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&narrative4;
May. 31st, 2015 08:26 pmThere's a new door in their childhood room, and he is helping Nate pile furniture in front of it. First Nate's bed, then his, followed by desks and bookshelves. He can't remember the last time he saw Nate in person; at some point he'd stopped coming home from college on holidays, and became nothing more than a distant, disinterested voice on the phone.
It's strange to understand that he outgrew Nate a long time ago, strange to finally see the dark hollows of his eyes and the tightly drawn anxiety in his mouth and jaw. Nate as Jon has never seen him. Alive.
( in the room where you sleep )
It's strange to understand that he outgrew Nate a long time ago, strange to finally see the dark hollows of his eyes and the tightly drawn anxiety in his mouth and jaw. Nate as Jon has never seen him. Alive.
( in the room where you sleep )
&narrative3;
May. 6th, 2015 10:39 pmHis phone buzzes, very far away. Everything is very far away from the perspective of being half asleep on your bed, on several textbooks and a pile of flash cards.
Time swims a little. The phone buzzes more. Someone really wants to talk to him. But Katie doesn't have that number, so it can't be her, so how important could it be?
He falls asleep, probably. Time expands and contracts like a pupil. Sometimes you can't tell how long you've been asleep, though Jonathan is usually an awake at 5:30 a.m. on the dot every day kind of guy. This time, he doesn't know. The phone just finished buzzing, or maybe hours have passed — the room is dim, one light still on, everything is the same, except someone outside or on a TV in another room is having a fight. An argument. Not all that strange for this part of town, but some details filter through, slowly accumulating like so much sediment of awareness:
An unusually protracted argument. Going on and on.
Violent, somehow, in sentiment if not in sounds of actual fighting. No sound of that, not exactly?
( dontlethimindontcallthis#dontcomegetmybdy )
Time swims a little. The phone buzzes more. Someone really wants to talk to him. But Katie doesn't have that number, so it can't be her, so how important could it be?
He falls asleep, probably. Time expands and contracts like a pupil. Sometimes you can't tell how long you've been asleep, though Jonathan is usually an awake at 5:30 a.m. on the dot every day kind of guy. This time, he doesn't know. The phone just finished buzzing, or maybe hours have passed — the room is dim, one light still on, everything is the same, except someone outside or on a TV in another room is having a fight. An argument. Not all that strange for this part of town, but some details filter through, slowly accumulating like so much sediment of awareness:
An unusually protracted argument. Going on and on.
Violent, somehow, in sentiment if not in sounds of actual fighting. No sound of that, not exactly?
( dontlethimindontcallthis#dontcomegetmybdy )
&narrative2;
Sep. 24th, 2014 10:15 pmChecking yourself into a mental ward is pretty easy. You need to define yourself as a danger to yourself and others, surrender your things, and just let whatever happens happen. He has a history of paranoid schizophrenia on paper, if not in reality, but it is also fair to say his grip on reality is more tenuous than most. He speaks freely to whoever will listen about the constant coercion to kill. It would be nice to be able to talk about the part where a human body got eaten, but he doesn't want to say anything that will connect him to a crime.
Phrasing his rational decisions like that helps him remember that by most standards, he is probably mentally ill regardless of the precise diagnosis.
( oh what a thrill to be mentally ill )
Phrasing his rational decisions like that helps him remember that by most standards, he is probably mentally ill regardless of the precise diagnosis.
( oh what a thrill to be mentally ill )
&narrative1;
Sep. 14th, 2014 07:34 amHe dreams of waking up in his childhood house. The details are meticulous in their accuracy; what he himself does not consciously remember, Nathaniel has noted and remembered for him. Nathaniel is not burdened with human limitations of perception, as he has explained at some length to Nate. So the wallpaper is recreated, the toys strewn in a pattern selected from several years' worth of memories, the way the morning light comes in through the window is correct and more realistic than anything Nate would have dreamt on his own.
As he sits up, he hears a radio playing in the garden. There's no mystery or symbolism to any of this. He knows what his grandfather wants.
With the slow, heavy step of the soon-to-be chastised child he once was, though Nathaniel has allowed him the questionable dignity of an adult dream body, Nate moves through the hallway, past the family photos, past the closed door of his parents' bedroom, to the den in the back with the sliding patio door.
( what doesn't kill you will likely try again )
As he sits up, he hears a radio playing in the garden. There's no mystery or symbolism to any of this. He knows what his grandfather wants.
