He wrote a poem about murdering some one.
The poem was published in a well established magazine
and read by many.
He was just trying to vent his frustration at a person who pissed him off
through writing, but some one who read this poem,
took it a whole different way.
The reader thought the poem was speaking dirrectly to him,
even though it was meant to be read by many, he still thought:
“this writer… is writing to me. He wants me to kill, that’s it, it’s a sign!”
He rubs his face on the page
like a cat pressing its face against your leg.
He then proceeds to rip the page out of the magazine,
fold it precisely, place it in his shirt pocket,
and just sit at a table and plot.
If only you could just see him: his head tilted down, but his eyes are looking up
leaving a gruesome shadow under his face, the page in his pocket, he feels it pressing
against his chest… he thinks it was written for him.
His head tilts like a dog who is confused.
Let’s call this troubled fellow: Derrum, that’s a fitting name, instead of the pronoun “he.”
After sitting for a while in the badly lit room, on that chair with rips on the cushion, a plan starts to materialize. Derrums’s eyes glaze at a knife on the counter like he fell in love with it, like it’s hypnotizing him. A small smile grows on his face, he feels the paper on his chest… he abruptly gets up and grabs the knife, yanking it out of its holder so hard that the knife holder is flung in the air. Before he knows it, he slicing his own face open and laughing. The laughter sounds like crying, or maybe its crying that sounds like laughing (what do I know, I’m just the narrator).
“I’m going to kill you,” he said out loud, in a firm, decisive, no changing his mind type manner. “Once you get home, you are dead.” The paper rustles in his pocket like its alive. His head tilts agian and he starts to drool. Derrum’s eyes wave over the light, everything becomes a blur, and he passes out.
A sound of a key probing a hole
finding its mark, and then turned.
A turing of a shiny, polished, door knob
and an opening door.
Derrum wakes up…
His wife Evas is startled by his demeanor
and the cut on his face.
“Honey, what happened,” she asked with surprise, fear, and concern.
“You happened,” he said with anger and muderous thoughts in his voice,
“you happened,” he said again in an even louder scarrier voice.
She stood there not knowing what to do. A shine caught her eye
and she noticed the kitchen knife on the floor. “How did you get that cut on your face.”
He smiled like the devil himself and said, “I did it.”
“But why.”
“Because… I wanted some practice!!!”
He lunged at her like a tiger, grabbed her by the neck
and started to squeeze her neck like a boa constrictor does to a rat.
Her eys started to exit their sockets, her lungs wondered where all the oxygen was, and her brain was shutting down.
He stared into her eyes
and stopped immediatley,
“the poem made me do it, I didn’t mean to
he,” he said in a depressed, suicidal voice.
Evas still in shock, and trying to recover
sees her husband grab the dry blood stained knife off of the floor…
and put it to his throat. “I love you Evas, that’s why I have to do this.”
“What’s wrong, why are you doing this.” “The poem made me,” he chanted away, “it was all the poems doings.” He extracts the poem from his pocket and rips it to peices, then proceeds to pound on the peices that fell on the floor.
His eyes start to drop tears freely. “I don’t want to live anymore Evas. I’m so sorry what I did to your neck, I didn’t mean to, it’s just the poem, the poem, po_” “What poem Derrum,” she aked in a calm, intrigued, inquiring voice. “The one I just ripped up.” “A poem made you do all this Derrum?” “Yes, evas, it did.” “We need to get you some help.” ” I know Evas, I know.” “So why don’t you put the knife down honey, we can talk this out, don’t worry about my neck, I’ll be ok.” “No, it’s too late for that, just too late.”
His fingers grip the knife, he lifts his head high like his neck is getting measured by a tailor, and slices his throat. Blood splatters all over his wife. She stands there in a trance, blood gushing all over her work clothes, paper and blood are everywhere, blood drips in her eyes and she doesn’t even blink. Her husband is laying on the floor with a puddle of blood just oozing out of his neck. “What poem,” she thinks. She gets out of her trance and goes into a new one. Evas picks up the knife and thinks about taking her own life. she imagines what it would be like to live without her husband who was normal up to that point. She puts the knife to her her neck, puts the point in slightly and then abruptly throws the knife to the floor.
Evas wipes her husband’s blood off of her and calls the police. When they asked why did he kill himself, the only answer she could give them was; “he said a poem made him do it.” It turns out that derrum was in a bad car accident, which wasn’t an accident at all. He was trying to commit suicide but was not successful. As a result he had major mememory loss, and that poem he read… was written by him. It was his suicide note before he tried to kill himself. But the second time he was more successful. Her husband was a writer.
Tags: death, horror, Mental illness, murder, poetry, suicide, writing
