Silhouette

Produktdetails

Verlag

BookRix

Erschienen

2020

Sprache

English

Seiten

CIII

Infos

CIII Seiten

ISBN

978-3-7487-4032-2

Kurztext / Annotation

BOOK - I: Andrew Dementis has a disease that's called Graphomania. He writes murder scenes unconsciously. And someone mysterious is making all that's written real. D.I. Rick Harden is investigating the case while dealing with his own troubling past, his family's car crush, murder. BOOK - II: The son of the only survivor of the Silhouette Massacre has cope with a new killer in town, namely Silhouette's Shadow. While secrets are unfold, who will survive this massacre is unknown. P.S.: The book's content isn't edited. If there are any errors, try not to stick to them. Thank you, M.K.

Textauszug

1. Andrew: Graphomania

Blood, sweat and tears. These are what occur when I find myself writing unconsciously. I hate it, yet it happens almost every night. It sometimes happens during day, too, when I'm too stressed to be awake and to sleep. I don't like what I write, either. I think they're full of terror. And, to tell the truth, they indeed are. They're the most savage, brutal and sadistic things to be done to people. You may be asking "Then why would you write them?" The answer, obviously, will be hidden in these pages I am writing now.

I really am sorry for what is about to happen in the following pages.

It's kind of a night that stars are invisible. I'm in my room and out of control. The pen that I'm holding is making words exist. It's my handwriting, but am I the one who writes?

I wipe my sweat with my arm. I stop yet don't drop the pen. I look at what I've done, what I've written. I'm irritated by my own mind. My eyes are now on my pen. I think of doing something... something to punish myself.

I look at my pen and wonder if it's sharp enough. "Sharp enough to what?" I ask myself. Do I intend to stab myself? Kill myself? But, to me, death isn't a punishment. To punish me, one should do something more painful. Something to make me remember it. Then I think of an old friend of mine. She used to say to me that my hands were beautiful. She thought they looked like the run of a river which separates in more channels when my veins got more visible than usual. Thinking of this, I look at my hand. Would it be hurtful enough? Would it leave a scar? "No," I say to myself. "I shouldn't think these. I'm over that shit! I'm better... better than this."

Even I don't believe what I say. I know I'm not over that shit. I've never been, probably never ever will be. Thinking what to do, I remember the eyes of an old friend of mine. Those deep blue eyes which look like an ocean that one can easily drown in. I close my own eyes and then take a deep breath. I see them ocean eyes. I don't exhale. I wait. And I wait.

There are no blue eyes now. They're gone and have left their place to the pure darkness of a graphomaniac young's mind. "This never happened before," I think. "Getting out of control twice at one night?" I exhale. "Fuck."

I open a new page on my notebook. I start to write but, once again, I am not the one who writes. My sweat drops down to the page. My illness doesn't care. It continues. I write and write. There's a single drop of tear in my right eye. Once I blink, the tear draws its way down to my cheeks and chin. I try to breathe in, but my body doesn't allow me to. Then I want to breathe out, but I can't, either. I'm choking. My body's choking me.

I seek for a way to stop myself but I'm not even my own now. I keep writing for half an hour without stopping and my hand starts to hurt so much that I cry even louder. I shout at the page I'm looking at, yet, unfortunately, I don't stop. I'm so tired that I feel like I've been running for hours. I close my eyes with the hope of losing my consciousness and faint, therefore dropping the pen. But what I hope isn't important anymore. It's my graphomania what matters.

I'm lost in my pages, which means I'm lost in my mind. I wish I knew it like I own it, but I sometimes ask myself the question whether I own it or not. It hurts, it really does. I stop thinking about my pathetic situation because I hate to feel like I'm making people pity me. I open my eyes and realize I'm in a dream... or a nightmare, perhaps.

I don't mean what I've been doing and feeling was a dream. They were real but the fact that I hoped to lose my consciousness and faint seems to be happening.

In my dream I'm in my room but it's darker than before. I look at the walls and there happen to be lines of blood. I get closer to a wall and put my finger to the end

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