When I see the bad men, I follow them to the dark places.
I am a willing witness.
The bad men make me watch.
I follow them into the dark places. The scary places. The places where heart-rates pulse and moans echo. Where shadows move, and the terrified are drenched in cold-sweat. Drenched in bladder-loosened piss. Drenched in screaming gouts of viscous blood. Drenched in tears.
I know not what they will show me, but I know it will be dreadful. I understand what happens, what will happen. I know, and yet I still go to see. To observe. I am a willing witness.
I see the flashing knives.
I see the dirty axes
I see the bared teeth.
I see the flesh being cut, skin being flayed, the blood being drunk.
I am repulsed by what I see. Horrified, terrified, excited. I cannot resist. The bad men take me to the dark places, and show me things. I want to see.
I am a vulnerable victim.
The bad men make me the prey.
They make me a target. I flee from them, I flee from the dark places.
I cannot escape the bad men. I am chased, pursued. I can hear them running, hear their steps, their taunts. I tire quickly, too quickly. My breath is rasping, burning and my muscles shake with exertion, terror. I cannot escape the dark places. They are endless blackened walls, eternal twisted forests, infinite shadowy recesses. Each turn leads to more horror, each step brings me closer to my ending. I am a vulnerable victim.
I feel their hands around my throat.
I feel their claws piercing my chest.
I feel their drills penetrating my skull.
I feel them grasp me, penetrate me, murder me.
The bad men make me scream. Make me bleed, die, live. I cannot resist. The bad men take me to the dark places, and do things to me. I want it to happen.
I am a bloodthirsty beast.
The bad men make me the monster.
They give me their twisted desires, their awful passions, their dark thirsts. I work to please the bad men, to please the dark places.
I love the bad men. They make me hunger for the chase. Hunger for the hunt. Hunger for the kill. I slaughter at their whim, the world drowns in blood on their instruction. I bask in their praise. I love the dark places, I enjoy them, need them. I howl in the darkened forests, stalk the dim corridors, rampage through the desolate wastes. I am a bloodthirsty beast.
I taste their acrid fear, pungent and carrying on the night air.
I taste their salty blood, squirting, spurting. Steaming.
I taste their soul, tortured and trying to escape a cooling corpse.
The bad men make me kill. Make me slaughter, maim, exalt. I cannot resist. The bad me take me to the dark places, and make me do things. I want to do them.
I want to be a bad man, and bring you to my dark places.
The bad men take me to the dark places, and I cannot resist.
With each page I witness the horror the dark men carry inside, and I see the darkness reflected inside me.
With each line I feel the victim’s terror, and I feel the shiver down my spine, a sympathetic chill.
With each word I understand the beast’s hunger, I hear it growl, and I understand the ache, the need, the taste.
The bad men tell their stories. They let their victims scream through their art, let their beasts howl through their novels. I read their books and their dark places speak to me. My own dark place has begun to whisper back.
I want to be a bad man, I want to take you to my dark places. I want you to stare, to bleed, to murder.
When you see the writing of this bad man, will you follow me to dark places?