snow

Goodbye.

Alex, it’s like this.

I left home.

I walked into the woods and I just kept walking. I heard Dave’s voice calling my name, just like he did at graduation. I heard my mother saying goodbye. And I heard my father behind me, swearing and yelling.

I fell in a clearing and hit my head. When I looked up, it was standing in front of me. Standing taller than the trees, with a thousand outstretched arms. And then it reached out, delicately, and slid one long finger into my forehead. It hurt like nothing you can imagine, like a fucking nuclear bomb went off in my head.

And then I was somewhere else.

I don’t remember the camera much. I know I must have used it, but it doesn’t feel like I did. More like I was watching someone else do it. In hindsight, I think I had lost control of my body. I think it was using me like a fucking puppet. I think it’s been using me for years.

It used to scare me, losing control. Now I can’t wait to lose myself for good. I want to fall into the water’s cold embrace and never come back to the surface.

I’ve been looking for God, Alex. And that’s what I did on my journey. I looked for God among the lakes and the statues and the Joshua trees. All I found was that fucking abomination.

They tried to help me. My father followed me as closely as he could, and it even let him come close a couple of times. But it was just toying with him. In the end it took him, just like it’s taken William. George tried to stop it, tried to tear at the arms, but he was just one cat. What could he do?

I miss George sometimes more than I miss any of them. I just want to be able to hold my fucking cat again, man.

Sorry, I need to finish this.

In the end, it brought us back. Me, and the monster wearing my father’s skin. And then it left me there, alone. As it drew back into the forest I swear to God I heard it laughing.

I dealt with the beatings okay. I kept telling all the lies he wanted me to tell. Once I got out of the house when he was sleeping and ran down the street, but I just kept coming back to our front door no matter what. Like a fucking magnet.

He burned my Bible and threatened to kill me the one time he caught me praying. He wanted me to think he was Satan, I think. He wasn’t. Once I realized that, things got a lot easier. It wasn’t hard to figure out what to do.

I took a hammer from the garage and bashed his fucking skull in.

I’m leaving tonight, if I can. I’ve seen William at the edge of the forest, smoking his cigarettes and smiling. I’m going to go to him. Maybe he can take care of me, like he used to. Or maybe he can kill me. Either would be nice.

I’m sorry about all the lies, Alex. You’re the best friend I ever had and you fucking deserved better. Delete this blog. Move out of state, take Rachel with you. Forget the names of the dead and forget Lamb’s Grove. It’s the best thing you can do.

Oh, I almost forgot. I left your camera in a safe place. I was going to smash it, but it’s yours. Sorry about stealing it.

10/2

i guess there are two new videos on johns youtube channel?? just noticed them today, i figured he was done with videos. it looks like he made them with his laptop which is kind of annoying considering he still fucking has my camera, he could at least use it

anyway theyre kind of weird. for one thing thats not johns house, but those are definitely johns hands because who the fuck else wears a goddam rosary on his wrist.

also the music. john hates punk. not in a "oh the ramones are overrated" kind of way, in a "due to past trauma i cannot listen to the descendants without crying myself to sleep" kind of way. and the fact that it was the descendants is weird for other reasons i dont feel like getting into.

this also confirms that john does in fact have a working phone and has been ignoring me and rachel for whatever reason. fucker

not waving

9/9

tired of trying to come up with titles for these. just gonna use the date from now on i think. anyway i havent heard from john except through here. i dont know what the fuck is going on, or how much of what hes saying is true or if hes just holed up in his house taking pills or what. he wont answer the phone, he wont respond to emails, and he doesnt have a facebook so thats out.

im still pissed at him even if im worried about him. and hes obviously fucking crazy and a biblethumping asshole. but this stuff with his dad well. his dad has always been kinda weird. i never thought he was abusive or violent or anything before but who knows.

i wonder when everyones lives got so fucked up. daves gone. rachels a mess. johns more crazy than ever and maybe his dad too. its like this whole town is living in a state of emergency. i dont see people on the streets anymore and when i do theyre walking fast and looking down. i even saw william the other day. thats never a good sign.

im not really sure why im writing this. i dont really have anyone to talk to lately. rachel spends all her time reading and she was my last real contact with the world. and i'm not the kind of crazy fucker who talks to god so. i wish itd stop raining

Guess it's time I published this.

This has been saved in my drafts since the day after I came back. I think my dad wrote it. I don't know how he found my blog.

I had to find him. I could not let him be hurt. He's my boy. He's all I have left. I had to protect him. I'm the only one who can. If others knew about what has become of our family, we would not be allowed to live.

