking, and some laughing, a girl in her late teens was talking to a guard, flirting. He handed her something and they walked away, companionably.
Panic gripped my heart, I didn’t know where I was supposed to be, it was as if someone laid out a whole town for my entertainment, and I was afraid. I had asked myself if the people in town knew, but of course they did. They had to see, hear, and certainly smell the parade of death down in the camp. A chubby older lady came out of the boarding house, she was clearly related to my current landlady, her nose and cheeks were so similar it was striking, however, other details differed enough for me to know that this must be an older relation. She started sweeping the stoop and a younger woman with a baby in her arms came out of the house, they appeared to be closely related, and talked in hushed tones amongst themselves. I walked down the street in a daze, trying not to look too out of place, just in case one of the men from that place would notice me, and take me there, to be starved with all the others.
Instead an automobile pulled up alongside, and the driver leaned across, opening the door on the passenger’s side. I could feel his eyes on me, so I stared at the ground and pretended not to see, but the more I resisted, the more I knew I had to look. I met his eyes, and he smiled, but the cruelty was there, dancing like a shining blue devil in his gaze. I climbed into the car, and stared through the dusty windscreen, trying not to look at him. I didn’t need to anyway, I could feel how pleased he was with himself.
We drove out of town, towards the countryside, which, even I had to admit, was lovely-even in this ugly time. The breeze here was clean, devoid of the lingering hint I smelled in town. Here it was just nature and the faint smell of his cologne on the air. We pulled over after a little ways and he got out, pulling a picnic basket and blanket from the back seat. I got out and stood a safe distance away, watching him lay the blanket out and set out the contents of his basket. Instinctively I knew that nobody in the town had access to most of the foods he was setting out, these were elitist luxuries, paid for by depravation and death. There was bread, and not the rock hard stuff everyone else was getting, but real bread, real butter. There was fresh fruit and beer, cold-cuts and cheeses. I tried not to look hungry.
Part of me was repulsed, but the other part, the curious part, wanted to let it play out, to see what it was all about. It was the latter part that won a few moments later when he patted the blanket next to him, indicating that I was to sit. I obeyed wordlessly, staring at the fine dishes and silver, the man was a monster, but he had good taste. He set a plate next to me and piled it with food, as if he knew I would not take his ill gotten gains of my own accord. He handed me a beer. I studied the small brown bottle, so I wouldn’t study him. I watched his hands move as he gathered his own plate. They were not the hands of someone who was used to hard work. The nails were tidy and clean, clipped short. The fingers were long and one bore a silver signet ring with a death’s head upon it. I looked away and tried not to shudder outwardly.
He stretched out and watched me with those cold eyes, as the long fingers picked at his food. I put my plate in my lap and took a swig of the brown bottle beer. I waited for him to speak, but he was watching me, studying me like an experiment. I felt uncomfortable, and I looked away, to the rolling hills around us, I found myself bringing a piece of cheese to my mouth involuntarily, just so my hands had something to do.
“I thought you might like it out here, I know how uncomfortable you feel at the Detention Facility. You should try the ham, it is quite good. We can’t have my kitten turning into skin and bones, like those animals, you are much too pleasing to the eye for that.” He followed with a laugh. I studied a tree. “Ach, kitten, you must know I only tease, now have some more of the cheese.” I felt frozen as he placed another piece of cheese on my plate, his hand brushing my leg on the way back.
“You know that I will never leave you now, I’ve decided that I like you very much.” He smiled again and took a drink of his beer. “You will write my story, tell them all about the heroic thing we are doing here, purifying this great nation. History has never understood that what we are doing here is vital to all of us, putting down the enemies of the greatest nation ever to be. You will make them see how great we were, not the lies they tell in your time about us.” I looked up at him, as the weight of his words digested in my brain. He chuckled and nodded. I didn’t have to ask, we both knew that time for his was no longer a problem.
I woke up with the stale taste of beer in my mouth, clutching a silver ring..his ring. The words “I will never leave you..” echoed in my brain. I studied the ring for a moment before flinging it from me. It hit the wall and rolled under the bed. I stood and started down the stairs, hoping for some tea or coffee from the landlady. She sat me at the large wooden table and set a cup of coffee in front of me. She snuck glances at me, but didn’t ask any questions. My brain wasn’t ready to communicate with real people anyway. It was too busy planning an escape. I would go by and thank my guide at the awful place, and then pack. I would pay my landlady for the rest of the week, but I would not stay. I had research to do in France, after all, pressing research, someplace not here. Clearly I was losing my mind here. I caught a taxi as soon as I could. My landlady looked knowing as I shoved the money into her hand. As I packed, I found the silver ring tucked into my suitcase. “I will never leave..” I decided to get rid of it once I was away from this place.
