And none of this; the whole confession, came out in any sort of chronological, rational order. It was like a jump-cut in a dream. One second you're in a house that curves and the walls are made of fur, the next - you're being chased through a field by a giant blue gorilla. The retelling of dreams is never an easy task, they slip through the cracks, grain by grain, like sand in your palm.
One minute I'm off to meet Allison, start a new job. The next, I'm driving home in my beat up old car. Some piece of junk I bought off of a Gypsy woman a few years back. The guilt hadn't yet hit me.
I knew there was no real reason to go along with it. I mean the sex with Allison was good, but it wasn't enough. There wasn't very much money either. I still, thinking back, don't know why I went through with it.
All I know is this whole event would change me for the rest of my life.
My hands trembled as I held onto the hard plastic-wrapped steering wheel. I was holding so hard my knuckles were turning white. I had a dying cigarette pressed between my lips. The radio wasn't turned on. Only the whistle of the wind, the voice of that terrible city, could be heard. It whispered in my ear, confirming all the sinful things I had just done. It retold every act, every feeling, every sound. It told me, so I wouldn't, couldn't forget.
"Murderer." It whispered.
"He drank so many." It whispered through the crack in my peeling old windows.
"Killer." It said. I pulled over.
I had to walk, or do something. The mental trauma had started to seep in. I could feel a stinging coming up my eyes. My breath got scares, and I started to panic. I lost the strength in my knees, and fell onto the wet grass. I had parked in front of an elementary school, I fell onto the yard in front of it.
I wished I could hear children laughing, but not this late, and not this night. The terrible guilt grew inside, like a cancer, killing me ever so slowly. And with the first acquaintance, the fear is always the most traumatic.
I just held myself there, on hands and knees, in the wet grass, for a long while. I had to get a grip, had to calm my breathing down and get back to reality. I'd never get through this if I lost it now.
I got to my feet and got back into my car. I drove off, again - heading home, again. This time it wasn't as bad, until the shadows of the passing cars started playing tricks on me. As the lights approached me, they spun around - like lights usually do, but as they passed I felt as though they were scratching at the side of my car. Scratching for air, because they couldn't breathe. I had drowned them with painkillers and rum, and they were scratching for air, for me to stop. I couldn't, I kept driving onward, towards my goal. I'd get the money, the girl, and defeat the monster, all I had to do was keep my composure - they assured me.
I rummaged through my pockets - no cigarettes, I rummaged around the seats of my car - no cigarettes, I looked in my glove compartment - no cigarettes.
I felt my heart jump start, the same way it would beat in my dream. The raw, irrational heart beat of a dying animal in its last seconds of life. I could feel my vision blurring, but saw neon through the blur and stopped.
I jumped out and ran inside of the liquor store, bought some tequila and some smokes. I drank about half the bottle before I got back to my car, and finished two smokes before I even started the engine. But I felt better, almost happy - well maybe not that well, but content enough to go hunting.
I knew a place I could go this late for a score, and that's just what I needed right now, to cool my nerves, some pussy.
-Sir Jestro
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