I know full well what I am doing. I have thought it through.

I could be wrong. But I no longer have the luxury of hope.

One thing has been made undeniably clear by the events of the past few weeks. Whatever it is that has happened to me, whatever it is that I can do and whatever happens with every word I speak - cannot be controlled. It seems very much an unyielding force of the world that acts through me. I have tried. I have failed. The consequences for failure have been such that I cannot accept, but must live with. I have suffered through its discovery, but I will not overstate the extent to which I have suffered. Others have suffered more. Much more. But others are stronger than I am - stronger than I had thought I was.

The starker reality of this situation is that I cannot control myself. Nora, Anna and Nick are proof enough of this. With complete disregard for what I knew the aftermath of my actions would be, I pressed on. Through Nora I thought I had found a fountain of hope, a means for rebirth. But that never came to be. The dreams I had of Anna had come to fruition. But the figure who stood above her, while carrying the face of Nick, was truly a mask for my influence. I was the nightmare with chains clutched in my hands. Had I acted different, had I not acted at all – they would still be among us. Their lives? I cannot say how they would have turned out.

But they would still be among us.

There is regret. I am not so devoid of humanity to be without it. Whether I knew their names or not, whether I knew them intimately or only spoke to them that once – I would appologise to each if they could yet listen. I’ve said few things of late. Sorry was never one of them. However monstrous Nick was, however heartless Raymond was, however annoying that dog was – none of them deseved what I had done to them, intentionally or otherwise. Nora – the mystery that she was – was taken away, never to become more than a memory. Anna deserved so much more than to die at the hands of the very person she loved most, with their blind, heartless malice as the last thing she would ever see.

I’m sorry. No thought of mine has been more sincre.

I truly am sorry.

For that reason, I am gone.

The bags that I packed, I have left behind. It all sits in the living room floor along with the photo of me that I have left behind for dad. Every last dollar. Every last possession.

Save for one photograph.

I’ve left it all to him along with whatever answers this blog can provide.

That house can no longer be called my home. No place can ever be. With some extent of realisation, what I have accomplished beyond the shadow of a doubt is to ensure that I can have no home. To find one would mean to risk the futures of those who entrust it to me and of those whom I will encounter as a result of it.

I refuse to threaten all they have.

For me, there can be no normality – no normal life.

Yet, it is the life that I have come to mourn and long for these past few weeks.

After all this time, yesterday, I finally read over all that I have written here.

Immediately, I saw the strange irony in the only lie I have told. A lie born for no reason other than to remain unknown. But a lie that took on a life of meaning, a life of its own. Having professed to changing the names and places I would write about, in reality I have only ever changed one.

My own.

The more I read, the more it became clear that to use my real name would have not been truthful. With each entry, the remnants of who I was began to fade away. Each action wrote me a new identity, a new face, a new soul. A person defines everything about who they are save for their name. I became Jeremy, a name that now holds more truth and reality than my former. The two lived different lives. They were different people. The face of the past slowly faded away. He is now but a faint whisper in the wind. To use his name would be a forgery.

Jeremy Lost who he was.

When you rob a person of their voice, you rob them of who they are.

There is not much left of who I was.

Soon there will be nothing. Nothing of me. Nothing of who Irene thought me to be.

She had always spoken about ‘never letting it win.’ She believed in being in control of her own life, the twists and turns it took and the end upon which it would arrive. She detested the idea of decay, of withering away and being remembered in her last breath as a manifestation of suffering – far from who she really was.

Irene would not be a victim of fate and allow it to destroy what was left of her.

Neither will I.

The swings will be my tree.

If who I am is to become nothing more than a distant memory, I would have both the world and myself remember me as who I once was and who I am. Not as who I will one day become.

I am indeed a monster. I would become more so and less than I am.

But today, I hold on to who I am.

Today, I choose to stop a monster.

I can be content with that.

Because in the end, there will be nothing.

Nothing but what I choose.

Nothing but a wish to be free of who I have become.

A moment to be as I once was.

A photograph held gently in a twilight grasp.

A final memory of her.

The last thing I want to risk is dad coming home early tomorrow while I am preparing to leave.

The place isn’t as he left it. When he returns, it’s likely he will think he’s been broken into.

I’ve left him a photo of myself on the kitchen counter. Just so he knows it was me.

He’ll have questions. On the back, I’ve left him the answers:

http://jeremylost.wordpress.com

This was never meant to be for him. But there is no better way to explain to him what has happened to me. It has helped me understand well enough.

There is one more chapter left to write. I’ll set it to post after I’ve left.

My bags are packed, even though I have no idea where I will take them.

But I know where I will go.

Twenty foot letters from the heavens to the ground read:

“City of the Lost Boys: Never to be found.”

- Spit Syndicate

How did it go so wrong?

How did it go so wrong?

Naomi was called Anna. Not Lily. And Anna is dead. They both are.

But she wasn’t supposed to die. She isn’t supposed to be dead. This whole thing was to save her from The Brute, now a humanised Nick. But I was foolish.

Blinded as I was, I had to meddle. I was blind to the fact I was blind. Ignorant. I knew that I could cause him to die, but I could never control how. Fate, in another of its cruel movements made her the cause for his death. He killed himself, but it took the guilt from beating his own sister to death to push him over the edge.

But the blood is on my hands. I made the call. I spoke the words. And through it all, I was prepared to live with killing a Brute to save Anna from her suffering, but never for a moment was prepared for the possibility of bringing her death.

She didn’t deserve this.

Toying with something I didn’t understand – how could I be so stupid? So blind?

It was a risk I should have never taken. But how can you take a risk you never considered or even knew existed? I didn’t know! God damn it! I didn’t know!

I was so blind! So caught up in my own theories of how this circumstance of mine could work to my own goals that I had never considered the means of the means to the end I wrote.

How could I get it so wrong?

I never get it wrong!

For all my theories, I wasn’t even close. Years and years were spent watching others, speculating their stories and watching their behaviour – twisting it against them. As much as I shunned stereotypes and boasted my ability to see something deeper, I got drawn into the very vaccum of generalised assumption that I so passionately despised. Those years, which I thought had imbued me with an immeasurable ability for insight and empathy, did nothing more than render me an ignorant fool; more so than those I observed on a daily basis.

She was his sister. I had never considered it. They were a man and a woman of comparable age living together. He tried to fondle her.  Oh God. She didn’t just push him away because he was drugged up or because she wasn’t in the mood. She pushed him away because she was his sister. I had attributed her gently pushing him away as a mark of regularity, never imagining what that meant. He hit her and, in all likeliness, did much worse.

