Journals of a Psychopath



The Darkest one roams the pages of my novel.

Chapter One

The Gas Station (three years later)

Perry Weismann an associate since I was young owned the gas station and the Pit Stop the trade name. Noting Perry's thick neck supporting his heavy skull, Perry’s bristly hair was dark. Pudgy his face seemed bloated and Perry's eyes mid-brown. His life appeared easy, but mine not. Another worker named Harry was not smart. I hated his full-moon shaped face, which the freckles patterned. Harry’s body presented as immense, I am gratified my exterior is rugged, and my build muscular. Joe the fourth member of the team and his face angular, a dimple dented the middle of his chin. Joe's dark blond hair draped over his shoulders. Tall and bony his nature could be fiery; he could snap at any given moment.
      “Make a coffee,” Perry shouted.
The resentment I nurtured pertinent to Perry escalated.
I traipsed into the tiny kitchen and organised coffee. Ascending the steps and dragging my feet, my boots created a tinny sound on the metal rungs.
      “Hurry up!” Perry said.
Stopping to gape through the window, the people clutched the thermal gear to ward off the ruthless weather. Bending in an effort to stave off the wind and they gave the impression of old folk.
      “Get up to the office for fuck's sake!”
Becoming visible, the top-half of my body is broad. Shuffling the items on his desk and Perry scowled. Dumping the coffee on Perry’s work-surface, it spilled onto his paperwork.
      “Jesus, Clarkson can you be careful?”
Trudging down to the workshop, I was grumpy. Perry ran down the metal steps a little later, an urgent call the cause of his appearance. He threw the keys to the recovery-truck and stared; Perry wanted me to go to the job with luck a woman would need assistance.
      “Do not take too long we have more work coming in and I need the cash.”
      “I will take my time as usual and you can cope Perry you always do.”

Blackclaw Woodlands the Haunt

The meetings eerie and the torments the victims endured generally performed at the sacred site. At Blackclaw Woodlands, I discovered short-term relief from the anger for silvery-blonde-haired women.
      “Countless culprits are needed the preferred ones purify your soul,” the Trees and the Archangel said.
A scream could be heard and it was mine, the neurosis esoteric, it crawled into my psyche, and rotted my mind.
Obeying the commandments sporadically, pride blitzed. The prey pled for mercy, but the Trees and the Darkest-One decreed clemency must be denied.

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