I followed him into the forest. I saw the things he communed with. The great cat, and the king of limbs.

I followed him across world and time.

I brought him home.

I need to Kill The Little Fucker

I Need To Show Him Who Is In Charge

Bleed Him With Leeches

And Set The Hounds On Him

My son.

All Is Lost

HES FULL OF SHIT DONT LISTEN TO HIM

http://youtu.be/jVQT_WZ8Qtc

found the memory card. so tired of your fucking games.

You Have Lost Control

i saw everything.

Tools In The Hands Of Higher Beings

you can't hide behind your book.

God is just an idea

What You Seek Does Not Exist

all will burn

Together

we are

Together

we speak

With One Voice

But We Have Many Arms

i never loved you.

John reviews "Motorcycle Fetishist".

I've decided to return this blog to its original purpose. My recent camping trip has calmed my nerves, and I haven't had any blackouts in weeks. My father has also been very supportive, even if my friends haven't. All in all, things are looking up.

Today I'll be reviewing "Motorcycle Fetishist", the debut album by Divisible By Nine. They've been getting decent airtime on college radio with their lead single, "Leper Moth", which is what caught my attention and prompted me to buy the album. And I have to say, it is mesmerizing. If I were the type to drive a car -- which I'm not, anymore -- it would never leave the CD player.

Tor Oddsson is the lead singer and rhythm guitarist, and also the band's chief songwriter. His voice takes on a casual, almost conversational tone in most of the songs, and yet somehow it never loses the melody. And what's more, he never sounds bored -- each and every song is fueled by Oddsson's passion for the words and the music he's presenting to us. This passion, combined with indie rock sensibilities and a helluva beat, are what have led to "Leper Moth"'s success.

"Motorcycle Fetishist" is at its best, however, when it challenges authority. "Do the Fucking Math", the album's penultimate track, blends hip-hop and indie rock together into a beautiful tapestry that I've yet to hear outside of an Astronautalis record. Tor's smooth flow and the hypnotic beats easily make this the highlight of the album.

Divisible By Nine have a long way to go if they want to be millionaires, but they have my completely unqualified seal of approval.

I went camping.

With my cousins.

I lost my phone while we were canoeing.

Nothing sinister.

Nothing mysterious.

Honest.

still gone

i finally read through everything john wrote on this blog.

i had read some of it, and i knew some of it was weird, but i had no idea it was this bad. rachel thought we should talk to the police, but after what i read, that seems like the worst thing i could possibly do.

i dont think rachel has any idea this thing even exists. maybe thats good.

i havent told her shit about it. not my place.

i just wish i could fucking talk to him.

where the fuck is john???

okay, so, ill just start at the beginning i guess. john slept over my house last night. it was totally chill, he seemed fine, happier than hes been in a long time. we passed out watching the big lebowski, and when i woke up john was gone and so was my videocamera. i tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. no one picked up at his house, either, which is weird because his dad is always home.

i went over kind of pissed off because, yknow, he stole my fucking camera. but no one was there. i looked in all the windows and rang all the doorbells and knocked on all the doors. johns jeep is still in the driveway and his dads truck is still in the garage.

somethings not right. i dont know what the hell is going on but something is very wrong. id call the cops but that might just get john in more trouble. i called rachel and she hasnt heard from him. i dont know what the fuck to do.

shit, i was just looking on here and noticed a post from last night. "come with me"? what the hell does that mean?

I don't remember there being any hounds around here.

The computer died. Finally, after all these years.

The days without the internet were peaceful and blessed. I caught up on my reading. I had no work, no play, no friends, nothing but the books before me.

I admit, first it was A Dance With Dragons in two sleepless night-day cycles. Then the Bible. Then the Qur'an. Then Supergods. Then Crisis On Infinite Earths. Then I prayed until my knees were cramped and sore.

I prayed to Jesus and Allah and Odin and Superman.

I prayed to my mother, God rest her soul.

Then, tonight. My dad comes home with a new laptop he bought in the city. I recorded a video on it, sent it to Alex. I think he knows how to edit things. Making the videos is easy, but beyond that I don't really get it. That's more his thing.

I recorded the video by the edge of the woods at twilight, around eight thirty.

By nine o'clock it was full dark and I sat on the stone wall. I heard rustling behind me, saw the glow of a cigarette in the woods. I was going to call out, but then my phone went off. I thought it was on silent, but instead my ringtone blared: "I SET A FIRE JUST TO SEE WHAT IT KILLS". Whoever was out there heard it. There was a sound of leaves rustling, and the ember was gone. I couldn't see anything, so I answered the phone and starting walking back.