Given all that has happened, here I am jumping to conclusions once more. But I can’t help it – it’s how I think.

Strangely, this tragedy finally makes sense. He wasn’t completely delusional when I had called him. He was talking sense, I was just too blind, too caught up in my own theories, to see it. ‘Lily’ wasn’t a drunken reference to Anna. Lily was his ex.

Anna’s sad tale finally came into view. She cared for him. He abused her. He did it again and again. Through the years she became nothing more than a mere silhouette of her former self. Her love sapped her of who she was. As such, it robbed her of her life – of who she would have become had things turned out any differently. I suspect that she knew what she was choosing. If not at the very beginning, then eventually. But she knew. Yet she never left him. The limitless love I tied it to was the wrong kind of love. She would’ve left an abusive husband, but she would never abandon her suffering brother.

Suffering brother. He did suffer. He suffered differently, but he suffered none the less. The powers that be tore his life to shreds before he could get an opportunity to object. He got swept away by the world around him, and couldn’t stay afloat. He fell to his knees before his circumstance. More and more I see myself in him. My obsession with Anna/Naomi, my preoccupation with her suffering had blinded me to his. It was so fucking ignorant of me. I couldn’t ever comprehend the concept of the two of them suffering, let alone consider it. I was so caught up with ‘one monster, one victim.’

I had it the wrong way around.

‘One monster, two victims.’

Me, and the two of them.

It only dawns on me now the tragic irony of my acts and the things I have said.

I could end her suffering.

I did.

Perhaps I have saved two from their suffering.

I did.

But I never intended for it to all happen this way.

Good intentions. That’s all they ever were. A dream. Perhaps, with an undertone of malice.

Whatever this force of fate is, it does not care for my intentions. There is action, and there is consequence, and then there are the consequences in between.

It was foolish to think that any of those intentions could be realised.

In a confession to myself a few nights back, I professed that

I am a monster.

There is no statement more true to me today.

It was beauty killed the beast.

- Carl Denham

My only priority today is to keep my mind from what might be taking place at any moment at Naomi’s home. I am in no position to see a shrink, so the best course of action is to suppress anything that would create the need to see one. Whatever transpires is now out of my hands. The discovery of that ‘whatever’ will be hell enough without being torn to shreds by guilt and anxiety in the meantime.

Leaving the house isn’t an option. If I do venture outside, one way or another, instinct would lead me toward her home and if there is an investigation taking place, it is best that I remain unseen.

Earlier today, I turned my attention to the myriad of missed calls and messages that have congregated on my phone these past few weeks.

You have 22 Missed Calls.

Six were from Raymond, on the 4th of July. They were in the afternoon and early evening – between my last message to him and his time of death. I can only assume he was trying to call me back in an attempt to discipline me further or fire me. I am fairly definite that by the end of the day I was no longer an employee of Celestial Reinvention. I most certainly am not now.

Four were from my landlord on the 17th, 24th and 31st of July, as well as the 7th of August. Thursdays – the day after ‘rent’ day. Of course, he hadn’t heard from his tenant in about three weeks and was missing rent. Needless to say, I have probably been evicted by now.

Damn.

Before leaving for dad’s I had only grabbed my essentials. Some clothes, wallet, phone, laptop, spare set of keys for dad’s place. Everything else is gone. They’ve probably been auctioned, or sold in some way; thrown out, destroyed or lying obliterated at the bottom of some land fill.

The vinyl records, photo albums, little relics from my (distant) past.

Irene’s book.

Whenever a dash of inspiration would take Irene, the book would be her best friend. She wrote, she drew, she came alive on those pages. A whole other world existed in its confines. She didn’t care much for typing. She felt it dehumanised the written word, robbed it of its spirit. She said a person’s soul is conferred onto a page when they write or draw – it was a romance that no form of digital expression could ever match.

The book was where her image of ‘Death as a Willow Tree’ was born. She entrusted it to the book’s care the night before she died – the last thing she ever wrote. It was the last time she lived through the ink and pages. After she died, I kept the book. In a way, through its company, she would always be alive for me.

Now it is gone. Lost.

The other mementos wouldn’t matter if I had taken the book with me. If only I’d known that I would never return. So stupid!

The albums are gone, but perhaps I can find some photos of her on my laptop. I’ll look later on.

Three of the missed calls were from dad. August 3rd, 18th and 29th. Knowing him, they were all intended to express how awe-inspiring Europe is. Not that I wouldn’t believe him, but his travels never really interested me beyond the independence they entailed – especially the first few trips after the divorce.

The nine remaining calls came at various times over the past eight weeks. All of them were from ‘Unknown Caller’. I wouldn’t have answered them anyway.

You have 53 Unread Messages.

Most of them were various forms of advertising and ‘hellos’ from casual acquaintances that had collected in my inbox. Nothing worth a second glance. But within the heap, there were two that caught my attention.

From: Raymond McCalister on 04/07/08 at 17:26
I know you’re pissed but we need to talk. call me when you cool down and grow up – ray

As important as the meeting was, and as much as I blew it, I wasn’t sorry for how aggressively I responded to him. After three years of this shit, the least I had expected from him was a bit of compassion and empathy, but all he did was rant on and on about the lack of professionalism in being deathly ill. For all his lecturing, Raymond was a hypocrite. Professionalism is knowing the limits of your staff and professional is addressing them and dealing with them in a civilised and rational manner.

“Get off your fucking arse and meet that client” hardly qualified as professionalism.

It was as though we were publicists first and humans second. When it came to how he treated other people, he was a complete corpse – devoid of any warmth or humanity. Every other bastard who worked for him was too gutless to say it to his face, regardless of how aggressive they were. I was the same, until I cracked.

As much as I was shocked to find out he died, I felt a strange sense of ‘good fucking riddance.’ It was that feeling that kept me from catching a train to attend his funeral.

Spilt milk.

The second was more recent, and caused a panic.

From: Dad on 08/09/08 at 12:38
hey kiddo. will be back on saturday – how about a lift? my flight gets in at 6 in the eve. dinner afterwards? my treat for a late birthday. love, dad

The calendar on my fridge was my first port of call. How could I have missed it?

“September 13: back home!”

Shit! Shit Shit! Shit!

Fuck!

I had become so preoccupied these past weeks that I didn’t tear the August page off the calendar. There it was in red, bold, ominous marker.

This isn’t good.

If dad returns on Saturday, I cannot stay here any more. If he sees me here, he will begin asking questions and I cannot guarantee a lack of answers. If he finds me here, and I run off, he will try and find me.

I cannot be here when he returns.

I need to think my next few days through carefully.

I cannot find another place to stay without communicating.

My flat is no longer my flat.

