Finally broken free from her self imposed writing exile, the young Monkette lashes out at a society she feels has betayed her from birth . . .
I want them all to pay.
Every single person who has set foot into my life, if only for the briefest of moments, and has contributed towards creating the person that I am today.
The apathetic bystanders.
The liars and thieves of soul and mind. Those who tear at the fabric of your being, in order to placate their own inflated egos.
I want them all to pay.
I have had my own sanity called into question so many times by others, that these days I find myself carefully analysing everything that I say and do, in order to assure that it is grounded in reality.
I am not crazy.
Over emotional. Yes. Prone to uncontrolled outbursts. Yes. Capable of violent self destruction. Yes.
But crazy? No.
I find my life has become a catch twenty-two cliché of being trapped inside a viscous circle of my own creation. I have allowed those already in my life to evade their punishment for so long, that to enact it now seems almost redundant. They know what they have done.
How can I punish those whom I have learned to love, in the only way that I know how?
The answer? I can’t.
But this knowledge does not help to fill the void that still exists inside of me. Rage and pain and blood and death are all that it craves. And I must feed it, before it eats me alive.
I have no idea how to choose my victims. Or even how to deal with them once they are selected. I have never hurt anyone or anything in my life. I know pain all too well and have never wished to make others suffer as I do.
Something has changed though.
I no longer care for my previous humanitarian attitude. Now I wish everything that I have endured upon every soul that walks this earth in blissful harmony. Happiness makes me sick. Contented people revile me with their aura of serenity. The world cannot hurt them as long as they have their lovers, or children, or friends or flunkies or whores or junkies.
These are not the ravings of a disturbed mind, but rather the observations of someone who has finally seen the world for what it is.
The world is sick.
Humanity is a plague eating away at the soft underbelly of mother earth. Pissing and shitting and fucking and killing and bleeding and dying and breeding over and over and over. We are a conveyer belt of carnal desire that can never hope to be sated. Not cogs in the machine, but the machine itself. A machine for death and destruction.
We see a car crash on the side of the road, and we slow down to look for casualties. Not to call for help but to rubber-neck on other people’s suffering, and to gloat at our own fortune at being the observer and not the observed.
Voyeurs. Sadistic in nature and ravenous in our greed. There is no true innocence any more. Nothing is pure and nothing is holy.
If I were a religious person I would envision a cleansing fire to sweep across the globe and purge the filth from the earth.
But I am not.
I know now what must be done. What I must do to fill the void and ease my pain.
The streets will run with blood, children will cry out for their parents, and parents will turn from them in fear and let them die. Lovers will reach for each other only to turn away once they realise that they can save themselves. No bonds of love or loyalty will be strong enough to save these wretched people from themselves.
There is no hope.
There is no salvation.
I am the way. And my way is death.