It’s happening again. I woke up this morning with a mass of gauze and tape holding my right hand together. The problem is I don’t remember what happened to it. Oh, I can guess, and that guess sends a chill running through me like an Alaskan winter. After the last time I thought these episodes were over, that somehow the shock of what I had done had put an end to these somnolent impulses. God help me, I was wrong. It’s been two years, two years of waking rested and peaceful, but today that all ends. How long will it be before I wake in tattered clothes smeared with blood? How long before I rise in the morning to find the mangled wreckage of a body in the corner of my flat? Well, if history’s anything to go by, I give it a month before I wake to that little horror.

I used to think someone else was doing it, and torturing me somehow, until I started having the flashes. You see, I would occasionally get these flashes of violent images in my head of myself doing terrible things. I’d be at work or at the coffee shop reading a book and BAM! Images that even Charles Manson would cringe at would sear my brain. After three or four of those anyone is bound to start wondering. Out of curiosity, one night I put a small tape recorder in my pocket as I got into bed. When I woke the next morning, hands aching and caked with what looked like dried blood, I played the tape. What I heard brought the acrid taste of bile to the back of my throat, and just as the tape hit it’s horrific crescendo, I lost what was left in my angrily churning stomach. Should I have turned myself in at that point? Absolutely. The problem was I didn’t know exactly what to turn myself in for. And there was no way in hell I was going to play that tape again to figure it out. This time, though, this time there might be a chance to stop it. This time I might be able to catch myself before things go to far, before I start recognizing the missing people on the evening news.

Another ray of sunshine from your prince of the heart warming tale,
Crotch

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