It was Rachel. She's been calling recently, to talk about everything. She's as upset as I am. I asked her to come over. She drove out and we met by the ruins of the airport. We sat on the wing off an airplane that had become entangled with a fence to make a weird bench.

She brought a bottle of vodka. We traded swigs as we lay in the road and talked. She told me how she missed David, how she wished he would come home okay. I listened for sounds in the bushes.

Around three thirty I fell down. It took her awhile to rouse me. I lay in the dirt and saw beyond. I saw spheres and stars and heard voices both guttural and ethereal and felt feelings indescribable. It was like gazing on the face of God only to find it a maze of scars and pits with great, bulging mad eyes.

I stayed that way for a few minutes. Rachel didn't seem very concerned. After I recovered I drank more, and heartily.

She fell asleep in her backseat. I'm sitting beside her, laptop on knee. I'm listening. I swear I heard the flick of a lighter.

bad news.

alex here. i just called john, i guess he was sleeping. he told me to just make this post on my own. someone broke into my house yesterday. not much was stolen but they took my scanner of all things, and johns fucking journal was in the scanner. id only gotten the goddamn cover scanned. i was gonna put it up but theres not really much point.

i dont wanna seem paranoid or anything, but what i read of that journal freaked me out. im almost glad its gone. not glad we got robbed though, im gonna miss my xbox.

the cops who came by asked me if i was friends with john. cops around here have hated him for awhile, i hope they dont try and blame him for this.

Sorry.

I haven't updated in the past few days, not because I don't have anything to say, but because this computer is in its death throes. We've had it for a few years now and it's cheap and full of viruses and it's fucking up like nobody's business. Every time I try to watch a video it gets distorted as hell, even on Netflix. And when I try to type, like right now, the text starts hopping all across the screen and I have to keep typing the same shit over and over again because it's too fucked to read.

Right now it's working okay. But I think it's gonna completely crap out soon, so.

Enough about the computer.

The other day I was kind of turning my Waite House journal over in my hands and I noticed a few things on the back. It looks like someone I used to know signed it. He's been in and out of places like that, so it's not much of a surprise, but it's weird they gave me his old comp book of all people's.

His name's William. He used to be a good friend of mine. He's a violent asshole and I don't like thinking about him. I haven't talked to him in over a year and I'd like to keep it that way.

I don't really want anything more to do with that old journal. I almost threw it out, but Alex said he'd take it off my hands. I told him I don't care what he does with it.

ed

I'm just tir

.

Paranoia, insomnia, tealeaves.

I took a shower today. I couldn't keep the shower curtain closed. Every time I closed my eyes I thought I heard something. I could hear something. Some kind of mechanical crackle, almost a chuckling sound. I didn't wash my hair because I'd have had to close my eyes to do that.

On the wall I could see my shadow. And then I'd see another shadow like there was someone there with me, but I'd turn around and the room would be empty. I'm still not sure if I was alone or not.

I haven't slept. I can't stand being in the darkness or closing my eyes. I always know there's something there.

I've been seeing him.

Never clearly. At the edge of my sight, a glimpse in the mirror, in between blinks. Sometimes I'll see him just as he takes a step out of sight, or his hand will be up as if he were about to wave.

He's a fucking monster. Some kind of abomination, I don't know. Dad won't listen to me. Keeps saying I need new medication.

I don't need pills, I need a crucifix. Or my gun back.

And someone else has this password, apparently. I don't know how they found that burned letter or why they put it up here, but it is in my handwriting. I vaguely remember writing it. I definitely remember going to that building with my mother.

I don't like the other shit they're putting up, either.

Coffee makes me nervous, so I've been drinking a lot of tea. The other day I tripped leaving the kitchen and my mug smashed on the floor. The gunk from the bottom of the cup formed this huge mucky puddle, so I went to get paper towels. When I came back to it a second later, there were markings in it.

I would've assumed my cat had just stepped in it, if the cat wasn't still missing. Or even still a cat anymore.

Kind of went through my Waite House journal with Alex an hour ago. I found something carved into the back of it that I don't think Alex noticed. It makes me want to stop trying to figure out what happened on the island.

Anyway, I gave Alex the comp book and told him to do whatever he wants with it. I figure he'll either burn it or scan the pages.

Do You Remember, John?

Rachel.

Freshman orientation was today, but my car wouldn't start. I don't know anything about cars, so I'm kind of at the mercy of my dad to get it fixed, since he won't let me work. I kind of suspect he has something to do with it not starting in the first place.

