26/07 -- the day i take his journal.
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL TAKE HIS JOURNAL.
Diary,
I've only just arrived back from Michael's house. I've been spending most of the time over there, in fact, and it feels disorientating to sit in my own living room for more than ten minutes alone. I often expect to look up and be surrounded by his Led Zeppelin posters and antique jukebox, and feel deflated when I'm met with my worn settee and grandfather clock. I miss him, in a weird way. Perhaps I just miss having vivid fantasies of cutting through him. The knife and gun are resting beside me silently in the nightstand right now. Sometimes I open the rigid drawer and stare at them both, admiring the curves in the blade and the fixed grip of the gun.
Also, I have his journal resting on the mattress just by my legs, too. I nicked it off his shoe cupboard I left. It was almost as if he was intentionally making it easy for me to find. I still haven't opened it, yet, though. The last time the dark cover brushed my hand was months ago, when I was left in his room by myself and decided to initiate an uncontrolled investigation. It was in the middle of November, at the time -- a lot colder than it is now. Though, when is it not cold, where we live? Perhaps it's just the neighbourhood. We're all just a cluster of people who're all screwed over in the head, somehow. Some more than others. Me? I'm the former. That reminds me -- I need to take my meds. I have another checkup with my mental health doctor, and if she sees I'm not taking my clozapine, she's going to call the madhouse, again. I can't go back there. Not yet, at least. Not until after I kill Michael.
Ugh, it tastes so sour. It dissolves on your tongue when you put it in your mouth, bursting softly into a scatter of green and pinching complexion. Now I've taken it, I can look through Michael's diary. There's a lot of poetry, I have to say. His handwriting is wispy and flicks off into different directions, while the letters remained small and narrow on the thin lines. It was so different, it was so adventurous, it was so... Michael.
Some of the pages have dried patches speckled across their faces. Splotchy and once wet, I can feel, while rubbing my fingers over it. Here's a poem, I found, about a girl. I already know it's about me -- I haven't even began it yet.
But it's not about me.
I don't have red hair -- I have black and white.
I don't have green eyes -- I have brown.
I'm not British.
I didn't wake up next to him last month.
His poems aren't about me.
None of them are about me.
Michael Clifford doesn't love me.
What's a better reason to kill him?
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ST. JIMMY'S COMING DOWN ACROSS THE ALLEYWAY ((CONTINUE THE LYRICS))
speaking of lyrics, could u guys help make a playlist for milk & cookies?
