The House of the Hunter

Dr. Lee, I know this is supposed to be diary, my blog, my own special blog, mine- but you use it against me. You say my thoughts are bad. So why do you have me do this? Should I lie? I find it ironic that I take the things from in my head and out them in front of you and you pick at them like Frances poor stupid Frances would pick his scabs. They were so awful to look at. Not that there is much in here one like you would call pretty. Its all bad, all ugly.

Except in one place, my head.

But sometimes I lose control of that and it turns ugly too and I do ugly things. I like to watch. And at night the beautiful dreams of the one way mirrors. Where I can watch, and watch. I watch a family eating I shall call them the Johnson family as that is a nice good old fashioned apple pie American name. They are black and white and in the 1950s. Mikey their son is 8, he hides a psychopathic hatred behind a cherubic face and all the right things to say. I watch him the most. Mr. Johnson hits Mrs. Johnson when they have sex, and even if he doesn’t she just moans in a painful way like someone undergoing a gynecological exam. She has to put up with it, let it happen, but she can’t hide the pain. The daughter is only four and of little interest. Pretty much useless. Mikey will abuse her when the parents aren’t watching. He slides her diaper down.

I move to the next house and this house is broken down, a ghetto house, six black and Hispanic men sitting there counting money and cocaine. They swear a lot and boast about guns.

I move to the next house. The house of the Hunter. He is the important one.
In jail, only your dreams matter, and in mine, The Hunter is everything.

I want to scratch like Frances, scratch my eyes or my face, but no doctor I’m no cutter.

I like the forest, when there is a full moon and it is raining, or a cemetery, the sound of the rain hitting the pavement or the gravestones, the sound of it dripping from the trees.

That’s what they took from me when they put me in here. The sound of the rain hitting the trees. You took that from me, and I won’t die before I hear it again. Or I could hear the sound of blood hitting the trees, the thick black book that runs out of the top of your head, the notorious tar colored “brain blood” you see black blood and its time to start mourning. I could hear that dripping from the leaves and that would be like a thousand orgasms.