This is bad.

I should have never come here.

So much for a day of ignorant relaxation.

Don’t be pushed by your problems. Be led by yours dreams.

- Some foolish dreamer

What I would say would also be of the highest importance. If his death (however it would occur) entailed a police investigation, the last thing I needed was any sort of conversation that would stand out as suspicious and/or lead them to me.

At first, I considered adopting the character of a telemarketer.

This was a easy option. Those bastards tend to call in the late evening, so receiving a call from one wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. The conversation would be potentially short and would not require nothing more than a cheesey Indian accent. That I could do. The problem came when faced with the distinct possibility that the conversation would not be short. I didn’t want to risk inadvertantly revealing information about myself and a prolonged conversation would do that. Also, if the call was ever analysed, it’d be clear that it came from a non-business number. It would be suspicious unless I made it sound like a blatant prank. There was a substantial margin for error.

The idea I settled on was that of a ‘wrong number’ call.

As much as I was tempted to embed this event with some sort of poetic script, social commentary or entertaining banter; it was clear that simplicity was needed. This was no easy task and over complication would not be a wise idea. I would call his number, from my own mobile (on private number), and pretend to ask for a friend. A wrong number call from a mobile would be easily shrugged aside by anyone investigating. I’ve always liked the name Michael, so I decided to use it this once. I had to be definite about who I was looking for. I invented an Adam.

Once twilight began to creep in, I began a slow walk to Naomi’s. The van was parked outside. Most of the house was in darkness save for one lit room, the curtains concealing two figures pacing the room. Their physicalities were instantly recognisable: Naomi and The Brute.

Beauty and the Beast.

What suffering was she enduring at that moment? There was no noise, but I could only imagine with a due sense of dread, disgust and concern as to what was transpiring. Every instinct in my body urged me to bolt through that shaky decripit door and tell The Brute to go to hell. I could not stand to wait.

But I had to focus on my plan. That urge would amount to no form of immediate reprieve.

I jotted the number down and returned home.

My phone had been on silent for the past few weeks, sitting in a dark corner on the charger. So it was quite a shock to find ’22 Missed Calls’ and ’53 Unread Messages’.

Had to stay focused. I’ll look at them tomorrow.

It took me an hour to make the call.  I dialed several times, but cancelled during the dial tone.

I was affraid.

Could I actually do this? I had told myself I could, but still I was in doubt. Though, I knew I had to. My reasons were clear. I numbed my mind, the prospects of what I was doing were silenced. I’ll deal with them later – I thought.

This had to be done.

I used dad’s computer mic to record the call off loudspeaker, hoping that I might save any accidental glimpses of Naomi’s voice.

Unfortunately, he picked up the first time around.

My day was spent planning this event, yet it lacked preparation for the conversation that actually took place.

Lily – was that her name?

The call confused me to say the least.

He was clearly drunk - possibly drugged beyond a fragment of reality. I had seen Naomi inside with him earlier, so how could she have left him? There was no way she could have left him within that hour between my visit and my call. He was incoherent, so what he said could not be the case. ‘Lily’s new ex?’ It just made no sense.

But I’m a firm believer of intoxication bringing out the true thoughts and worries of people. Slurred as he was, there was some truth to his emotion.

My guess? He was paranoid that Naomi would leave him, possibly paranoid that she was cheating on him. It made more sense than what he was actually saying. Here is a woman who is clearly detaching from her husband, being abused and, if my first sight of her weeping at the park was anything to go by, she was often going out to escape from him. His paranoia would be rational for any person.

What struck me most oddly was that I felt sorry for him.

Yes, I felt sorry for The Brute.

His paranoia had him in distress. He clearly could not stand the idea of being abandoned, to the point where it was fueling his anger and working against him. He was in dire fear of losing Naomi. I feared and dreaded losing Irene, but he was stuck in a tragic cycle that made him the cause of this ill-fated marriage. Halucinated voices whispered his paranoia to him at every moment, these voices drew him into misery.

Often, I tell my self many things to comfort myself. A few work, most do not. In spite of all that has happened today, I have one more to add:

Perhaps I have saved two from their suffering.

For being in such a position, I pitied him. 

But what is done is done. I cannot look back on it. I cannot give into pity and care for such a Brute. I refuse to do so in fear of guilt. Even now, I am testing the very thresholds of how much guilt I can stand to carry. I teeter on the edge.

If I am to carry on, I must pretend that this day washes away with the blood it has created.

For those regarded as warriors, when engaged in combat the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior’s only concern. Suppress all human emotion and compassion.

- Hattori Hanzo

There’s Naomi, battered, bruised and crawling. The room is dark, all there is are the bloodstained floorboards, her tears and the ominous shadow cast over her, chain clenched. But one detail is different.

The shadow now has a face.

It is the same face that greeted her on their front porch. I have only come to assume that this brute is her husband. Poor Naomi.

They probably began as a typical happy teenage couple. I cannot be sure, but only imagine why Naomi doesn’t pull away from the chaos. Why else wouldn’t she? If their relationship began as something strong and intimate, it is perhaps what she still holds onto. Perhaps she is too blind to realise that it will never return to such a state and all her hope is wasted on a doomed companionship. Or maybe she’s one too many a victim of ‘I promise to be with you, no matter what.’

She is ’till death do us part’ in its most tragic form.

I barely know her, yet it pains me to think about her suffering. Nights are spent dreaming and mornings are spent wondering if she is alright. How long has this gone on for? Was it ever different? Will it ever be different?

Then last night, the dream was different.

The water washed up against Naomi’s bare feet as they dug into the sand. There was no bruise on her face, only the sunset. Her hair wasn’t frayed, her lips were full and her eyes bright. She wore the exact same dress that I first saw her in, flowing freely in the breeze – unscathed.  Her footsteps led her into the water, the sun silhouetting her and setting the sand ablaze in a flurry of light. She was alone.

But she was smiling.

As I awoke, the image lingered with me. Its tragic non-existence haunted my morning ritual. But it was as I brushed my teeth that the thought dawned on me. The thoughts running through my head trod on dangerous ground. I looked up at my reflection, both faces caught in a petrified possibility. They both shared the idea, but stood in doubt of it.

They feared this idea.

What if she was alone? Would she suffer then?

Without him, she would truly be free. Without him, she would be free of her source of suffering.

I could free her of him.

I could end her suffering.

He would no longer bring pain and despair to the world.

I stared this madness in the face.

