Journals of a Psychopath.



Another peek into my novel

The Segregation Cell

Connor was sprawled face, down I strode to him, his urine and feces covered the concrete, and kicking the wounds, he screamed in agony. Thrusting water down his throat, he vomited and it sluiced onto the hard floor.
      “Please do not hurt me?”
Stepping sideways, he was sick again, I was unappreciative when my garment reeked of puke, Connor howled similar to a baby.
      “Please end it for me?”
      “Be careful of what you ask it might happen.”
Hoisting him on the slab, the instruments gleamed. Chaining Connor down on the block, he was too weak to struggle. The sword was on the table. I picked it up, and danced. Revolving like the evil-reaper, my vision-orbs selected his male-weapon, undersized and an eyesore. He understood my intent, horror struck him, he spewed again it gurgled from his throat, burbled over his ears, oozed onto the slab. Lifting the sharp sword, seizing Connor’s manly-tool, he shouted with fear. I sliced it off, a screech jumped from my psyche, and it was the yowl of the surgeon. Connor squealed, I held his mangy penis in front of his sight-orbs, he whimpered. I glowered at the small dangly thing, the blood leaked, the life drained from him, and his death satisfied me.

The Shrine

Setting alight the black curled candles and appraising Lady Flarice’s negligee, it was tight around her, the attire showed the contours pertaining to her frame.
Lady Flarice’s body was similar to silk and her honeyed-place a velvet pouch of pleasure.
      “We are pleased with your allegiance,” the Speaker said.
“I live to serve you the tides of time will never lead asunder I will obey as ever and be your instrument.”
I would never leave them or disappoint in the areas, which mattered the most, and my love for them strengthened.



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