Writing

I've never been a writer. I was always the kid struggling for a C- in English classes. I just didn't get it. I had ideas. Great ideas, even. But I just couldn't think of how to execute. What dialogue to use, insightful comments on a piece of evidence. And as the resident smart kid, it was really fucking hard. Until high school. I realized poetry, character pieces were for me. Because who really cares about dialogue in emotion. I mastered my craft. However, I always needed a more dramatic ending. What's a better ending than a shock? Better yet. What's a better shock than killing off the main character? Naturally cynical, I lived for the drama, the type of ending line that makes you rethink a whole piece. I guess that leaked into my work, while reality blended with my stories. I think the ease in killing off a character made me value life a lot less. I started taking stupid risks. My father always told me that the way you talk and act influences your mental state. As my work got darker, so did my outlook. But I could never get anyone to read it. So horribly frustrating. I knew my shit was better than anything on the market. I guess that's how I ended up in this predicament. It was so easy. It made me want more every time I got away with it. And I would document every time I did it and somehow the books sold double. Apparently I was a crazy genius. No one had to know it was real. I could stop at a bookstore, see who was outselling me, and take care of it. Of them. It was just too easy. Honestly, I expected some resistance. Sneaking into someone's house in the dead of night, turning on their stove at first. Watching them die peacefully in their sleep. But I became an addict, much like my father. Unlike him, bloodshed was my alchohol. The chase became more fun, and exhilarating until I was forging suicide notes, whispering in their ears to drive them mad for years. I could turn any author from beloved to psycho in a matter of weeks. It was beautiful. Watching the life leave their eyes, last breaths leave their bodies. I guess it gave me control. And I guess I'm the last psycho author. The last ten years have been fun, but like my father learned, eventually all the alcohol in the world stop working. Didn't take much for him to see that bridge and drive straight off. I wonder what he would think of me now. His darling baby boy, a murderer. I know I'm not a good person. Everyone has their demons, and I lost the battle to mine. Just like my dear old dad, my brain cries for bloodshed. Now it's not for anyone else's. It's mine. So after a decade of forging suicide notes, its time to write my own. Ironic how life gets you. So dear reader, I hope you realize that I am not a genius, a mastermind. Just a really shitty writer, swept up in his craft. Goodbye forever.