For Those Who Don't UnderstandMature

At this point, they are safely here. I always make sure the next entertainment is arrived safely and unharmed.

While they are resting, something I do not wish to disturb the girls on, I choose this time to write in this journal you hold on your hands—assuming you are holding this and assuming you have hands—I sit here, and I always think.

I do not comprehend what I let my mind wonder about most of the time though. As if I’m thinking, but it’s like I have no control over where the pathways of the mind’s tunnels leads to another topic.

I didn’t want to share the details during my and the girls introduction at the party because I do not want to give out too much evidence. What fun would that be? It’d be too easy. But I guess I’ll let my mind wonder about not the good, exciting part about the meeting but the sad tragedy and heartbreak I experienced with just that simple glance I mentioned in the first writing.

I might as well confess what I do first off. Otherwise, if I do not, how can I expect you to comprehend the ache?

I take girls, or guys, whatever is easiest considering the atmosphere, and bring them here. Now what happens here may be the most brutal you’ll ever hear. I torture people. Why? I do not know. It’s always been my obsession to want to harm others as much as I can. Violating them, crushing any hopes, leading on then breaking off, whatever made them want to cry or scream out. I have a theory: Because of how I was treated as a child, I believe that I act this way to others is to gain a certain power that was stripped from me when I barely knew what was taking place. Another step, another fucking disappointment. Soon enough I gave it up, I ran away, I lived here. And I fucking loved it, being away from people who hated me, who judged me, who just didn’t want to hear me speak. But the obsession part: I don’t always have complete control over my actions like my ever-wondering thoughts in persons’ head.

The part I hate now: On this night, Noah…she has these chemicals…on her lips…another fucking mistake…she made me fall in love. She doesn’t love me. She never did, never will, never. But then, looking on it…she kissed a total stranger without his name. Now, some people would have said, “whore, skank, hoe…” whatever else society has come up with, and I would probably kill them. She’s not, and I can tell because she is not like other girls who try so hard to act what they think is “hot, in style, in, cool…” or whatever fucked up society thinks. Noah…why did it have to be you? Don’t think I’m lying later on. She put me in a corner with a love, a simple kiss, which contained combustible chemicals that heated my lips; lips of mine that have been forcefully placed on others.

Underneath this hot lamp, I’m assuming you know what I mean, beside me is burning my hand, it itches. Ever known that feeling? Ever be beside something somewhat stingingly hot that it makes your skin itch?

A little for the inside, for those who are not reading this…confession…in the residence, it’s a small house on the outside…but inside…like a maze. So many doors leads to connected rooms so complex my friend, his alias shall be… David, had to draw a map to retrace his steps since he got lost. (Yes, he does help me with my entertainment.) Very complex, dark, damp, hot, and can be cool at times. Noah and Whitney are on cool spring mattresses, with their hands bonded to steel cold pipes above their heads attached to the wall. 

The End

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