I'm tired. That girl is obsessed with me. She's barely looking at me and she's watching someone else's every move but she's obsessed with me and won't leave me a my girlfriend alone. She told me so, because she's a telepath and reads other people's thoughts.
The path to revolution is not an easy one, but I'm fighting evil. And that evil is... my own self-obsessive projections, and my girlfriend's. She gets off on persecuting people online and posting idiotic books about how I rejected a woman who wasn't even interested in me in the first place. She was, at some point, crazy in love with me, before I became the monster I am today. Or was I a monster already? My intelligent pretty girlfriend had the idea, mostly due to her own jealousy. She's so obsessed with women stealing her from me and doing the same thing she did to them, that she can't sleep at night.
Once she poisoned an entire bookshop just to get back at a woman who doesn't even care about us, or think we're relevant anymore. But because my girlfriend is pathologically self-obsessed, and I have a gigantic ego that my abuse of a woman who used to love me didn't calm, we burn libraries just to see them burn, not because we actually think someone did something bad to us. We attempted at her life more than once, but we're not the only ones, as you can imagine. Her own family too, especially her father and greedy mother and sister.
But my girlfriend, what an intelligent brilliant psychopath. She is so smart, and instead of using her brain to finish her degree, she uses it to abuse another woman. Brilliant woman. She not only devises evil plans for me but for her father too. She could sell evil ideas to people and get rich, that's how smart and limitlessly cruel she is. And I love it, makes my penis hard. It's difficult to make it so, but evil does.
She once invaded a florist, or advised a plan to that woman's sister, not quite sure, and poisoned the water on all the plants so they wouldn't grow. My blonde-haired, frame-glassed, evil genius.
Of course she would be nothing but a meek book-stealing nerd without me and my death-granting magic. But she'll do anything for my twisted love, including burning libraries with innocent people inside. But she has the aid and support of another blonde, because blondes help blondes and that one is another evil genius who is dating none other than that girl's father. How fate collides! My girlfriend even lent one of her weapons to the girl, one of her precious poisonous books. To say I'm proud would be an understatement.
But my girlfriend's poisonous book recommendations and lying books of records are just one of her many charms. Imagine how sexy it is to see a woman's weapon being throwing a poisoned "My Year of Rest and Relaxation" book against her imaginary opponent who doesn't give a crap about her or her petty invented dramas but instead is trying to defend herself from another opponent, the same exact woman my girlfriend lent her poison book powers to. Thinking back, might not be a coincidence and they're joining forces of evil. That girl did post a picture of herself with my girlfriend's powerful poison book, I was so proud! But I'm licking my lips just imagining them. Now. Later, I will be licking her lips, with any luck.
And oh, she will do anything for a fix, when others want nothing of the drugs I have to offer, but I still try to convince myself they do, because I'm irresistible, like Gaston. Well, one of them did, and would still maybe, if I wasn't such an asshole, but unfortunately it's a family-inherited trait. Granted, I'm not the Dorian Gray kind of irresistible asshole, but serial killer Beatles type, or Charles Manson, if you will.
Self-awareness is truly revolutionary, isn't it?
I am a broken man.
Yes, me.
Despite my royal titles I am broken inside. I'm not sure if it happened at birth or later in life, but it did, somehow. I make people miserable when they're not pretty enough, persecute them, send the royal guard to protect the woman carrying the seed that will someday be my heir.
The only way I can calm my demons is by the presence of pretty young women, a womaniser who married a beautiful woman and turned her into a princess, built a castle in territory I stole from other people and spit on the hard work of women I treated like dirt who are more valuable in terms of values than my rotten throne.
I have a gilded life I built on fame, riches and arm candy, but what exactly do I have to show for it? I'm still a terrible person who does terrible things to others, and I despise whoever tells me I did wrong because my pretty wife never tells me that. Instead, she hates on the woman we both hurt and abused. I, because the guilt of hurting a woman I think of as lesser would be too much, so I lie and protect my family by throwing someone else to their death and accusing her of lying and stealing. I accuse her of stealing something she never stole from my dear wife, even though it was stolen from her by my gorgeous wife, accuse her of carrying weapons when I'm the one shooting first, persecuting, not asking questions, making other people feel inferior and dark so me and my love can shine brighter in comparison, which is our only line of defense against people who aren't even attacking us.
I am on a path of self destruction, but my gilded fame and riches I built on top of my lies about another person protect me from all that. "The noise of the lights", as they say. I lie about a person and suddenly I'm swimming in money, I sell her to other people without her consent, use her, abuse her, and then lie about everything I've done.
