there's a man in the wall

I have come to understand one thing. My purpose is to kill. That is what I am. I’ve accepted it. I like it. Its swell. Stop me if you can.

Raw, dirty, hypnotic violent brutal chaotic. My life. No beauty. I like it just fine. I should kill the writer man. I should. Why do I torture him ? A rare moment of doubt. Give me your hands give me your hands. I cut his hands. I enjoyed that. A lot. Still, I should kill him. There’s a man in the wall. I have great things planned for him. Great things. I call him the desiccated man. I gave the writer man his hand. Odd enough now. He made me bleed. He’ll pay for a long time.

You should watch him eat. The writer man. I gain a true measure of his worth. The street dog with its instinct for self preservation. Once a man now a dog. Howling as sanity is taken bit by bit. Is this a dream Mommy ? What do you think writer man ?

I look down at him. Groveling. A dog before his master. Groveling. A bullet in the head would do something now. Not sure what. But something. He would die.

And I would be left with nothing.