You’ve just taken one life and now you want to take one more? You’ve final become the monster you dreaded becoming.
No. This is different.
How?
This isn’t for my gain. This is about Naomi. This is about making her life better.
Isn’t it for your gain? Think about it. Her life may be the one that benefits directly, but yours does too. There will be no more dreams of Naomi and of blood and of chains. You’ll sleep soundly.
I won’t be the deluded coward to deny that.
Then how is it different?
You can’t compare the circumstances. Nora didn’t deserve to die.
And he does?
Yes, actually. Maybe he does.
Who are you? Are you God?
God doesn’t exist.
Then stop playing a fictional character. If he doesn’t exist, then absolutely nobody has the power to choose who should die.
I do. You know that.
You have the power. But you have no right to use it as you intend to. And doing so does not make you a God, it doesn’t make you a hero and it certainly doesn’t make you the compasionate soul you have so subtly boasted to be. You will be a monster. A scion of cruelty. Nothing more.
A monster? Monstrousity is mere voyeurism in the face of equal monstrousity. What greater cruelty is there in being able to end the suffering of another but lacking the will to do so in favour of a so called ‘morality’? Or at least the sick sensation of wrongfully calling yourself ‘moral’. I could do nothing. Naomi may live another year or maybe another ten. He could die tomorrow, die in a year or die in ten. But every day, she will suffer because of him. How is that morality?

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

But if she lives even one day longer than he does, that is one day of misery and abuse she will be spared. Now imagine if she could be given that for the rest of her life. I could live with that ‘damned if you do.’
So Nora’s death means nothing to you? How can you do this after all that happened?
Her death wasn’t without its meaning. I have not forgotten it. I will have to live with what I did to Nora. For what I did to her, I am a monster. A selfish monster.
And this will absolve you?
Nothing will.

But I don’t want to live with ‘damned if you don’t.’

Till death do them part.

Forgive me.

- The naive, futile, sincere wish.

I placed my fingertips onto the keyboard and froze.

I screamed. I couldn’t do anything else.

What had I been thinking the day before?

Yesterday, I took the train to outside Angela’s building. I was convincing myself that I had no reason to go, that she had probably thrown the letter away in disgust and a paniced state of disarray. Either way, I had to know what her response to it was – even if it was nothing. I had to know.

As I turned the corner towards her place, I saw it was wrapped up in blue and white tape, guarded by police vehicles. Officers walked up and down the drive, keeping a few disparate passers by and crowding residents at bay. Had she misconstrued my letter, called the cops in fear for her safety?

Stupid. Stupid. How could I have allowed myself to become so exposed?

Something was wrong. Why the police tape? As I approached closer, I noticed two ambulances a bit further up the drive.

My stomach went cold. The rest of me followed suit. I began to tremble.

I once said the worst case scenario was that I’m crazy.

Oh God. Where is she?
I’m unable to comment madam.
What’s happening?
That girl in flat two.
Nor-
Yeah. It’s funny, I always said to her that her loud music would be the death of me.
Wha-? I  don’t get what you mean.
That radio thing fell into her bath. Or so Jacob told me.
That’s nothing to joke about Pam.
I know.

Yesterday, it ceased to be a scenario.

Angela is dead and my letter is the cause. I am the cause. She might have died anyway, but Raymond, Jeanine, the motel owner and that dog whisper in my ear otherwise.

Her short hair will no longer waiver in the wind, the trains will miss her company and those stairs at the station will await her arrival – but wait an eternity too long. She’ll never walk down them again. The world will never know who she could’ve been: one world’s answer or one man’s dream, the writer of a napkin poem that blooms for a moment before finding a crumpled waste-bin end, the mother of a child who would’ve loved and changed the life of another. An entire bloodline in time severed and bled over a bathroom floor.

The world will never know who she might have been – because I couldn’t stand not knowing who she was.

My curiousity robbed the world of her.

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. But I feel it anyway. The word ‘murderer‘ is whispered in my ears constantly, a perpetual cold takes me. My heart has a knife through it and my lungs feel filled with the electrified water that killed her. My conscience is taking its revenge.

It’s showing mercy I don’t deserve.

But this isn’t the first time this has happened. However, every other time – I was unaware of the effect I had on people. I didn’t know what would happen. In that sense, I held some form of innocence. I was shocked, I was horrified.

I felt guilty.

I’m still shocked. Horrified too.

But this time, I am guilty.

Her blood is on fate’s hands, but it may as well have been mine. Fate was just the assassin, the middle man, the gun for hire; armed with a radio and bathwater. I signed the order – but under the influence of some substance.

What was it? Had my obsession robbed me of my sense and senses? The video I took in some vain hope of a lost form of companionship is proof enough of that. Had I forgotten my responsibility of realising and being cautious with my potentially dangerous actions? In light of my obsession for her, I’d say so.

Perhaps I spent so long denying the reality of my situation that I truly believed what I was saying.

A man carrying a gun can keep telling himself he’s not carrying it. That doesn’t mean it’ll disappear from his hand entirely. Should he reach out and try to grasp something, it will fire.

I thought I was deluded. In that sense, I really was.

As I walked away, fate threw me a lightning bolt of the bittersweet. At the point where it struck, lay a crumpled ball of paper. Someone had found it lying around, regarded it as garbage and thrown it onto the pavement. As curiousity and a suspicious hope unravelled it, I could only ask myself one thing:

How could such a thing be discarded?

Nora.

Her name was Nora.

I couldn’t comprehend what she had written. I could understand it, but I couldn’t comprehend its meaning. In a way, it still perplexes me.

She knew I was watching her that day. She must have seen me. Yet she continued to walk. She didn’t run, or react, or confront me. Why?

Why?

What kind of person would (not) react this way?

Right now, I imagine (and somehow hope) it means that she found me interesting. Perhaps she felt complimented. Perhaps she understood the beauty of being an observer of life. Perhaps she had a stalker fetish – but I cannot bring myself to believe that.

In a way, Angela isn’t dead. Nora might be. But Angela isn’t. She calls herself Nora, I call her Angela. I see no difference. She may be gone, but to me she was always ‘a possibility.’

‘A maybe.’

An Idea.

As an idea, she breathed one last time after her heart surrendered. In doing so, she kept the idea of her alive in my mind.

It was the idea of her that I was am in love with.

I am fortunate in that sense, that the person I love still lives.

She’ll never die – save for the moment I do.

Fate might hate me. That much I don’t doubt.

I had a chance. But discovering that chance meant losing it. If I had never asked, I would’ve still had that chance, but would have never known to act on it. I want to act on it. But that chance has long passed.

That avenue of fate never existed for me.

But perhaps it is better it didn’t.

Shocked, horrified and guilty as I may be; I’d like to think what happened happened for a reason.

I thought that Angela would never be to me, who she is.

