[Macbeth: Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!

Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast,-

Lady Macbeth: What do you mean?

Macbeth: Still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house:

'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor

Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.'

-Macbeth. II. ii. 32-42.]

Most of your life, you consider the true meaning of your existence. You go to sleep late at night, after sipping at the glass of cognac and reading a book on existential crisis. When you close the book, you lay it down, remove your glasses, gulp down the remaining alcohol and forget about your worries. You don't question why you are wasting time by simply sleeping, and even if you do... you justify it by saying that you are dreaming of better things. As your head hits the pillow, you snuggle in and cover yourself. In the warmth of your little cocoon, you forget that everything you went through—every minute you spent questioning your existence. It simply vanishes into thin air.

That is how you lead your life. Sometimes, I wish I was like you. Trifling my life away and reconsidering my existence. But all I find myself doing is reloading my gun and placing it carefully under the pillow. I snuggle into the pillow, trying to find the distinct scent that I know will bring me solace, but I only find the burning stench of detergent. All traces of her presence have slowly seeped out of my life. It is appalling. The stench makes my stomach uneasy.

I wish to take out the gun and point it at my forehead. I want every word she said to come true because she was right.

I would see her face when I took my last breath—hell, I couldn't help but imagine it every second of the day. When outer appearances speak volumes, I know what is brewing beneath the stagnant water that is my face. The whirlpool that threatens to swallow me alive is slowly nearing. I can't contain the guilt and grief that rushes through my veins. Their presence, though unknown to the world, makes my heart lose a single beat with every passing second. I feel my life shortening. Life just gets worse and worse.

I think the funeral had been the worst.

It had been the blonde. I think Daisy Green is her name. She spoke to Sean at the funeral. She saw me from where she was standing. I could see that she didn't like me. Maybe she knew what I had done to her.

'I wonder when I will be able to say her name again.'

The worst part was listening to Jacob Hunt.

I could hear the love clearly in his words, and he was a naive little boy who thought that this boyish charm and years of friendship would make him special in her heart. He was wrong. I knew what we had. He could never love her like I did. It was impossible.

'I wonder what he will do when he finds out that he is responsible for everything.'

No one present at the funeral knew her. They had a picture of her where she had purple hair. I remember frowning at it as I tried to understand why she would do something like that. I found out that she had been undercover in some nut job mob where the boss was fond of women who could carve out meat and feed it to him, and I'm not even talking about regular meat.

[I am currently watching horror movies and posting this story. Safe to say my heart is pounding in both fear and excitement. I just want to remind you all that I am on Discord and well... I am social. I would love to have a chat with you. See you in a couple of minutes.]