With the slow, heavy step of the soon-to-be chastised child he once was, though Nathaniel has allowed him the questionable dignity of an adult dream body, Nate moves through the hallway, past the family photos, past the closed door of his parents' bedroom, to the den in the back with the sliding patio door.
( what doesn't kill you will likely try again )
i.
The first time he sees his grandfather, he sees the machine first. It's not so big but it's more interesting than an old person in a chair. It has a lot of knobs and buttons and things he knows instinctively he's not supposed to touch. His dad holds his hand just firmly enough that Nate knows he knows Nate knows. And maybe to hint he should be paying more attention to the old person, even though the old person does not seem to see him.
"Hi grandpa," he says, thin, stupid-sounding eagerness in the face of utter disinterest. But then, his grandfather lifts his hand, wordlessly weary. Maybe it's for Nate's dad. Maybe his grandfather just greets anybody who walks up to him this way. His dad talks to Grandfather like this is normal. He tells Grandfather about all sorts of things, and maybe it's Nate's personal bias, but he thinks Grandfather doesn't give a good goddamn, as Nate's mother says but has said he must not say. There is something so tired about Grandfather. It makes his eyes distant and cold. Or maybe, that's just how you look when you get to be that age, and you have to be hooked into a machine so your kidneys work properly.
Nate's dad has not let go of his hand. This is okay, although Nate is bored. They don't hold hands a lot, which is also okay because it makes times like these feel special — usually. Right now, it feels dutiful, and even a little insulting. He knows better than to mess with the kidney machine or run around and bother the other old people. He's almost seven. This is one of the longest afternoons of his life. A stuffy room of dying people, full of the noise of keeping their organs working, the drone of the talk of their boring lives, grandfather's strange disapproval.
( WARNING: some possibly disturbing content within. )
The first time he sees his grandfather, he sees the machine first. It's not so big but it's more interesting than an old person in a chair. It has a lot of knobs and buttons and things he knows instinctively he's not supposed to touch. His dad holds his hand just firmly enough that Nate knows he knows Nate knows. And maybe to hint he should be paying more attention to the old person, even though the old person does not seem to see him.
"Hi grandpa," he says, thin, stupid-sounding eagerness in the face of utter disinterest. But then, his grandfather lifts his hand, wordlessly weary. Maybe it's for Nate's dad. Maybe his grandfather just greets anybody who walks up to him this way. His dad talks to Grandfather like this is normal. He tells Grandfather about all sorts of things, and maybe it's Nate's personal bias, but he thinks Grandfather doesn't give a good goddamn, as Nate's mother says but has said he must not say. There is something so tired about Grandfather. It makes his eyes distant and cold. Or maybe, that's just how you look when you get to be that age, and you have to be hooked into a machine so your kidneys work properly.
Nate's dad has not let go of his hand. This is okay, although Nate is bored. They don't hold hands a lot, which is also okay because it makes times like these feel special — usually. Right now, it feels dutiful, and even a little insulting. He knows better than to mess with the kidney machine or run around and bother the other old people. He's almost seven. This is one of the longest afternoons of his life. A stuffy room of dying people, full of the noise of keeping their organs working, the drone of the talk of their boring lives, grandfather's strange disapproval.
( WARNING: some possibly disturbing content within. )
&miscnotes;
Apr. 14th, 2013 03:51 pmThese links are mostly about unsolved murders. Please exercise caution in clicking them.
- Villisca
- Wikipedia
- "Official Site" r u serious, people
- Hinterkaifeck
- The Grimes Sisters
- Las Cruces Bowling Alley Massacre
- The Ricky McCormick Notes
- Melissa Moore talks about her father, Keith Jesperson - TW for animal abuse and rape
- Jay Roberts on his encounter with Randy Kraft - not graphic, but pretty disturbing anyway
- Ohio Craigslist Killings - not too graphic
- Alexander Pichushkin - the sheer banality of evil. This is probably safe to read.
how's my driving
Apr. 13th, 2013 12:32 pmPlease feel free to leave constructive criticism here. I am decidedly not a serial killer fetishist and would be glad to hear any criticism of problems regarding romanticism or any other inappropriate portrayal of them/murder in general.
Most of the writing and links in this journal should carry a default TW for murder and discussion of mental illness.
Most of the writing and links in this journal should carry a default TW for murder and discussion of mental illness.
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