I didn't feel like staying home, though. My dad was at work and I had twenty dollars in my wallet, so I decided to walk into town. We live a few miles from anywhere I could buy anything, but I had time to kill, and I really wanted cigarettes even though my throat feels like someone went at it with barbed wire. This asthma is going to kill me someday.

To get to the road into town I have to go by this collapsed garage. Well, I suppose I could avoid it if I went through the dump, but fuck that. Anyway, I hate walking by there. It got totally wrecked during the tornadoes. Even thinking about that day makes me sick to my stomach, almost as bad as graduation.

Okay, okay, I'm stalling. The walk into town was uneventful, beyond the normal paranoid feeling I have when I'm on my own lately. The important part of today was, well, her.

I almost started crying when I saw her behind the counter. I hadn't seen her since graduation, I felt like someone had totally yanked the rug out from under me. And then I saw the dark circles under her eyes, and everything just came at me at once.

I remembered watching her boyfriend die.

I remembered putting my hand on her waist while we danced. Where was he then? Still there? Or was he already gone? Already cut open? Already sewn shut?

Kissing her in her car. Brushing my fingers across her bare knee.

David's mouth pressed tight, grey pus pooling on his chin.

Her lips were so cold.

I walked in. She didn't get angry, like I expected. Just serious. I said her name. I was crying, it was all I could say. I expected her to kill me, after everything Alex told me. But she didn't. She looked at me and she started crying too. I will never forget a word she said.

"John, you didn't do it, did you?"

I just shook.

"I didn't. I didn't know, I was angry. But now that I see you, oh God I'm so sorry John."

Then she came out from around the counter and we hugged. No one even looked at us funny. One death hits hard in a small town. She cried into my chest for my awhile and I told her I'd call her when I got home, but I know I won't. Not yet.

Of All The Torturers In Your Life

I Am The Cruelest

where's the knife, john?

The boy's republic.

Alex came over yesterday. My dad still doesn't want me going out, but he let Alex come over when I explained how destroying my social life wasn't going to make my condition any better.

It was a good day. I know this is unmanly to say, but I love Alex. I guess he's been reading everything I put up here for awhile now and he's been wringing his hands and making phone calls. He's a good friend.

Anyway, we mainly played Super Smash Bros. I'm not sure why, but that's one way I tend to communicate when I'm upset. While I was Falcon punching my way to victory, I told Alex about my week in Waite House, mostly about the poetry and staff. I left out the scary apocalyptic stuff. We took a break from the N64 to look through the journal they'd given me.

There's only three or four actual journal entries. The rest of it consists of poems and fragments. There's a lot in here I don't remember writing. Alex was fascinated by it. He offered to let me use the studio in his basement to record some spoken word. I think I might do that. We had a mini poetry slam and I read some of my work out loud and it just felt great. My dad didn't seem to like it, but he can go fuck himself. It makes me feel better, like I'm getting poison out of the wound.

Alex says I should put some of what I wrote on the blog. I'm not sure I'm ready to yet. Some of it is weird, and all of it is personal. I did record one poem on my camcorder, but I don't even know how to upload it.

The poems I'll probably put up or record somehow. The journal... I don't know. I don't know how much of it was hallucination and how much of it actually happened. Maybe it might help to get a fresh perspective on it, but it might be even better to just fucking forget about it.

I do know how to work the scanner.

I'm home.

My dad doesn't want me to say at Waite House anymore. I was only there about a week. I mostly wrote in composition books and did therapy sessions there, nothing exciting. They had me writing poetry as catharsis. It's kind of a hippie private hospital place for wealthy people who get addicted to heroin or cut themselves. My dad could afford it, because he's my dad.

It wasn't really the place for someone like me, but John seemed to think so. He seems to think I'm hiding something. Whatever, I doubt Dad will let me see him anymore. Leaving Conanicut was pretty fucking bad.

I don't really feel like thinking about it right now.

I see Alex still has my Blogger password. We were going to run the review site together. You can see how well that turned out.

I'm gonna call Alex later. Maybe I can see him tomorrow, if my dad lets me. I kind of need a friend right now, to be honest. I haven't really had someone to talk to as a friend this past week, and everything's been so fucked up and it's just been shrinks and cats talking to me and fuck I just want to play videogames with someone and relax. Or just have coffee and cigarettes and talk about the future with someone.

I was supposed to be having my graduation party last night.

I've started reading the Bible a lot. Dad won't let me go to church tomorrow. I might sneak out anyway. I don't think he hid my keys yet. I've been cooperative.