I don't know how I can sleep at night after what I've done, but maybe in the comfort of my money pillow and my lying wife's arms, a wife who is so brilliantly ambitious she and I engineered a plan of abuse so intense together, she drove another person away. We covered up the murder with lies, because it's what we do best. All of us. Me, my wife, my brother, and his wife.
We're in the job of killing people who stand in our way and threaten our carefully constructed reality built upon years of lies and defamation and abuse.
There's no redemption for me, no gilded throne, fans or beautiful wife can save me from my own conscience and everything I've done. It will be with me forever. I will be holding my beautiful wife's hand at 70 and I'll remember the day I picked up a shovel and started digging the person I slowly killed for a long period of time. First slowly, then the happier and richer I got, with intense force.
But she kept coming back from the grave to tell the truth about me and all my bad deeds, clear her name. Hell, I even made up stratagems to accuse her of making choices or doing things by setting up traps. Traps I carefully set up, and if she failed to respond to my enigmas and word codes, I would punish her with death. Not just death, no. I would chop her dead head off and sit her at dinner with my wife, while I kissed her slowly, the woman I despised and her eyes staring at us, accusatory of the horrible things we did but try to hide.
We can't tell the truth, admittance would take out carefully constructed life away from us. Our fame, our money, our fans, supporters, her sponsors. All of it would go and we'd be exposed as the liars we are, the manipulators we are, the sadistic trap-setters we are.
It was so fun, we laughed together as we planned it:
At first I was a little intimidated. But my wife, evil genius she is, put the plan in gear. What a sexy woman, I call her my assistant. The longest-running one. All the others I killed, or tried to kill, then told everyone they killed themselves. Most of the time, it was my wife killing them, while I masturbated with their blood, kissing my wife and then having sex with her, still with the fresh scent of another woman's blood on my hands, splattered from my gorgeous sunny wife's attack.
We watched as one girl's mother pretended to be my wife, or mother, someone who commands the troops. She spoke in codes to an unaware person, making her fall into our trap and pretending she was indecisive, pretending it was her fault what we did, pretending we weren't the ones twisting and shaping her reality so we could squeeze out something, even if she didn't say it. We would pretend whatever movie she was watching was a secret message to a lover and chop off her hands, we pretended all so we could fuck our beautiful blonde wives. We even lied and made our female fans write poems about how ugly she was and showed them our penis pictures so they would lie about this girl and make her feel ugly in comparison to our fappable girlfriends. Easy enough, we're famous, after all. Except my brother, he isn't, he lives an anonymous peaceful life but still meddles at times. But that one isn't famous, at least (they call him her uncle, I think, I call him my brother, sometimes my servant, although I do have another brother, but that one has short hair).
My brother's girlfriend and my wife loved lying, it got them off so much we knew we'd get laid every night if we let them lie as they pleased, and let us do the same. So we did. Every day we just lied and lied, and got laid so much.
Riches, fame, sex, women, plenty of women. I was the real-life Dorian Gray. My beautiful blonde wife was the real life female version of one. Horrible deeds that never showed up on the lines of our faces. Who sees through me and my gorgeous wife that could paint our portraits in the most accurate way? Oh, I know... maybe I can ask the girl after she gets up (again) from her grave... before I kill her again so we can occupy our thrones, that is. King and queen, prince and princess. Liars liars liars. We're a family stuck on the path of self destruction, and at least the dead girl gets to escape until we persecute her again. Every royal family needs slaves, after all, and we bought ours with the threat to her life.
And this story is my almost redemption, how I almost became a better man. Almost. It's my story of becoming self-aware, looking at myself. Only self-awareness can make us better, right? Make us change. They all tell me the dead girl should've done the right thing and she's ugly for not, but they forget I killed her long before she could do any wrong thing, let alone the right thing. I almost redeemed myself. I almost not blamed myself for the chaos me and my family have caused, even to estranged member of our own family, but especially to them.
Oh, didn't I mention? The dead girl used to be my neglected daughter, until I killed her, right after my long-haired brother killed her. And in the middle of all that, our wives had fun killing her a little more, we don't feel guilty for some bonding family fun, and the dead girl was dead, anyway.
I claw at light desperately Trying to preserve the dots of brightness´ the one I find in me, in others, or the world, after living in darkness for so long
Not flying in beautiful colours anymore They ripped my wings and I could only save some A small part — Short moth wings, Not long flutters anymore
I need the warmth, the lamps, the candles, the fireplaces My wings not bountiful anymore The colour disappeared in blacks and whites of nightmares
I am not a butterfly, I am a moth.