I thought I was stupid for thinking there was a chance, a hope.

I thought I was deluded.

In that sense, I really was.

Nora told me, with a final flurry of ink:

There is no delusion.

Fate: Countless
Jeremy: One

- The Score

I’m trying not to think about what having sent this letter might mean. What’s done is done. The less I think about it, the less likely I am to torment myself with worrying thoughts about “what could happen.”

I made sure to drop it in her mailbox at a time where Angela doesn’t usually come home. I didn’t want to be seen. Or caught. It’s fortunate, I guess, that my despicable act of recording her walk home revealed which box belonged to her – my avenue of hope.

I just hope that she’s the only one in her unit with short black hair and a tendency to wear red.

I’ll check back tomorrow. Part of me screams of the stupidity in hoping for a response apart from a call to the authorities. Part of me is hopeful regardless. Either way, part of me is crazy.

While I wrote it, with every step and minute on the train, I didn’t stop to think about any consequence. I kept myself focused on the thought of connecting with her. I chose to pretend that none of this had ever happened, I chose to shun aside what I thought was a curse and regard it as a moment of delusion. A long moment.

As I slipped it into the mailbox, I felt optimistic. But once it slid into the metal and beyond my sight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a mistake of the most severe degree. I turned to walk away immediately and forget that I had sent the letter. Regret is now the enemy. Its army was a sinking feeling in my stomach.

There was some sort of rally taking place at my local Town Hall – from what I gathered, femenism was the topic. My attention dwindled – the gentle swaying of the train ride back home wasn’t the most envigorating. I peered around at the women (and men) in the crowd as the various speakers took the outdoor podium to yarn on about injustices and the lot, and saw the audience’s interest change with each.

A blonde haired, articulate, early 30s law graduate took the stand to talk about the glass ceiling. Everyone hung on her every word. Good looking people have that kind of effect. She didn’t really break any new ground on the issue, but she spoke well. The crowds stared in admiration.

Following her was an Asian migrant, who’s occupation I didn’t catch as I (along with others) marvelled at the difficulty involved in pronouncing her name. A greater contrast couldn’t exist. She shook, her words were nervous and rarely in correct grammar. She struggled, to say the least. Peering around, I saw every set of eyes roll. Not the “good god save us” roll, but more of the “good god save us – but let’s still pretend to listen attentively because we’ll be ‘racist’ if we don’t on account of her shitty English.” I couldn’t really understand what she said – but I got the feeling that I was at a loss.

It was during this observation that I spotted her.

Naomi.

She was standing a few feet away from me with an old handbag clutched between her arm and ribs. Her bruise hadn’t healed at all – there were now a few smaller bruises along her forehead, chin and arms. Her hair was frizzed, more so than when I first saw her. Her eyes were almost a Drug-Fucked shade of red. Poor Naomi.

Within moments she turned and walked away casually, away from the crowd. Her manner suggests she was just as much a casual observer of this spectacle as I was. Perhaps she had an interest in the issue, but lacked belief. I, on the other hand, just have a knack for wanting to know what’s happening. Did I care about their plight? Not particularly. The world’s too full of narrowminded pricks to give my interest or active participation any relevance or justification. The world’s going to be a discriminatory place regardless, but at least it can be so and not dig into my time.

Careful not to be noticed, I broke off from the crowd and followed her at a distance. She’s no Angela, but she yet remains a mystery. I’m curious. Two and two make four.

She gallopped her stained runners through several residential streets before arriving at a brick fortress that bordered on derelict. She nervously made her way past the electrician’s van parked in the driveway. Its logos, tagline and phone number were the only colour visible in this scene – yet still plain and indicitive of a self-employed cheap tradesman.

That’s when he marched out the door in a haze of anger and what I’d describe as intoxication; were it not for the patch of white powder clinging to his nose. Typical. He moved forward onto the porch and collapsed into her arms, hugging her in a very dependent, needy manner. For a moment, I almost felt sympathy for these two lost souls and their symptoms of suffering.

Still embracing, he slowly slid his hands under the back of her top and feebly reached for her bra strap. Naomi, still until now, pushed him back gently. He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside – muttering in a quiet, belligerent manner. She barely resisted. The screen door creaked and closed with a weak thud.

The puzzle pieces fit. There were only two. The whole picture was as I had guessed it.

It was a slow walk home. I now knew of Naomi’s story and felt a level of discomfort thinking about it. I felt the warmth and optimism of the last few days fade away the more I thought of the image of her being dragged inside. My gut fell cold at the recurring image of that drooling bastard reaching to undress her on the very porch.

But it was her silence that made me stare into nothingness. It was that feeling when shock takes you and your mouth struggles to even form a frown. Why did she stay silent? I imagine her presence at the femenist rally showed a deep seated desire to be free of this predicament – so why say nothing? Was she dependent on him? Was she in fear of him? Did she love him? Despite how he treated her, was she trapped in a cage of love?

Even love must have its limits. I guess, I pray that it does. For her sake.

Because she didn’t say a word.

As such, who she was ceased. There is no greater form of powerlessness.

Trust me.

Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so he is.

- Publilius Syrus

On Tuesday I realised how increddibly childish, beastial and (dare I say) predatory I was in recording Angela as she walked home. In the afternoon I stood in front of a bathroom mirror swearing to the face I saw inside it, gripping the roots of hair still left standing as I made an agonised face and groaned.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Grow up.

I had to exercise some restraint. Tough. I knew I wouldn’t be able to, and so, did the next best thing: altered my circumstance to prevent me from obsessively stalking Angela. Yes, I do acknowledge the nature of my obsession. I’m not proud of it. But I’ve always been one to pursue my emotional instincts beyond rationality and often in denial of it. I am often at odds with myself. At times, it’s like I am two different people, driven by two different forces. To that effect, I do have conversations with myself - serious conversations between a voice who is rational, and one who is emotional. I think Mr. Rational is a prick.

It wasn’t until I was on the train that I remembered how much I missed the South Coast. It was a plesant change to be rid of the skyscrapers, the fumes, the noise, the conflict. The air, I must admit, was noticably cleaner – a fact my lungs will corroborate. There was a strange magnetism in the air.

And this strange magnetism, drew me back to that Point.

Atop the cliff, the lookout point, there it was: a sight sheer magnificence. It still is. Though the city beneath it grows, the forest and the mountains still encroach around it. The flurry of buildings is but a thin canopy. And then there is the sky. And the ocean.

Irene and I spent our last days together here. Here, together.

She was a poet – no power could ever change that.

