Still stuck at
home. Still loopy. Still having my kills delivered to me in the back of someone’s
car. Which, for a treat, isn’t a bad way of going about it but not when it’s
your only option. You know I hate be reliant on others. Despite the age of
technology making everything accessible at my fingertips – including victims –
there are some things you just need to do for yourself. Besides, a decade ago,
it might have been easy enough to kill a delivery driver but not now. Those
poor drivers are so closely monitored, their bosses would probably know the
minute their heart stopped beating so they could stop paying them.
Yes, I work for a
bank, that does not mean I am not in favour of eating the rich and destroying
our late-stage capitalist society. The thing that pays my bills is not the
thing that brings me joy in life. I keep those thoroughly separated.
Although I’m
barely doing the thing that brings me joy anymore.
Oh sure, James has
brought home a few victims on his way home from work. There was a young woman,
maybe nineteen, who was walking home from work when a police officer pulled
over and offered to drive her home. Of course, she said ‘no’ because she’s
understandably distrustful of the police as an organization. However, my
husband is very persuasive (and very charming) so I had a lovely present
waiting for me in the basement when I got home from physio therapy on Thursday
night.
Some men bring
their wives flowers…
This woman was
such a little screamer, let me tell you. Well, I am. Telling you. What an odd phrase.
You say ‘let me tell you’ but the fact that you’re saying it implies that they
were already being told. English is such a garbage language.
Anyways, she was
in the basement, screaming her lungs out, so naturally those organs were the
first to go. Her death was an experiment in memorization and anatomy. For one,
the doctor told me to be aware of any side effects of the pain medication which
can include memory loss or loss of time so tracking everything is incredibly
important. I played a game with that woman’s body where I sliced her open like
a zipper, and then I removed her organs one by one and remembered the order in
which to put them back.
The lungs are such
a strange organ. Before I started killing, I always assumed they were below the
chest plate – despite the boys in my tenth-grade class talking about how
Frankie Marlowe had a healthy set of lungs. I also imagined them to be a solid
object, independently hanging in the ribcage, with muscles of its own to expand
and contract.
The lungs are more
like… you know those sticky hand toys that you throw at a wall and it sticks
for a second and then it slowly rolls to the ground? The lungs are more like
that. They’re a bag, sure, a space that can fill with air and circulate oxygen,
but there are no ‘lung muscles’ per se. They’re connected to muscles that
connect to the rib cage and the lung is more like a wet paper beg clinging to
the nearest object that happens to be pumping in and out.
I don’t know why I
went off on a tangent in anatomy but there’s your free lesson for the day.
The actually point
I was trying to make is that my husband brought me an adorable little screamer,
and I made a beautiful mess of her organs – and of the downstairs basement. We
would have taken her to the storage unit but I was honestly too sore to move
that much after physio. I know the road to recovery is long and winding and all
that shit but I would like to be healed now, thank you very much.
As much fun as I
had with Lung Girl, I would like to get back to my normal life.
Two more weeks.
Two more weeks.
Please, god, let
it only be two more weeks.
As always, dear
readers,
Stay Safe
