Journals of a Psychopath



Another peek into my novel.

The Haven
Contemplating Taylor, she inspected the image of the Lady Flarice, which was on the laptop.
      “At sunset agony will come and your pain-threshold will be tested,”
      “Why wait until the sun goes down do it now.”
      “Watch your tongue my father could snuff you out in one moment,” Smithson said.

Blackclaw Woodlands

     “Light the flashlights,” I said to Smithson.
      He concluded his task.
      “Dance on the altar of my perversion and show the prey how earnest we are.”
He sang and danced, Taylor sank to the dirt. Unifying and rotating, Smithson and I danced on the altar. The sun was ready to dip and Smithson prolonged the glare he gave her.
      “She is a suitable sacrifice,” Smithson said.
Chaining Taylor to the offering block and bathing Taylor, her vulva was on show, I spread her labia, and Smithson gaped at the target.
      “Do not push your organ inside her you are permitted to perform other acts,” the Forest Characters said.
She cringed when we inserted the implement, Smithson pierced her honeyed-place flesh, and she screamed his manhood-milk shot over her.
      “You are my son and the legatee to the kingdom.”
I wrapped Taylor in the furs.
      “I am glad you allowed me to share your realm and I will always be with you to aid you in your quest.”
I was satisfied with Smithson and all the hard work to groom him into the psychopathic role rewarded. She tussled with her bonds he examined Taylor her silvery-blonde locks tumbled over the edge of the ceremonial slab. Smithson brushed the silvery-blondeness it grabbed my interest. Stroking her tresses Smithson was engrossed, Taylor gasped quietly, she was aware that to wail and gnash her teeth would be useless.
      “Are you ready for more terror?” I asked.
Taylor’s flesh-orbs were sodden by the salty fluid. Taylor was attractive, just average it vexed that she was not beautiful. Whizzing, her vision-spheres were threaded with red veins. Taylor was calmed by the gentle sweep. Smithson noticed some strands of hair tangled in the brush and he harvested the fibers, because they were valued. Dancing our shadows impossible to tell apart, Taylor gawked at our arms hoisted in accord, and the silver-white moon shone. The black-angels rotated, we perceived their wings in the firmament. Whetting the sword, we yelped, as I worked the blade, my son's face was set, and our array was impressive. Lifting the severer and she jolted.
      “Something is not right,” I said.
Taylor’s skull jerked in a manner not relevant to the purification and she died in front of us of natural causes.
“Taylor's brain has fused and she has denied us.”
Smithson was alarmed and I unclasped the chains, muted, the Woodlander Warriors and the Archangel conveyed unpronounced denigration, I avoided the Trees dark sockets.
      “It is not your fault father a stroke is not so bad.”
      “The Timber Figures and the Archangel are severe no mercy is reserved for you or me,” I said.
Burning her body and clearing the area, Smithson’s glance was concerned, I clutched my chest, the Trees grimaced, and the river dashed, resembling the sound of gigantic tears.
      “We expect atonement.”

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