Journals of a Psychopath



He is insane, he hates women, especially silvery blonde haired ones.


Handling my cash, she stole some dough. Heather was a dodgy accountant and supposed I would not notice. Heather’s figure too scrawny to attract, her silvery-blonde hair was cropped it looked silly.
Pockmarked and unsightly her ridged face appeared dirty. Frightened, when I grabbed her at the back of the store, and she tried to scream.
      “Do not struggle it is futile, you are marked for your sins, and taking my money was not very bright.”
“Free me you can have it back.”

Blackclaw Woodlands

The larceny connected to her life the forfeit, Heather deserved the punishment. Dragging the altar across the dirt, I dumped her. Chaining her arms and ankles, Heather lolled sedated in the middle. Heather’s eyelids fluttered, the Trees watched while she became alert.
      “Your sacrifice will make me clean by the shedding of your gore.”
Brushing her silvery-blonde hair, glossy, the tresses untangled. Bathing her honeyed-place, the water from the river served the purpose. Heather’s legs endeavoured to fasten, but the chains grasped her too securely.
      “Please!If you are going to slay me do it soon.”
The needle pierced the sex-flesh it glimmered in the amber glow from the firestorm Heather’s skirls expanded. Wriggling, striving to evade the needlework, she urinated in the process, her pee trickled onto the cord made it damp. Transforming, into the patchwork, the silver-thread dragged through her skin. Pulling, the vaginal lips together and she screeched. Wrenching the hood from my hair and Heather logged me in my grandeur.
      “Pain cannot be limited,” the Enunciator said.
Heather’s smile and wholesome ways affected me adversely. Sculpting Heather’s mouth, the scissors roamed the edge, Heather grunted, and her smile was destroyed., I yelped. Sliding over the blood trickling from her lipless mouth, my tongue slinked around her orifice, her vista-orbs tilted. Jerking with agony, I pushed the sword into her honeyed-part, and then into the organs, the needlework gaped open. Burbling, her innards vibrated, and the life weakened until just a flicker.
      “Your performance was exemplary,” the Purifiers sang.

Waldorf Grove

Ensconced on the couch, Muzzles jumped off happily, and whizzed to me. Pulling the bone from the refrigerator, I arranged it on the counter.
      “Wait boy.”
Formulating espresso, the aroma pleased. Awarding Muzzles the bone, he scraped his teeth on it, and he thumped my leg with his tail. Muzzles a stray turned up in the yard one day and I decided to keep him for security reasons.

The Past

Hustling alongside and Perry seemed bemused, when he noticed I held my side, I tried not to, but the pain from the knife-wounds plagued my body.
      “What is up?”
(We were in Blackclaw Woodlands and kids back then.) Hoisting the shirt, the wounds stitched with botched precision were visible. A yellowish-gunge oozed from the larger one.
      “Who did this?”
I balked, I could not tell him Mother performed the cruelty.
      “Someone you do not know.”
      “Tell me!”
He glared I saw the force involving his character. Peering into my eyes for an answer, he noted my stubbornness. Perry ran through the Trees. The needles from the Purifiers stroked the injuries, the pus in the wound lessened. From that day, the Trees aided me emotionally, and the Archangel boosted the resolve related to vengeance. I learned to rely on the Trees and the Darkest-One, the link forged, they became the doctors of my soul. The Purifiers stepped forward, startled, and I relocated back, worried about reprisal, the Personifications existed as magnificent, gigantic and foreboding.

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