Seth's Journal #42

There is something so strangely attractive about squalor. The cloying stench of human neglect and foul sensibilities. It’s like the worst of human nature, given the form of an environment. A dingy hotel in the dangerous part of a dangerous city. The trash of years, stepped on and ground in to urine-soaked carpets. Mattresses marinated in sweat and grime, populated by droves of parasites. Graffiti  coloring the walls with perverse entreaties and grandiose proclamations of sexual prowess.

When I crash, when I hit bottom, I seek these places. I need my surroundings to reflect myself- used, pathetic, and disgusting. A cheap bottle of whiskey and the quiet that only comes from being in a place no sane person would venture are all I need to plumb the depths of my own self-loathing. It doesn’t take much. Without distraction, without noise, my mind invariable turns on itself. The doubts, the fears, the guilt rush to overtake me when given the slightest chance. It’s my fault.

It’s always my fault.

I try to embrace my darkness, and usually I succeed. Not always. I say I’m a monster, and usually revel in it, but what made me the creature I am today? Every monster was once a victim. We are rendered powerless and, in an effort to never feel that way again, strive to become more powerful and more hideous than our victimizers. Thus a cycle of poison begins, transmitted through hate and violence. I try to pretend I am heartless, but it’s a fool’s errand. No one can be this angry without first being sensitive.

I have fucked up so completely that I can’t even begin to see a way out of this.

The Drearies are dead or dying. Tanith’s in a coma. The last time I saw Santos, he tried to run me over with a van, and Pawn is, I guess understandably, furious about losing an arm. The rest just look at me with a mixture of pity and shame that actually hurts. They don't understand what I did. Hell, I’m not even sure I understand. I’m coming undone, and all that is left is a pathetic child, terrified and angry. A child with an amazing aptitude for murder.

I sit in the midst of this filth, putting poison inside of me to dull the poison already there. I stare out the window through the neon haze and into the city and, for a moment, part of me rejoices. I am getting what I deserve. I am suffering, and I love it. Everything has led me here, to this moment of absolute misery. I stand and walk over to the window, to set a more darkly romantic scene in my mind. I am sickened by my own drama. The film of cigarette smoke is so thick it could be peeled off with enough finesse. I light a cigarette to add my contribution, to leave my mark.

There is no escape. There is no going back. I don’t know where to go, but my options are dwindling. My time is running out. And my will to keep going? Well, that’s running out, too.