Fear certainly couldn’t. One afternoon, she described to me a vision of death:

By a river, where the water reflects the light of the rising sun just beyond the horizon, stands a weeping willow. In that morning breeze, flutters the limp silhouette of a woman who weeps with it, hanging from its branches at the end of a frayed rope. She sways in the wind, in harmony with the curtain of leaves.

I do it no justice. I wish I could remember her exact words. But I remember that they were beautiful beyond measure.

Her eyes, glistened wild with passion as she created the image. That passion, and her, taken by it, were of even greater beauty.

There was no willow there. That didn’t stop her. I knew nothing could.

She was at the end of that frayed cord the next morning, in the embrace of the tree; her white gown fluttered in the wind with the landscape below as the backdrop.

The other holiday-goers screamed and wailed. They were terrified.

I stood there and admired the image, and what it meant.

I guess I had always known, in some dark corner of my mind, that she would do it. I knew. I chose to know, not deny, and never act. I regret nothing.

She had always spoken about ‘never letting it win.’ She believed in being in control of her own life, the twists and turns it took and the end upon which it would arrive. She detested the idea of decay, of withering away and being remembered in her last breath as a manifestation of suffering – far from who she really was.

They all called it the image of tragedy.

I called it the absolute beauty, the woman I loved – immortalised in her victory – as she wished.

Remembered as the poet she was – and nothing else. Desire itself.

Never since then, have I felt the same admiration of death. The images of death that have plagued me have not been of any such beauty. They have been of distress, of malice, of hatred. In that sense, I feel somewhat estranged from her vision. But I never believed in the reality of her words, but the fantasy of them. And therein lay their strength.

Once more, I stood before that tree. Once more identify with the beauty of her death? Tragically, I could not. My eyes have witnessed too much to reclaim that concept of beauty, as much as I would will them to.

But what dawned on me once more was that idea of turning futility into power.

Despite all, I can’t let what I think is an insurmountable force of fate control my footsteps, least of all through fear.

Desire is the key. Irene gave it voice.

She had the right idea.

The next step is clear to me.

Restraint took me away. Desire brings me back.

To deny our own instinct, is to deny the very thing that makes us human.

- Mouse

Angela.

Who are you?

And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty, and beauty stayed his hand. And from that day forward, he was as one dead.

- Old Arabic Proverb

I cannot help but feel that there is some substance to my paranoia, and so, I cannot help but fear for Naomi more and more by the day. While it seems plausible given the state I saw her in, I must tell myself that it is insanity – for sanity’s sake.

For once, I wish to be the deranged. I believe myself to be, yet still cannot convince myself.

Maybe it was because of her.

I held a knife to my arm, today, in her name.

It floated less than an inch from my skin.

They stared each other down. They yearned for each other.

I started out to make a salad, but found myself with food for thought. It was bitter.

Was my inability to console Naomi the cause?

Or was it because of Angela, who was even more-so a mystery? Our run in at the train station had me reliving the event time and time again. It replayed constantly. She was the ‘Erotic Mobile Ringtones & Wallpapers Commerical’ in the late night TV show that was my life. (Mine, obviously lacking the same level of sex and nudity).

Of course, her name isn’t Angela. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. To me, she is Angela. Why? Lester Burnham was completely taken with Angela the first time he saw her. Then he saw her, again, and again, in his imagination that drew him away from the drudging melancholy of his life. Lester couldn’t possibly ever be with Angela, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to see her and allowing her to brighten his life with a single glance.

I can’t help but search the crowds for Angela. I returned to the station where we met.

On Wednesday. On Thursday. Friday too.

I found her. On the latter two of these days, she emerged from the station at three in the afternoon. Mind you, it took some waiting to discover this. The more I observe her, the more her eloquence shines through. Her subtleties sport a modern facade but imply something more graceful and of a Romantic era. I barely blink.

I almost felt I questioned my own life, through a knife, because of her.

I lived Lester’s tragic tale. While he was able to act upon his fascination, I cannot. Perhaps I would live Lester’s tale through to the very end – without the final moment of serenity or joy.

But it was because of Irene. My knowledge of her is far beyond fantasy or fabrication. That is her actual name. In a grim sea of companionships, she was the only one with a sail. (My talent for odd metaphors outdoes itself once more.) I cannot say whether it was this fact that made me hold a knife to my hand, or simply a realisation while I stood there contemplating: but today was our anniversary – would have been our anniversary.

I wanted to join her. I was only a knife’s edge away.

But I couldn’t. Whether it was my word to her that promised to endure after she was gone, or the fantasy to once more relive such a wonder through Angela – I don’t know. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither.

Perhaps it was cowardice.

Perhaps I lack the courage to endure, and perhaps I lack the courage to forfeit.

Perhaps I have nothing.

Perhaps I should place this knife to my skin, bleed my last memory and become irony itself in my embrace of death.

But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Perhaps that was because of Irene.

Irene

It is so strange that I should forget our relationship completely during this episode, and only remember it on a day of significance, without recognising the day at all. Perhaps it is a memory that transcends the mind, and exists in blood. It lives in a breath, within a heartbeat.

It may be forgotten, but never truly lost.

How happy is the blameless Vestal’s lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

- Alexander Pope

Had it not been for dad marking the calendar on the fridge before he left, in big red marker no less, I would’ve remained completely oblivious to the fact. I’m not usually the extravagent celebratory type  (let’s face it, I’m in no position to be anyway), but I decided it was high time I took a bit of time out and relaxed for a bit. I’ve spent the last few days scouring the Earth for ATMs and not talking to super market clerks – I was clearly of the conclusion that I deserved to enjoy myself – at least for one day.

Dad and I always did share the same love for the vintage. It came as no surprise that he still had his old 8-track players in the sun room. But more to my interest, he still had the old VCR. We’re not talking one of those DVD/VHS combo player’s. We’re talking National Panasonic G7 tape decks back from the 80s, kept in mint condition.

And of even greater interest to me? The first three seasons of Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, recorded off TV. (The original seasons – none of those awful follow-ups) It’s always been an odd thing that I was so consumed by a children’s show at the age of 14. It’s even more peculiar that the intro music still gives me shivers of nostalgia. It wasn’t just the engaging rock music combined with martial arts and giant robots that tickled my fancy. I was fascinated by the idea of individuals, teenagers no less, being chosen out of the blue to become extraordinary, with no strong rationale ever given for why they were chosen. I guess it was a sense of empowerment as a teenager. I loved the idea of becoming something more – even though there was no reason to think I ever would.

I kicked back and watched a few episodes, finding that my fascination now held more relevance than ever. But to me, I was more like Tommy, the Green Ranger. I too, had become extraordinary, but as an agent of destruction. I just hope there’s a group of rangers to destroy my Sword of Darkness.

