Give me coffee. Or the protagonist dies.
Yes, dear readers, it's NaNoWriMo time again! Which means a copious amount of caffeine, an inadequate amount of sleep, and an unimaginable number of typos and tautologies, all in the name of authoring a novel in a month (even less, since my month will be interrupted by exams). This year's entry will be a thriller/horror. The story will be based on the lines of T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', with each line forming a new chapter. However, our beloved Mr. Prufrock has been given a sex change (for no reason other than my own amusement) and has gone totally psychotic and serial killer on us (because the poem just lends itself to such interpretation). So, without further ado, I give you the first chapter of my NaNo 2008 entry, 'What a Wonderful World: the diary of a serial killer'.
November 31, 2008: Let us go then, you and I
I stood on the street corner with a lit cigarette hanging from the end of my blood stained lips, the smoke coming up in twirls, pirouetting around me as though my rapid heartbeat were a song for it to dance to. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, each filling my lungs with the sweet scent of burning tobacco, the sweet taste of death. I never intended for it to end this way. I had never wanted it to end this way. No. Perhaps this is exactly what I was after all along. Perhaps this self destruction was exactly what I needed to set me free from all this. Free from this dreariness. Free from the inanities of society. I was sick. But my disease wasn’t something that could be cured. It was something that was bound to kill me over time. But not before I had killed other people. Many other people. Many more than the people I had already killed. The politician, the lawyer, the homeless man, the prostitute, the R n B artist, the newspaper editor, the evangelist, the commerce student, the inept literature lecturer… they were all just the beginning… No. I had done enough. It was time I made just one last grand statement.
I took one last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the scar from where I had cut myself, the smell of burning flesh sensation recalling to me my senses, shaking away the inebriation of the night. I lifted the large pine lid of the coffin. It was much heavier than I had expected and the task would have been much simpler had I had full use of both arms. Instead, I was forced to lift the lid with just my right arm as my left hand was bloodied from the self inflicted stab wound from the fountain pen. I climbed into the coffin and wondered whether the ink poisoning would kill me first or if I would run out of oxygen first.
I imagined what it would be like when they discovered my corpse. Would they discover it tomorrow? Perhaps even next week? I hoped it was later. A rotten mutilated corpse has far more impact. And with that thought, I pulled the lid of the coffin shut.
And smiled.
November 31, 2008: Let us go then, you and I
I stood on the street corner with a lit cigarette hanging from the end of my blood stained lips, the smoke coming up in twirls, pirouetting around me as though my rapid heartbeat were a song for it to dance to. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, each filling my lungs with the sweet scent of burning tobacco, the sweet taste of death. I never intended for it to end this way. I had never wanted it to end this way. No. Perhaps this is exactly what I was after all along. Perhaps this self destruction was exactly what I needed to set me free from all this. Free from this dreariness. Free from the inanities of society. I was sick. But my disease wasn’t something that could be cured. It was something that was bound to kill me over time. But not before I had killed other people. Many other people. Many more than the people I had already killed. The politician, the lawyer, the homeless man, the prostitute, the R n B artist, the newspaper editor, the evangelist, the commerce student, the inept literature lecturer… they were all just the beginning… No. I had done enough. It was time I made just one last grand statement.
I took one last drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the scar from where I had cut myself, the smell of burning flesh sensation recalling to me my senses, shaking away the inebriation of the night. I lifted the large pine lid of the coffin. It was much heavier than I had expected and the task would have been much simpler had I had full use of both arms. Instead, I was forced to lift the lid with just my right arm as my left hand was bloodied from the self inflicted stab wound from the fountain pen. I climbed into the coffin and wondered whether the ink poisoning would kill me first or if I would run out of oxygen first.
I imagined what it would be like when they discovered my corpse. Would they discover it tomorrow? Perhaps even next week? I hoped it was later. A rotten mutilated corpse has far more impact. And with that thought, I pulled the lid of the coffin shut.
And smiled.
posted by Yuki at
12:27 AM
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