A Diary.
Imagine a child finishing their book, watching their TV show or leaving the local cinema wishing to be more like their favourite character; they might adopt the persona of their new idol. Now change this child to an adolescent and the voluntary embrace to a subconscious, involuntary adoption - "This is my design".
Am I writing fiction for Will Graham, or am I expressing my experience through a new medium?
Not even I, the author, can answer that question at this moment in time; sometimes it is difficult to distinguish between reality and fiction. There are (occasional) moments when I exist in a space that I feel is a dream; I feel detached – separated from my surroundings. As if I could break the law without any consequence; no form of guilt.
Some nights I traverse the staircase in the dark, leaving the obnoxious beeping of the setting motion sensors behind me, to be greeted at my bedroom door by a deformed figure that varies somewhat each time it appears. Beast or man, or somewhere in between, it takes time for me to realise it isn't reality – it is not the monster beneath the child's bed but rather nightmares that haunt me when I'm awake. Nonetheless, I do not fear the dark.
"If you cannot see them, they cannot see you; close your eyes." I don't remember falling asleep, as many people don't, but waking up soaked in my own perspiration is just as tiring as the nightmares themselves - I've taken to sleeping on a towel and finding myself washing my bedding more frequently than I used to - disgusting, I know.
22:47
00:13
3:26
6:55
YOU ARE READING
Not A Psychopath
HorrorThe fabric between fiction and reality begins to leak upon a book of blank pages. (Fiction within fiction; not about me.)