I’m glad to say that through all that drawing of applicability, I managed to have a bit of fun.

Three cheers for 90s TV Themes, Martial Arts and Giant Robots. Oh, and the melodramatic scripts.

Intermittently, and without reason, my mind kept returning to that woman I had seen in the park. I hate the fact that I refer to her as such. So I shall call her Naomi, for lack of a better name. That, and I thought she should be named after a movie character about whom not much is known – as that is how she is to me: a mystery. I chose Naomi as Joel Barrish doesn’t tell much about her in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. While he seeks to erase Clementine, she is the one who is truly forgotten.

Naomi haunts me. The image of her both haunts, and saddens. Over the past few days, I’ve stopped several times to wonder about her at that exact moment in time. The bruise sticks out in my mind. I hope that it is still the only one, soon to disappear. But a nagging feeling in the back of my mind causes me worry. At times, I visualise her in some terrible emotional predicament.

I imagine her conflicts. I worry about her.

(And then again, I’m thankful that conflict is no longer an issue for me)

I headed out for a long walk to clear my mind, as well as to stretch my legs. Power Rangers is awesome, but I never was much of a couch potato.

Finding things to do is a chore unto itself. I’ve become quite accustomed to spending entire days travelling to ATMs, grocery stores and self-serve outlets to ensure my continued survival. Now that I’ve created free time, it’s impossible to find things to do.

I walked into another grocery store, for lack of a better idea. Curiousity led me to the bakery where I picked up a large vanilla sponge cake. I wasn’t going to eat it all, but it was nice to know it’s there. I took it up to the counter and did the usual routine, placing it before the store clerk and rummaging for my wallet.

“How are you today, sir?”

My expression reads:

Listen, I am way too tired to put up with your condescending small talk and the farse that you actually give a flying fuck about how I am today. Just overcharge me for this cheap cake and let me leave.

It works. If all I do is remain silent, cold and hand over money; all she does is remain silent, cold and take my money.

Sounds like every relationship I’ve ever had.

Almost.

Finally, we come to the highlight of my day the last few weeks.

I had disembarked yet another train and proceeded to leave the platform and head towards another to make my way home. A running figure was bolting towards the platform I had just come from, and in her haste, ploughed into my shoulder.

We just stared at each other, for the briefest of seconds. Her look was gentle, her hair short and black, her skin fair. She had a mature air about her and her eyes were nothing special, save for that gaze that indicated a different perspective on the world. A poet.

She was nervous, stressed – she said sorry. It was adorable.

That moment was difficult. Despite my prior self control, my desire to say “It’s alright” had never been greater. I wanted nothing more than to say it, and ask for a name to this face – and not create another Naomi.

It seems that cold-discipline has become my soul.

But, I smiled.

She bolted off in the other direction, another nameless face. But that moment where we stood there felt as though it had lasted much longer. Long enough for me to take a deep breath, feel a deep warmth and feel free. Eternity in a moment.

For that long moment, I felt close to somebody again. I felt taken with someone.

It was nice to remember how that felt.

Happy Birthday Jeremy.

Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks.

- Samuel Johnson, narrator 18/08/08

I’ve dreamt of this place for some time. I’ve felt its emotions. I’ve sketched its essence. While doing so, I couldn’t figure out whether it was real or another potentially shot synapse. It felt like a ghost, moreso than a place. Today, with my errands complete, I decided to stray around the neighbourhood before returning home – camera in hand.

And there it was. Not quite in its original form, but still the place from a distant past. When life from a few months back feels like a lifetime ago, memories from a childhood feel distanced by eternity – so much so that it strays from the edge of reality.

During our short friendship as kids, Aaron carved a badly-drawn sword into one of the wooden seats to proclaim it his. Always the competitor, I scratched two into the other. It was mine. As reluctant as my feet were to exert and kick off; and as much as I didn’t think much of the moment I rose slowly: it was the downward rush that brought me back there every evening. The rush consumed me. It erased any knowledge of the bickering and flying plates that existed two blocks over at that precise moment. It created a world where there was only me and my thoughts. Isolation of a pleasant nature. The anxiety, agony and doubt of the slow rise was something I knew all too well, swingset or not. The rush, its adversary, existed only on these seats.

The chains are much cleaner now, the seats are sturdy plastic and the frame itself glistens in several coats of near-fresh paint. A nearby plaque proclaims it an act of community restoration.

To me, it’s an act of desecration.

They are gone. The rusted chains. The barely-standing frame. A seat that was no more than a tattered wooden plank. The swords. They can never be restored.

I took a seat on one of the swings, the one which existed in the place of mine - but it was cold in the sunlight. It wasn’t mine. The one I once knew was now lost somewhere in the past. An old friend, possibly moreso than Aaron, had passed on.

I could only sit there in mourning – in a slow rise, with no rush.

Not far from me, there was a small silhouette on the wooden barriers bordering the park. Her hair was tied back, her frame contained in its introversion. Closer observation revealed a strange half-tale. Two hands suppressed a fluttering dress at her knees, yet it continued at her ankles – the fabric’s smooth flow hindered by crumples and creases. Her head was clearly shivering in a mix of emotion, her slender hands grasped a tissue. Her hair was dark, yet frizzed and somewhat out of order. Her lips appeared dry and subtly panting in a desperate, near-petrified grab for breath. Her gaze was hollow and fixed on the far side of the park. There were no tears – only eyes too exhausted and fearful to weep.

The bruise ran down the side of her cheek.

On any other day, she would be beautiful. Today, she is in agony – her beauty takes on a differerent, tragic form.

I’m bewildered, intrigued. The sheer picture of her tells the first thousand words of a story, with many left unsaid. Every instinct of me aches to approach, aches to place an arm on her shoulder and aches to ask questions - aches to hug her as she aches for a comforting touch.

No.

Her story, whether of suffering or joy, would continue without my aid or interference. Otherwise, it may not continue at all. I could not say it, so I formed the whisper in my head:

Hold on. Don’t fall.

That was all I did.

Once more, merely an observer, I reached for the camera to capture this moment – though it had no more power left.

I empathised completely.

I could only sit there, witness her slow rise – doubtful of whether there would be a rush.

An inability to stay quiet is one of the conspicuous failings of mankind.

- Walter Bagehot, servant of irony

Not being there to pay the bills has its implications. Soon, they’ll come after my money and it is something which I have much need for – especially since there is no way I can possibly acquire another job. Internet banking is a wonderful thing – I shift money onto my card, then I find an ATM and withdraw a significant amount and stockpile it. The problem with all technology, is that it can be tracked. Thankfully, ATMs are plenty and so are self-service internet cafes. I pick locations which are geographically distant each time, so as to make any tracking through the banks difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. I just hope I can obtain a significant portion of my funds before someone, somewhere, freezes it all.