I got on a train and headed away. I would go to France, plenty of research to do there. I’m sure. Anywhere but here..”Never leave..”
The hotel was bright , cheery, and French. I don’t like the nasal language as well as I like the guttural tones of German, however, in this case I was willing to make an exception, the French were going to save me from my insanity. A little food, some wine, maybe some shopping, if I could afford it, and I’d be good as new. I unpacked my belongings, and decided to take a nap, I had been too afraid on the train to even close my eyes, but here I would be safe. I stretched across the bed, and for a moment I missed the bed at the German boarding house, but only for a moment, as my eyes drifted closed.
I was back at his house, stretch out on the sofa . He sat in the expensive looking chair across from me, pretending to read a newspaper. “You didn’t really think that I’d let you get away, did you?” he smiled . “I told you, I like you, and I need you to write my story, to tell the world about me, so that I can live on forever in their hearts and minds. I will be immortal.” I sat up and studied him, trying to understand “But people have written about you, lots of people. Besides, you already seem to be immortal-most evil things are.” That last part slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself, and I cringed, not knowing what to expect. Instead he laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. “ Yes, I have been a footnote in history, and people have written about me, which is how I have the little bit of power that I do now, however, I want more. I want to be free to walk the world in nightmares , to touch, and to continue my great work. Like anything evil, I need them to fear me, and to love fearing me. “He smiled broadly, his teeth sparkling white and seeming strangely sharp.
I shook my head, and tried to wrench up my bravery “I won’t help you with that, you know I won’t. I came to write about your victims, not about you, they deserve the attention, you’ve had enough already. “ he was grinning now, and his eyes were looking straight into my very being “Of course you will , in fact, you will come to love the thing you think you hate..the fear..you will need it. It’s why I picked you, you came to look horror in the face, so now you are. I know you like it.” I shook my head, but deep inside I knew there was some truth to what he was saying. My whole life I had looked into the darkness of history, and written about it. Maybe I was a kind of monster too, perpetuating horrors like his. He just nodded, as if he knew my thoughts. “All humans are filled with the potential for both good, and evil, and we make a choice to feed one or the other, I think you have chosen. “ he taunted me.
I woke in the hotel room, with the grim realization that I would never escape. I was now wearing the silver ring with the death’s head. It gleamed under the light as I opened my computer, and started a new document file. I felt dazed as I began to type, the voice in my head weakly protesting, as the keys tapped under my fingers. A crazy hope had blossomed in my tired mind, a hope that if I did as he asked, and fed the beast, maybe, just maybe, he would let me go.
The voice in my head told me he wouldn’t, but I still held out hope, as I typed, describing my terrible journey. I could hear them screaming in my head now, his victims. He showed me such things, terrible things, as babies being ripped from their mothers and stomped into the ground, their tiny skulls bursting like ripe melons..so much blood. When I wasn’t typing, he was with me, gently stroking my hair, kissing me. I didn’t need to sleep to see him now, he was always with me.
I saw skeletons, covered in the barest layer of flesh, moving rocks from one end of the camp to another, then back again, blood oozing from raw fingers, the skeletons that were once Catholic priests, who had tried to help their neighbors, the Jews, now looked at me with hollow eyes, accusing, damning me. My words would perpetuate their suffering and give strength to their tormentor, but still I type. …I type about the damp bricks, and the feeling of earth shoveled over bodies..most of you think they all burned, but they didn’t..mass graves were dug to dispose of the human refuse, and some, shot and dying, had their throats filled with damp soil, muffling their screams as they suffocated amongst the bodies. I have relived their last moments, he has made me. Again and again, I will never be free.
When my mind is not full of corpses, he is kind to me, he feeds me, and caresses me. He says he cares for me, and that I almost done. I can rest soon. He promises.
I have been typing for days, and I can continue no longer. I realized today, as he stroked my cheek, that I am beginning to fall in love with him, and it sickens me. I am going to throw myself off the hotel balcony today. I cannot bear it any longer. Please, dear reader, forgive me, for what I have done here. ..
Today I jumped from the balcony of my hotel. I felt a rush of air, and my skull hit the pavement below with a sickening crack. I felt pain for a moment, but then it was gone. People screamed, as my meat sack of a corpse thudded in front of them..it was beautiful. I know now that he was right, I made a choice, a choice to embrace the evil. Now I will walk in his world, with him, and help him to finish his great work, the work of the devil inside us all. I’m so glad you are reading my story, I need you to read it. So he can live through you. Sweet dreams.
