I woke up on a street bench this morning, no surprise though, my loss of memory has been more frequent these past few weeks. I can only attribute this to him, the other side of me, my constant companion and most distant enemy.
What does he do?
Who is he?
Why is he changing me?
Does he want to have control over me?
I will not let that happen. I took the fifteen back to my hovel. It took an hour instead of the usual thirty minutes because of stupid fucking slow-ass sunday drivers.
One thing I do remember is that I did drink myself into oblivion last night. I just blacked out.
My loft, eaten by the sickness of decay,, swirls with drafts whisked in by the cracks in the sills. The once beautiful oak trim and wood floor are painted over with ugly drab white paint; a cheap technique used by landlords to rent their properties quickly. They have no respect for old homes. They respect only their pocketbooks.
I did succeed in getting a hangover. I wonder if he was drunk also?
My dehydrated body needed water, which I greedily sucked down—two cold glasses—while turning on the television. It was too late to go back to bed and I decided to watch the a.m. news.
“…Russell and Barbara Shenick are two more victims to be added to the long list compiled by the city’s latest serial killer,” the local news correspondent typically ends her sentence, displaying a sickly form of sensationalist journalism hyped by local media.
The camera pans back to reveal a middle-aged man, hair chopped to a fine widow’s peak, with the blonde correspondent outside the crime scene.
“With me is Detective Shadowould of the,” She pauses.
“Thank you for being on the show,” Melanie greets him with a smile, making a mockery of the situation.
“You’re welcome,” he replies slyly.
“How many victims has this one killed?”
“As of this moment he has killed seventy-seven residents of all races, genders, creeds, and colors.”
“So he will kill anybody,” she adds with a look of fabricated TV concern.
“Yes,” the detective counters with a solid reply. “An equal opportunity serial killer.” The detective grins as he is obviously pleased with his response.
“Do you have any suspects?” she asks.
“You are following up on leads…”
“Stupid fucking bullshit,” I say out loud as if I’m in an argument with them. They don’t even have one lead. They never do, the corporate murder industrial complex demands it!
©️ written ~ 2020. Jacob Pickard.2026
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