The Journal
I don’t believe I will become immortal, I only know I enjoy hurting him.
He is nothing to me. Not a child. Not a little boy.
He is not even human. I would do worse, if I could.
Sometimes I think Stein knows this, and holds me on a leash.
Sometimes I think I will snap it and strangle him.
Our friendship is strained. He does not care for me and I do hardly tolerate him.
It all comes back to Gates. It always has.
Stein believes his word to be gospel.
I believe in pain.
It is only the boy I enjoy toying with. Nothing of his private anatomy, no. Even I have limits, and the women I fondle under anesthesia do enough for me. They always look so utterly stupid when they wake up, never questioning, only tripping over themselves to leave.
I am getting distracted.
It happens often, these days.
Maybe in my confusion I will finish the boy before I should.
But in the meantime, it is good that Stein makes me slow down, if only so I can savor this. There are very few people in this community I can practice on. It is the price of living richly on Ritual Drive, even if only one person is aware I call this place home.
When someone disappears here, everyone knows.
With the boy, he stays precisely where he is and is forced to cover his wounds, not the other way around. Besides, Stein creates them. Him. I only defile the defiled.
For Stein, it is a religious practice.
For me, it is life.