“No one will come for you”
That’s what he said every night as I lay entombed in the fears I had long ago resigned myself to my brother loves to torment me. He always has. He’s always taken great pleasure in my fear and misery. His idea of fun.
When I was 3 years old I vividly remember ever night: At around 9 o’clock, my mother would tell me it was time for bed. She would tuck me into the bottom bunk of an old steel, self-assemble bunk bed. She would kiss my forehead before saying goodnight, turning the light off and leaving the room closing the door tight. As I lay staring at the dim light of the room, taking in the various silhouettes of the furniture, I would hear the springs of the top bunk creek and give. I would close my eyes and silently cry knowing my brother’s cruel game was about to begin.
Every night was the same, my brother would growl at me in his malevolent croak about all the pain and misery awaiting me.
“No one will come for you.”
He would begin.
“No one will save you when I take you down to the other place.”
I would lie there. My body cocooned in the catatonic terror only able to silently weep and listen as my brother would describe the various tortures he had thought up for me. Like breaking all my bones one by one so slowly that, by the slow deliberate snap of my last rib, my fingers would have already somewhat healed allowing him to start again and again, forever.
He would tell me that one day he would deliver on his threats but for now, it was more fun to just tell me what he had in store.
My brother loves to torment me.
So yeah, this was my childhood up until I turned 7. My father decided that it was time to get rid of the bunk beds. He had bought them when my mother was pregnant.
We live in a small flat in London, not a lot of room at all. So when my mother told my father she was expecting twins (my brother and I). My mother says he was so insane with joy, like a hyperactive child on Christmas Eve. He went out to the bed store that day and bought that damned steel bunk bed saying it was the perfect solution for our lack of room. Even though he knew the bunk bed wouldn’t be used until we were at least 2 ½ years old, he had our bedroom fully decorated and furnished, complete with bunk bed two months before we were born.
I say we, sadly my brother died whilst my mother was giving birth, so I should say before I was born. I don’t know much about what happened exactly. I’m very hesitant to ask my parents as the mention of the subject sends the two into tears and well….it’s just not spoken about in our home.
I can’t believe how well I still remember those days. I’m 27 now. I’ve got my own little flat, an ok job and a beautiful collection of sleeping pills.
I’m taking a whole bottle tonight. I’m going to finally sleep tonight. He’s not going to keep me awake tonight. Oh God I miss that bunk bed. At least when he had the top bunk, I couldn’t see him.
My brother loves to torment me.
Lilo and Stitch theory.
Do you remember Disney’s Lilo and Stitch movie released back in the early 2000s? Well I have a theory about Lilo’s eldest sister Nani….
Nani’s real name was Natalie and she had a little 3 year sister named Lilly, Lilly liked to play with her dog sparks (or stitch as the character is referred to in the series) one day Lilly was playing outside with sparks, she wasn’t paying attention and ran into the rusted barbed wire in the yard, the neighborhood the family lived in was near a poorer part of Hawaii so there where many hazards like this around. After being deeply cut in several places the family rushed Lilly to a hospital where she got several stitches (hints the name of lilo’s pet in the series). Unfortunately because the family didn’t have much money they couldn’t afford medican and proper care for Lily’s wounds and she died of infection two months later. This had an effect on Natalie who at the time was a hormonal teen, she began acting up and her behavior changed, she began experimenting with prescription drugs and one night at a party meets Dean (Danny in the series) who becomes Natalies boyfriend. With constant fighting at home Natalie decides to move out and Shack up with Dean who ended up being controlling a abusive leaving her locked in the house all day while he went off to work. For Natalie to escape herself and the harsh beatings she would experiment with heavier drugs like crystal meth and harder prescription drugs. Eventually this lead to hallucinations of her dead sister Lilly playing with her dog around the house. With the beatings getting worse Nataline began writing a diary while high recalling her experiences with her deceased sister. Also, remember the child protective services agent cobra bubbles? His real name was Charles bub’le the land owner of the house Nataline and Dean where living in at the time. He would often come to door of the couples home with threats of foreclosure and kicking the two out on the streets, the two couldn’t pay bills due to drug habits. With all this stress Nataline finally snapped under the pressure of her hallucinations and stress and ended her and her husband’s life by burning the house down with them inside…. The last thing authority’s found was the diary Nataline left behind seemingly untouched by the flames. One of the agents on the case read through the journal and told his brother (who at the time was a animator for Disney) about the hallucinations. This was later adapted into the loveable Disney film Lelo and Stitch…
My Author page: http://www.amazon.com/Hayden-Mills/e/B00DLLTVGO