**_ Journal Entry #29  _**__ _I witnessed the transformation of my very own chocolate river into a rich crimson hue during the time when the hallucinatory drug coursed through me without restraint and the birds on my shoulders told me their twisted version of right and wrong. In reality, blood and chocolate share strikingly similar characteristics. The moment I observed their divine yet grotesque fusion, my existence underwent a profound and irreversible change._ __ _Certainly, the most delightful tastes frequently emerge from the depths of darkness. Familiarity with bitterness, tartness, and sourness—embracing pain—only enhances the sweetness of my delicious confections. Ultimately, my candy becomes a tangible embodiment of sadomasochism. It was the routine consumption of alcohol and drugs, treated as casually as my daily meals, that unveiled this revelation to me. Cast in a dreadful red glow, it exposed the inherent fragility of all things sweet and beautiful—easily tainted and susceptible to corruption._ __ _Control was an illusion at the factory. Dreams were impossible and perfection was far from tangible. _ __ _I had accidentally created a place to easily go mad._ __ _Ever since imbibing the malevolent drug, the idyllic playground born of dreams has transformed into a savage realm of music, sweetness, and color. My senses are incessantly overwhelmed by their frenzied tempo._ __ _It's a paradise with a touch of torment, and oh, the pain embedded in their vibrant hues._ __ _Shouting crimson._ __ _Scorching golden._ __ _Intense rose._ __ _Prickling azure._ __ _Sore violet._ __ _And green—that poisonous, mind-altering green—forever shimmering in my peripheral vision._ __ _It amalgamates like candy canes dipped in poison._ __ _Indeed, I'm a slave to cravings. I'm hooked on sweetness, chaos, suffering, and solitude. Yet, I recognize I'm not genuinely solitary in this realm—there is a silhouette of a figure standing behind me at all times, whispering these thoughts in my brain._ __ _My factory pulses with life. _ __ _The visiting children, however, do not. _ __ _I discern the shifts in the corridors—the moments they twist and turn, when chambers vanish and resurface, when the metallic essence animates. In those instances of convergence, the maker and the made become indistinguishable, forming a singular entity. This exquisite yet tainted creation of mine is transient; it won't endure indefinitely._ __ _Yet, everything remains unfinished without that shadow announcing its presence, that pivotal element. It's due to that silhouette that the children have perished. It left behind an impeccable disarray, flawless pandemonium, flawless insanity. Why won't you reveal your identity to me? Why are you so eager for my madness?_ __ _You once told me, "If chocolate is akin to sex, and sex is a little death, then chocolate, too, is a form of demise."_ __ _I wept. The children wept. God wept. The mothers wept. The fathers wept._ __ _You did not._ __ _I tasted you in every candy I ever made, allowing for the unraveling of this mind of mine, and look where it has left me. _ __ _Four children dead, eight grieving parents, one child traumatized for life, and one candy maker urging for more. _ __ _And then there’s you, Little Voice. And then there’s you. _ _ W. Wonka, 1971_ __ __ He put down his pencil and barely had a moment to breath before: “Mr. Malum! There you are. We’re getting ready for the next scene. We need you on set.” The actor just shy of his twenty-first birthday stared back at the woman with the clipboard and headphones before his brain registered her words, and he nodded. “Have you seen the kid, by the way? Charlie’s in the next scene. _The Chocolate Factory_, scene one hundred twelve. It’s the golden ticket scene.” Malum’s mouth was a straight line and his eyes seemed dead. “Chocolate. Do you want some?” “It’s kind of important, you know…” the woman continued, becoming impatient. The actor nodded once, then twice. “Check the body at the end of the chocolate river.” “Yeah, real funny. You’re Willy Wonka and I’m the fucking Queen of England,” she scoffed, tired of the unusual behavior she’s put up with since the start of this production. “C’mon, Mr. Malum, I’m serious. Where’s the kid?” But nobody could have been as serious and unjoking as he.