I am writing this journal to chronicle a series of disturbances of a super human nature. The reader will almost surely find my writings to be complete nonsense, but they will be assured that this torturous state I have been in is without the slightest scribble, mark, or ink-blot of dishonesty. I will attempt, to the most extraneous of details, to outline my plunge into insanity as a result of my forced involvement with these bastard Svengalis that Mother Nature has given what I can only call super powers, which they seem to only use as a means of causing me tsuris. I am well aware that most readers will write off my accounts as mere hallucinatory experiences—paroxysms of extreme schizophrenia—a claim which I, a man who suffers from an intrusive imagination, am not suited to debate with any hopes of victory. The reader will be asked to acknowledge my former success as proof that I have not always suffered from what some would call delusions. In fact, I was driven mad by the aforementioned abominations. I will start with the first interaction and describe them exactly as they occurred, in no particular order, starting with the events leading up to and immediately following my first encounter.
November 8th, 2012.
A pungent aroma of stale sweat filled the room as my lover, in all her bare-skinned glory, rested her head on my shoulder. My lungs (which were still delivering feeble, sporadic gasps as an excuse for proper respiration) pleaded with me for a momentary communion with that sweet, fresh air they had so long been without. My lover–her golden mane, her opalescent eyes, and her fair skin—begged me, silently, to stay (I should say she entrapped me; I should say she demanded I stay, sweat, gasp, love). Unfortunately my legs, arms, and stomach demanded a moments respite from this laborious entanglement of flesh. My body is such a bastard.
Gormlessly, I dissolved into the evening air as a momentary anodyne to my head, which by now was swimming, no thanks to the few, spasmodic breaths it had been offered. I slipped down the stairs with ease and crept to the door of my porch to quench my thirst for air. A man wearing a beat-up denim jacket, a blue t-shirt with white lettering in some Sino-Tibetan language that I couldn’t read, and a disgusting pair of jeans with worn out knees, was standing on my porch to meet me.
“What the fuck are you doing here, asshole? It’s, like, 3 in the goddamn morning. Get off of my fucking porch right now or I will call the fucking cops!”
My guest had no response.
“I will waste you, you miserable pervert! Were you fucking watching? Do you like that, you peeping-tom bastard? I swear to God I will melt your fucking skin off if you don’t ge—“
As if he were about to speak, the mystery-man opened his mouth, depriving me of oxygen. It was as though he had filled my lungs with microscopic needles that stabbed inside my chest with every feeble breath. In my chest there was a pounding so fierce that I thought my heart was trying to flee from this monster. My eyes burnt from the nervous, terrified sweat billowing from my arched brow. My knees weakened and my body hit the floor. Standing, silently, my attacker watched as I writhed in agony, clawing at my chest, reaching to him for mercy, but to no avail. Seconds after my collapse, my vision darkened—I had fainted.
To my surprise, I awoke, lying on my porch, shivering in terror (or perhaps from my near-complete nudity in the middle of November) in full view of my neighbors, though they seemed to be preoccupied with their own monotonous existence. Didn’t they know a mad man was here last night? Weren’t they the slightest bit curious how their good neighbor ended up mostly naked in his back yard?
“Fuck it’s cold,” I whispered, pushing myself up from the concrete, only now realizing what a miserable host I must appear to be to my lovely guest. Quickly, I went inside and made my way up stairs to my room, which was devoid of anyone but I, as I later found the rest of the house. Worried, I picked up my phone and dialed 911.
“911 what’s your emergency?”
“Yes, I need to report a break in and possible kidnapping.”
“Why’d you say it like that?”
“You said it like it was a question. Well, was it a break in and kidnapping or wasn’t it? Why is it just a possible kidnapping? Are they gone, or aren’t they? Did this person live with you?”
“So they could’ve just gone home.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, sweety, I could patch you over to the PD, but they’re going to tell you the same thing I did. Now, if you want to deal with this burglary or break in or whatever you called it-“
“It was a break in”
“If you want to deal with that, I recommend you file a report online, unless you absolutely have to talk to an officer.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from using that language.”
“Language? What the fuck are you talking abo—“
“Thanks for wasting my valuable fucking time, you cow,” I yelled into the phone, as if it would do any good. I filed a report online later that day. The suspect was never found. That was the last time I talked to the police. I bought a Remington 12 gauge shotgun the next day.