But I want to get my life back in order. And I can't do it cooped up in here, staring out the window looking for people who might be following me. I'm almost positive I'm being followed, but who is going to listen to me? My scars are barely scabbed over and I talk to cats.

There was this thing. When we were leaving the island.

It almost looked like a person, but it wasn't.

It was a monster trying to look like a person. I think that's what made it so horrible. The legs and the arms were too long, the figure too narrow and stretched. It was wearing a black suit, or it seemed to be. What skin I could see was pale.

I keep looking out the window.

I'm not sure what's worse. The ocean, or all these fucking trees.

oh "brother"

i came to your house to see what the fuck was going on with you and no one was even there. rachels been being a huge bitch about everything.l i called waite house five times and they wont let me through and i dont think any of my letters even made it to you.

your friends miss you. and they want answers.

i hope you actually see this man.

also, change your fuckin password.

Graduation.

I graduated from high school on Sunday.

It started off so exciting. Caps and gowns, sitting in the front row alongside the other class officers. That annoying Pomp and Circumstance shit blaring over the PA. Our chorus sang the national anthem, and I wondered if we were supposed to hold our caps over our hearts or something.

I saw Dave as we were walking in. He looked a little pale, but he was up and walking around. That seemed to contradict the worst of my fears.

As class president, I had to give a speech first. I had prepared two typewritten pages for the occasion. I was nervous, but I got over it as soon as I started speaking. I fell into a steady rhythm, even snuck a glance at Dave's girlfriend. I had just gotten to my G.K. Chesterton quote when I felt a hand on my shoulder. A smell like rancid shit curled into my nostrils. Someone in the crowd laughed. I turned.

It was Dave. He looked like hell. Veins were standing out on his neck and face and his skin was damp and grey. His eyes. His eyes looked at me, but they also seemed to be looking through me. Or they couldn't see anything at all. He looked like a corpse.

He opened up his mouth and puked black liquid all down the front of my gown, then fell to his knees retching. I took a step back in disgust and watched as he spasmed, tearing his gown completely off in his struggles. His shirt underneath was torn and I could see his chest. His skin was stained with sludgelike red blood. It looked like his abdomen was being held together with crude skitches made with a fucking bone needle.

He took a deep breath and started screaming horribly. A deep phlegmatic wail. Just one word. My name, over and over. It was all he would say until he died eighteen minutes later in the hospital.

They ended the ceremony. Diplomas and scholarships were mailed home.

I was questioned by teachers. Then policemen. Then EMTs.

All I could do was ask for my father. "Dad, dad, dad," over and over again. I didn't stop saying it until he put his arm around my shoulders and took me home.

I'm told I was catatonic most of Sunday. I can't really remember. A lot of people came to try and talk to me. I think I read some Punisher comics. I slept a lot, I remember that. And I dreamed. I woke up bleeding.

My dad kept me in bed all day Monday, and didn't let anyone see me. He had me talk to John on the phone about everything. I cried and told him how confused I was and all the stuff I'd been holding back. John told me it was going to be okay. I just needed to relax and I could get as much help as I needed. He asked if he should come over. I told him it was okay. He reminded me to call him if anything came up at all. I spent the rest of the day reading the book Pastor Paul gave me and trying to pray. It didn't work very well.

Last night as I was falling asleep I felt someone touch the back of my neck. I whipped around and in the yellow lamplight I saw a tall thin figure in the corner of my room. Then I passed out again. When I woke up at 3, there was no one in my room. I called John and stayed on the phone until it was light out.

John came over for breakfast. Him and my dad told me how they thought it might be a good idea for me to spend some time in a hospital. I wasn't sure. I got angry. They talked me down. In the end I agreed after John mentioned the gashes I'd found on my forearm.

I must have done them myself, but I can't remember it. I don't know.

They let me come on the computer for awhile to say 'bye to people, since I might not get a computer in the hospital.

They told me not to say anything about Dave or what had happened on Facebook. They didn't mention Blogger.

I'm not sure how long I'm going to be gone. I won't have a phone, my dad hasn't let me see mine since Sunday anyway. I'll try to write things down if I can.

I'll be back.

hung.

The thing is done.

Now the sword can sleep.

Ooh-rah.

The past three days.

I probably should've written about everything as soon as it happened. I guess my first instinct isn't always to run straight to the computer when bad things happen. I'm calm enough and aware enough now to go over it all in my head. So I will.

Thursday

We had the senior banquet. Dave drove me and I left my car at Sid's. Well, near Sid's. There's a nice circle full of abandoned buildings that we leave our cars in when Sid's not supposed to have people over. I had to sleep there one time.

