Journals of a Psychopath



Clarkson is so brutal and cruel.

The Isolation Chamber

Also named the segregation cell it was my basement. When I disregarded the Trees and the Archangel’s wishes, I utilised it to stage the sacrifices.
Horrified Harper’s face was pretty and her body lissome. Clothed in the erotic lingerie, I tore the intimate attire from her body. Sacrificing the prey, in the light of the three gigantic black twisted candles, and my shadow dappled over, I whickered.
Slitting the victim open from her neck to the genitalia with the sword, she howled and died; it increased the urge. Semen ruptured, fulfillment gushed into my body. Lapping the blood darkening her honeyed-part, (Vulva,) coated in her gore, and my face encountered the blood. Sensations of delight rushed, because of the chains around her neck, arms and legs, I kissed her warm lips and screeched with glee.
      “Even though we sometimes overlook your extracurricular events, we are disappointed you did not include us. The gore is the identification depicting your sin. However, we will not punish you on this occasion,” the Archangel said.
      “I am thankful.”
      “This is cautionary, next time we will not moderate.”
      “It will not transpire again please accept my deepest apology.”

Twin Moon Forks

The town I lived in was sizable, confident as I ambled around. I gazed at the windows and scanned my reflected form. Dangling down my back the two thick braids shone. Sauntering in the store, I chatted with Allison. Her bubbly personality added some allure.
      “Whose heart are you set to break?” she asked.
      “I hope yours is next.”
A shadow in her soul dimmed her eyes and she appeared uncomfortable, she busied at the counter her eyes moved to mine every so often. Keeping my face expressionless, I thought about Allison’s body chained and cut open, it would be good to taste the blood and smell her fear. She was not on the list it would be so good to place her name on the parchment, but the Trees must agree.
“It is doubtful we will allow her name to be inked,” the Purifiers said.

Waldorf Grove my house

Muzzles my dog padded over, his pointy ears and cheeky face augmented the appeal he lacked. A bottle of liquor was in one hand and a needle in the other. Shooting the lifeline into the vein, as the heroin invaded my blood, I eyed the photograph. From the frame, mother’s glare was scary, her eyes steel-grey. Her silvery-blonde hair looked dense. Chunky her face mirrored her thick body. Mother’s sexual appeal was undeniable and the memory flooded my mind, I remembered mother’s hefty body; it nearly squeezed the life from me. Charlenson (my sister,) inspected from her surround, slight, and silvery-blonde hair sprouted from her head. Hanson, my identical twin grinned, the photograph a reminder connected to mother’s discrimination.

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