This time, I caught the train all the way up to Newcastle. My ritual is now almost carved to perfection. Most days I’ll catch the first bus I find at the stop not two blocks away to the first suburb it reaches with a train station. Other days, I’ll walk to the train station – sometimes to ones further away. The way I see it, what use is there in remaining lost if I become some kind of ‘regular’ at any location – buses and train stations included. My objective is to remain a strange face merely passing by, seldom returning to build familiarity. It’s working – so far.

From there I’ll plot a trip to my destination, buying tickets from the machines to avoid having to talk to an attendant. The train rides are still interesting in their unremarkability. More importantly, they are filled with less fear than the first train ride back to dad’s place over a month ago. I guess the reason for this is that I’ve built up techniques to isolate myself in public and social situations.

Prejudice is a powerful tool – people are saturated by it regardless of how much their attitude or their words deny it. Every time I have been approached by a respectable member of society, I have evoked an image that would draw out their prejudice and turn it against me – to create the isolation that I desire, but that their survival depends upon. There’s various ways I do this:

• Fear: Upon entering a filled carriage, I immediately begin muttering to myself in various voices. I pick the first topic that appears in my head and simulate an aggressive argument between a subdued character and a darker, more dominant one – ensuring the voices I use for each are distinct enough for any listener to differentiate. Twitching helps too. Everytime I catch someone looking at me, I immediately cease speaking and stare right back at them as blankly and as aggressively as possible. Every single person has turned away. They fear too much for their safety to chance even acknowledging a schizophreniac, let alone communicating with one.
• Discrimination: Here, the mannerisms are more physical than anything. I still mumble to myself – but it is more subdued and less aggressive. I move my limbs in a sluggish manner, I limp, I hang my lip open, I move my head instead of my eyes. I’ve seen well dressed businessmen take up seats next to suspicious ethnic youths (the typical street-gang type), who would rob them if given the chance, instead of sitting next to me – what they call ‘a retard.’
• Disgust: Sometimes, the above two do not completely work. Some person who is too tired to stand or too open minded to discriminate will attempt to sit next to me, regardless of the circumstances. They may not talk to me, but I cannot risk anything. I pull out both Fear and Discrimination in this instance, and lose complete regard for hygiene. First I drool, then I clear my upper sinus as loudly as possible, wiping it on my sleeve. If I feel like it, I might even then wipe my sleeve on their targetted seat. This never fails me.

It is a game – one which I enjoy… sometimes.

It’s a hard thing to do though – knowing that I really am truly isolating myself. People look upon me exactly as I intend for them to – with fear, with discrimination and with disgust. There is nothing but pure disdain. I am starved to speak and to touch, and yet here I am making sure it never happens – because I know it is what I must do. Sometimes I feel like saying just one word to them, punishing them for being the true creators of division in this world. One less of them, maybe there would be a bit less hurt and a bit more harmony. It’s a dream though – that wouldn’t stop anything. And this, may be their one vice in an otherwise compassionate life. They are probably mostly good people. I am not Karma, and even if I were, I would not be just. The game makes me pity those who I immitate and parody. However, I take some comfort in knowing that most do not realise the full implications of how society sees them. It is something I feel frequently. And it is not pleasant.

This is where, and when, I truly wish to disappear.

In this cold barren land that I call home
I’m just a man searching for the strength to walk alone.

- Horrorshow

Jeanine was the first. She checked me out of my hotel that Thursday morning. Come to think of it, she was really nice – a shame. I guess I was a bit too disgruntled with being called off assignment to notice any kind treatment that night. It was close to 3 AM when I checked out (a highly irregular time) – I suppose I was one of the last people she talked to. If only I had provided a more pleasant conversation. On Friday morning, I found this article in a copy of The Daily Memory lying dormant in the lobby of my temporary cheap motel. Needless to say I was somewhat shaken given the circumstances. Unintentionally, I wasn’t very talkative for a while.

Raymond was third. I didn’t bother contacting him for a few days – our last conversation on Wednesday night wasn’t the nicest of exchanges. Missing a meeting with a potential client when you’re deathly ill shouldn’t be an offense punishable by death. Raymond reckoned it was, especially when it came to public relations. Needless to say he wasn’t very happy with me. He finally messaged me on Friday morning while I was heading back on the train, appologising for our tiff. As nice as he was, the incident was a perfect example of his ‘inner prick’ which rarely saw the light of day. I guess I was still edgy and a still a bit awkward given the events of the past few days. My reply to him was simple:

Drop dead you asshole

I decided to take a few days to myself and headed to dad’s for a bit of solitude. His three month escapade to the Balkans would finally reap its benefits. I was shocked to find Raymond’s obituary in Monday’s paper. A heart attack during another long night at the office. Fate has a strange sense of humour.

The second was one I didn’t find out about until much later. The day after I left my motel, the owner was shot dead by a group of drug dealers who were demanding a room. I don’t have a newspaper clipping to prove it – I saw a story on the news updating the ongoing investigation.

The fourth was a dog that was following me around on my way to dad’s place, barking like there was no tomorrow. Little did he know… The little shit was ploughed over by a car moments after I told it to ‘fuck off.’ Evidently, I didn’t hold much compassion for him.

But that little annoyance was my answer, or the closest thing I had to one. He demonstrated the slowly growing fear in my mind.

Did every living thing I talked to die soon after?

It was crazy, but given what I had seen – it made sense. Whatever it was, I was in no mood to act. Given the possibility, my little R&R visit to dad’s place now became a precautionary isolation – at least until I could be sure it wasn’t something else.

The problem is: I can’t risk trying to prove this theory – especially if its true.

The scary part is: the best case scenario is that I’m crazy.

I believe that sometimes you have to look reality in the eye and deny it.

- Garrison Keillor, over-simplifier

I do not wish to be found, and I believe it is best if it stays that way. If you know me and who I am, know that I am well – to some extent. If you figure out where I am, please make no effort to visit me or contact me.

I’ll explain everything I can, when I can. Suffice it to say, right now, even I find myself crazy and deluded. My life is suddenly the plot for a B-grade horror movie, and discerning it from a deep seated and disturbing paranoia is difficult. I don’t expect anyone to believe me. That doesn’t stop me from hoping that they will.

But for the purposes of my own sanity and the need to communicate, I have created this blog to track my search for an answer and to explain to the world (or whoever may listen), that what I’ve done is not my fault.

Or maybe it is.

My name is Jeremy.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

- Disproved proverb