Anyway.

The banquet had good food, and a dj. Dave and Sid had smoked a blunt in the car and I think it got me a little stoned. Maybe not, but I was feeling out of it at the banquet. And Dave's girlfriend looked beautiful. I had a crush on her, before she was Dave's girlfriend. I danced with her. I don't think Dave saw. I don't think Dave saw that time.

I had the dj dedicate a song to her. That was stupid. Dancing with her was one thing, but this was just undeniably fucking stupid. It was her favorite song. Dave's girlfriend thought Dave had dedicated the song to her. They'd been having a fight, and it seemed like the most perfectly goddamn adorable thing for him to do to try and reconcile with her. She cried.

I didn't even think of that. I didn't even think of her assuming that. I don't know how. Of course she would assume it was Dave.

Dave realized it was me. I don't know how. He asked to talk to me outside. Not in an angry way. He was serious, but he didn't seem mad, I remember that.

What I don't remember is what happened outside the banquet hall. The last thing I remember is following Dave through the door and staring at his stupid cowboy boots and reaching into my pocket.

I know I should remember. But I can't figure out if I blacked out or not. I didn't lose time. At least, I don't remember losing time. I didn't blink and find myself inside. I just can't remember. I've been trying to think of what me and Dave talked about for two days and I know something happened, the details are just beyond me. They're like a dream that slipped away upon wakening.

So I can't remember shit. Nothing new there. What bothers me is the last thing I do remember: reaching into my pocket. Sid's gift was in my pocket.

The thing he got from his brother. The knife.

Dave must've gone home or something after that because I haven't seen him since.

I asked his girlfriend to drive me to my car while we were dancing. I was too honest with her on the ride home, I don't think she appreciated it. I drove myself home and stayed up all night watching public access channels and smoking cigarettes my dad thought I didn't know he had.

Friday

I slept fine, but I was exhausted in the morning for some reason. I had to go to senior's last assembly and give a speech. I wrote it that morning. It went well. I got more applause than I expected to. Everyone told me I did well.

It was a good day, actually. I was just kind of surprised Dave wasn't there.

No one wanted to hang out after the assembly. Alex had a date with Sabrina, Sid had to have his septic tank pumped or something. So I went home, took more of my pain medication than I should have and drank my dad's beer. I knew he'd notice, but I didn't care.

Dad called around five, said he had to work late that night. Shouldn't wait up for him, order some Chinese.

I should note: beer and Chinese food do not mix well. As I was tossing some of the empties into our big bag in the basement, I puked a small stream of pisswarm Coors Light onto the aluminum. As I was wiping my mouth I noticed my cat staring at me from the corner of the room. My cat's name is George.

George's eyes flash like motherfuckers in the dark. They usually flash green, though, because his eyes are green. They were flashing blue now though, a bright piercing blue.

"George, what's up."

George meows a lot. It's like having a conversation with Chewbacca or something.

He didn't meow, though. He lumbered over all fat and black and shook his head at me. He shook his head like a person signing "no". Just like a person. I reeled back and tried to ignore the way he was looking at me. The way his eyes seemed older than mankind. Predatory.

I tried to play it off cool. "You're a fatass, George."

And then the cat opened his mouth and fucking spoke to me.

I wish I was kidding.

His voice was like Patrick Stewart crossfaded with Treebeard: "You are mistaken."

I admit, in hindsight I really wish I had decided to say something rational and ask a question or something. A conversation with my cat might have been enlightening at this point. But I didn't.

I screamed and ran out of there. I spent all night in the closet with a comforter around my shoulders and my rifle in my hands. I haven't seen George yet. I am not sure if I will speak to him when I do see him, or if I will shoot him.

Saturday

I haven't spoken to my dad yet. I haven't even been awake at the same time as him since Wednesday. I don't know what to tell him. Or where to start. I spent all day driving around aimlessly in Worcester, stopping in diners and banks, and then spent the evening sitting on the goddamn computer. I was watching some weird videogame webcast earlier that got interrupted by some old trippy video and the audio cut out. That's been the extent of the excitement.

It's 1:33 AM now. Its technically Sunday, I guess.

I graduate from high school later today.

I have to give a speech there too.

Sid gave me a gift.

Can't believe the superintendent didn't cancel school today. Some people can't get out of their driveways around here, and Southbridge is still all torn up.

I had grad rehearsal, too. Then me and Alex went straight to Sid's. We hung out there, then went and got Taco Bell.

There's this drink at Taco Bell. We always have it. Mountain Dew Baja Blast. You can only find it at Taco Bell. We never order anything else when we're there, and we only go to Taco Bell, so it's all we drink.

