The Dark: Chapter Six

The dark circles under your eyes betray you. You haven't slept in days. Every time you try to, every time you close your eyes your head becomes a parade of horrible images, of dismembered body parts and blood, lots of blood, gallons of the stuff. You're not eating either. You cant seem to keep anything down. and even if you could, you're even too afraid to leave your room to get anything to keep down. Afraid that anyone who would see you would know. know that you're a murderer. As clear as if it was burned into the flesh of your forehead. And so you've lost weight. your skin has lost color. You look skeletal. your face is ashen. You know that you're slowly killing yourself but wouldn't that be infinitely better? wouldn't the world be a much better place without a person as fucked up as you are taking up space in it?
You have never contemplated suicide, not even after what happened to Kelly, but you have to admit that at the moment death is starting to look like a pretty inviting destination. Of course you would never actively plan to kill yourself, you're too much of a coward, but what about just letting it happen? just sitting back and letting the waves wash over you, the tide pull you in, the current drag you under? Even a coward like you could do that.
But the question is: do you want to let it happen? Are you so sick of your life that you see death as your only viable option?
You're not and you dont and know it. at least deep down you do.
What you really want is to kill the creature living inside of you. This despicable cancer that is growing stronger by the day. Feeding on whats left of whats good in you. Growing bolder. That no longer masks its existence but flaunts it. Lets you know that its there. That its watching. And that its responsible.
The disapearences of of those people. The ones who were responsible- for what had happened to kelly. Those disapearences were not coincidence. They were not random. You had never believed that they were. You had your suspicions but you hadn't been sure.
Not until now.
Not until those images that were too real and just too fucking vivid to simply be manifestations of your imagination had started flashing through your mind. Had started keeping you up at night. Still do.
They're memories. You know they are. They have to be. You feel detached from them but somehow you know, you fucking know that the blood that was spilled, the flesh that was ripped, the bones that were broken in these flashes are real. A result of your hands. They may not have been under your control at the time but they were still yours. Still are. And that horrifies you because when everything is said and done it is you who is responsible. Because if a weapon is ever found it will be your fingerprints they will find on it. And if the blood soiled clothes that were worn during these acts of violence are ever found it will be your clothes that they will find. and if ever the dead could talk it would be your face they would say was the last thing they saw.
So what are you saying? you ask yourself. That I'm totally screwed?
Well, yes.
Then what are my options? you wonder. If indeed I have any.
You hear yourself sigh inwardly.
You could turn yourself in. Get yourself some help.
You dont know that much about that stuff except from what youve seen in the movies but it sounds like you have that personality disorder. What is it called? A split personality?
yeah, thats it, a split personality disorder.
Is that stuff even for real, you ask yourself.
Even as the thought forms you already know the answer.
You shudder.
Then I have to get help. Otherwise the body count will only rise.
You have enough blood on your hands as it is, you tell yourself.
You glance at your watch.
Its late but you cant wait until morning. Anything could happen between now and then.
Making a decision, you get up out of your chair. Grabbing the keys of the beat up Honda your parents had given you for college, you leave your room for the first time in days.
Your destination: The police station.