I drove us home. I think. I remember driving too fast and yelling at Sid and then I think I was alone in the car for a bit, and it was weird. There were no other cars on the road, and the road seemed more twisted than usual. I mean, I am in rural Massachusetts, oh land of hills and windy trails, but the road was twisting like a corkscrew and the telephone poles were all jutting out at awkward, irregular angles. And I drove so fast. Every corner was a near miss. I didn't check the speedometer.

Then Sid's in the front seat and he's laughing with me about something but I'm not really laughing, just coughing, and I hear Sid start to sound worried.

I got us home okay. I assume. I'm here now and Sid's not here, so I guess I drove him home.

I think I was driving.

All I can think of is something Alex said today: "The best times in life are when you almost lose control."

The banquet is tonight. I'm wearing my suit, red tie. Mouth's feeling better. Still not sure if I'm ready to take on a steak, though.

I need a fucking cigarette.

"Wash the day off of me,"

Went on the class trip today. Felt like it might be good for me, even if I didn't feel like going. We went to an amusement park.

To Six Flags.

Six Flags New England.

In Springfield.

We got there early in the day. Went on the good coasters early, most of them twice. Got the blood flowing. We hit all the spots. We ran out of things to do. We were wishing for a reason to go home early.

We got a tornado warning.

No one took it seriously, at first. There hasn't been a dragon in these parts in a thousand years. Why worry about it? Some people got too worked up over clouds. This was New England. We know about the rain.

The staff seemed to be taking it seriously.

We decided this was a good enough time to leave. As we were going to the buses, we started hearing things, like that a tornado had touched down in Springfield. I said "oh, Springfield."

I remembered stopping in Springfield on the Amtrak one time and encountering various interesting homeless people. I had an amusing anecdote to share.

Then someone said, "We're in Springfield."

The staff didn't exactly want us to leave. They said we could, but they also offered to let us take shelter in the buildings. We wanted to leave.

So we did.

So we drove through Springfield right after the tornado did. We saw cars overturned, trees uprooted, buildings torn to pieces.

So we watched the windows like hawks.

So we recorded ourselves with video cameras and called our parents and girlfriends to say I love you.

If we had left a little earlier. Or a little later.

I almost felt like I had trouble staying awake.

I can only remember the ride home in flashes.

Flash one: I am looking at a building that has had its roof ripped off. I'm fumbling with my backpack.

Flash two: I'm zooming in on a cloud in the distance on my camcorder. Everyone around me is exclaiming nervously.

Flash three: We're driving past a horde of sirens and flashing lights.

Flash four: I'm at the school on the phone telling him he needs to talk to the principal about me driving home.

Flash five: I'm arguing with a cop about being let onto the warzone my road has been turned into.

I got home.

It was still there.

I feel like I've had my skin torn off and the wind is pulling at the exposed flesh and muscle.

I've been trying to calm down. Stop the flow of adrenaline. Stop watching the news.

I lowered my body into the lukewarm bath and sat and slapped water onto my neck and chest. I remember exactly what I said to myself.

Painography.

Life has been so fucking weird the past few days.

Doctor told me and my dad it looked like one of my molars had been taken out with a pair of plyers.

We never found the tooth.

In case you're wondering, my mouth hurts like a bitch. I've been borderline delirious from Percocet. I'm getting fitted for an implant or something later this week, for now I'm just chewing out of the right side of my mouth.

My dad got mad when I kept insisting I didn't know how it happened. I still have no memory of that nine minutes.

I was forced to take a week off of work and start therapy again. Now that school's out for seniors, the only things I have to do are go to graduation rehearsal and therapy. Sid's invited me over for hookah the other day, but I turned him down for reasons that should be apparent.

I don't mind talking to John. John is my therapist's name. He's relaxingly normal. After I told him about what happened at work, he suggested we try to do some kind of repressed memory thing, but I told him I wasn't ready for that. He asked me a lot about dreams and stuff, but I don't remember my dreams that often.

He said that it was important to try, but that he wouldn't rush me because of the state I was in.

What state? Yeah, it hurts, but I'm fine, like, emotionally. I can't be shocked by violence I don't remember happening, can I? People are acting like I'm crazy or something.

I'm just confused. And kind of stoned off these meds.

Anyway, me and John talked a lot, went over the alloted hour again. A lot about my dad and stuff, and how I like my job. Not so much about the time loss, for some reason.

I'm not really allowed out, or in the mood.

I've been bored. Watching crappy free porno vids. Not even really excited by them, just out of vague curiosity. I look at how the shots were set up, the composition, the aesthetic values. Porno has more aesthetic values than most people recognize. I know that's weird to say, but it's true.

One site I was watching videos on was all fucked up. I can't remember the url. The videos seemed normal at first, but they started skipping and the audio sounded like Godzilla was trapped in a porn studio or something. Just, really really fucked. That's the only word I can think of. The video was all distorted, it'd go from grainy to vivid to static and back again.

It gave me a goddamn headache. The noise and sight of it.

Like I said, it's hard to remember it exactly. Probably 'cause of the percs.

I was allowed out for graduation rehearsal. It was nice to see some people, but I felt uncomfortable in the crowd. I kept jumping when people said something to me.

I'm just frustrated, I guess. Think I'm just going to stop taking these pills. I feel like I'm in a goddamn fog, stumbling and grasping.

And people wonder why I don't do drugs.

I hate the outdoors.

Just, being in the open, it bugs me. Gets under my skin. I can deal with it, act normal at a bonfire or whatever, but the feeling is always there underneath, gnawing at me. I was taking a walk back to my car and I went through this path with trees alone and I just wanted to scream.

Anyway, I made it home, but I haven't slept. I keep staring at the clock and thinking about when I was a kid.

I've always been a clock-watcher. Mom taught me that it was important to allot your time wisely. An hour for reading, an hour for homework. I know, I was a fucking dork.

One time I was looking at the clock on a Saturday morning. I was twelve years old and I had just woken up. As I watched, the clock went from 7:42 AM to 8:01 AM.

Nineteen minutes.

It happened again the next Monday after school at detention, except this time when I came back to myself I was knee deep in mud in the woods behind my middle school.

I told my therapist, she sent me to a doctor. Thought I might be having "absent seizures". They said "absent" in French or something so it sounded more official I guess. Basically, they thought I was having a seizure in which I was completely catatonic for a space of nearly twenty minutes.

Never mind the fact that my catatonic self would've had to've walked half a mile into the fucking forest.

They glued wires to my head and read my brain waves and flashed bright lights in my face and made me fall asleep with the bulbs still sparking an inch away from my nose. Tests came back negative. I wasn't epileptic, I didn't have any manner of seizure disorder.

They tried to tell me I was drifting off because of my ADD. I know what drifting off feels like, I've been that way my whole life. This wasn't it. They essentially shrugged at me, and I never got an answer.

It didn't happen again for six years.

To the day.

Yesterday.

I checked the clock at work. It said 3:46. When I came back, Eric was snapping his fingers in my face. He asked me if I was drifting off again. I checked the clock and it was 3:55. I wasn't drifting off.

When I came back to myself there was blood in my mouth.

Resurrection.

THE SUPREME DIARIES OF BROTHER SOUL

So, yeah, I guess the whole "writing reviews" thing didn't work out. I kind of wanted to be Roger Ebert, but over the past year I've come to realize that I can't stand critics. I don't want to be the kind of person who picks apart another person's art. I like appreciating beauty, and I like discussing great films and comics, but to be the kind of person who tries to tell other people what to like and what's good and what's bad takes a higher sense of self-importance than I possess.

I've realized a few things lately. The most important was why I came up with the idea of "The Supreme Diaries" in the first place. I am in search of the Supreme. I'm not sure why I capitalize it, but it seems appropriate. The Supreme is the highest level of truth and order evident in the universe. It is the cloud that I want to stick my neck into and let the moisture dot along my neck.

The name Brother Soul reflects what I have discovered: myself. My soul. I am a firm believer in the existence of the soul and that I need to maintain the integrity and purity of my soul. The "brother" part just sounds cool to me.

So, I'm Brother Soul. I'm in search of the Supreme. And I'll be writing about it here.

I had my first confirmation class with my pastor this past Wednesday. We talked about what it's like to be a pastor, what some of the beliefs of the United Methodist church are. I was raised in this church, its influence has hung over me spiritually since I was a small boy. The best thing it did for me was instill in me a desire to do help people, to accept all people, and extol the virtues of a gentle life.

I'm still not sure if it's the right path.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm met to lead people spiritually. I can't really know until I discover my own truth.

I'm sorry of this type of dialog offends you. I am familiar with the grounded atheistic rhetoric, having espoused it myself for a few years.

But the fact remains: there must be an opponent. A flip side to the coin. Sometimes I wonder if it's Joshua or if it's Abel, if it's a savior or a victim or a sacrifice shot with an arrow of mistletoe.

Or maybe a champion.