Initial Impression

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Have you ever let your thoughts speak for you? Experiencing yourself on all bitter or sweet grounds even though you will be judged. But still, you wish to let the world know your sins, though the Universe sees them and keeps silent to all your secret sins. So I chose to listen to the thoughts of people, as a therapist and be their secret vault. But as for my friend Longhorn, his thoughts were dark.

This story is about Longhorn, the great British writer, known for his horror stories and wild knowledge of crime scenes. I found a note from my lifelong friend and client. who always come to my office for a therapy session with me. Now, he instructed me to make his story available on the Internet for people to read his thoughts, maybe you could feel what he felt before he took his life.

At the stroke of midnight, September 23rd, 2010. I confess that at the time I was struck by the peculiarity of the request. Longhorn had always expressed utter contempt for all things digital, but his reliance on antiquated technology in the production of his fictional books. For him to insist that his last work should be freely available online to download struck me as bizarre.

But at the time, I was preoccupied with more urgent matters, still, I had to go to longhorn's apartment in the pleasant heart of Manchester City on a business course. For nearly thirty years, I have been visiting Longhorn's often in his salubrious address seeking to get his help or publish his work as my client. My old friend would have been the first to admit that he was not always an easy client because he was never straightforward with anything he does, still, I was never sure what he would have for me. As I got to his house, the quietness was always the same, his wooden door was dusty with cobwebs, so I opened the door with a disgusted look, then I shouted his name, as I made my entrance, only to find my friend's body lying lifeless. His hand was still clutching the fateful glass that he had drained of poison. And on his 1980's fancy well-carved table lay the story you are about to read.

My Impression, at first, was to leave his story and avoid taking anything that would lead to me or blame me for his death. However, a friend's last request should be honored, sure many of you will make a great deal of how I belittled Longhorn and his crazy acts, which you are yet to know, but see the reason why he took his life. To blur the distinction between artifice and reality is hardly new. Enjoy the story for what it's, dear reader. A flight of fancy by the remarkable Longhorn who for his unclear reason made his story of his thoughts.

It was 6 AM on a Saturday, as I watched the yellow sun spread its rays on the earth. My book and own on the glass table with a mug cup filled with hot creamy coffee. As I thought about what to write before calling Grimwade, my friend, and therapist to get it published, then I thought of writing my pain, sins, and my thoughts as my last journal. So I took the pen and wrote. Very nervous? Yes of course, but that is only natural because I am embarking on a perilous voyage. I am going to that "Bourne from which no traveler returns." Shakespeare in his silly opinion. But, true one can't say such a thing when one is still alive.

The odd of having that weird imminent death feeling could be migrating but I tried to stay away. Although every great venture begins with a sacrifice, in this case, the sacrifice is not my mortal soul, which that silly clown Grimwade will discover in an hour or after I finish typing this. I only hope he doesn't drop dead in shock on the spot because he's so very unhealthy, but even if he doesn't succeed in getting this story, this manuscript will be found and someone will do what is necessary. Now, back to my point, it's not my body that I am giving up in a bargain with the greatest collector of all, it's as more astute readers will have already guessed, the mortal soul that I have signed away. And that is why I write this story, which is not a story. See it as a work of fact disguised as fiction.

Strange? Dear reader, soon you'll be amazed and then shocked, probably terrified. But just only for a short while… The unusual journey I have taken began with a vengeance out of disgust for life that slowly grew to embrace everything. For years now, I have found writing a way of cooling my nerves and anger, after the killing of fat Viktor, who loved to abuse power to his own satisfaction. A violent death of which he deserved. Yeah, I am not worthy to give death, but seeing a people being deprived of there basic needs severely against their own will. Tell me, doesn't he deserve death? Isn't it worth it? Saving the lives of those poor souls, who couldn't speak for themselves, because the higher authorities believed they are meaningless.

As many will say, "a writer is the link to one's mind and the world or its readers." But, I stand to counter that, "a writer is a slave to his readership," after all, and yet he is at the same time a tyrant. He commands and controls them to read his words, drinking the wine of his imagination. And yeah, they do! But, yet if he makes a single mistake, he risks breaking the spell and losing the flow. Then he becomes unfashionable, his books are remainder, and people start asking. " Is it old? What's his name? Oh, does he still write?" While some will ask, "where does he get his ideas?"

So what am I playing at? Why this rambling account of my state of mind just before I throw different phases? What could prompt a man of wealth, an author who has yet to lose his mass appeal, to commit self-murder? A man who might well, in fact, have lived in comfort? "Perhaps the state of his mind is disturbed?"

It wasn't the drugs, alcohol, or sex. Sex? The lack of it. I wouldn't be the first man in late middle age to sink into a depression over declining potency. But still, it was very simple. I had spent many years researching all things about dark forces and the occult to make my books seem authentic. Yes, I had faked and fudged all over the place, changing genuine spells and words to better fit my plots. At first, I enjoyed people believing in the paranormal world and satanic acts. But, as time went on, I was tired of the endless killings and sacrifices I had to do to renew my deal with the Devil. Which was demonizing my would, the thought of escaping wasn't possible. Yes, turning a new leaf seems possible but still, I will be killed by Morningstar eventually.

The son of the morning has not vouchsafed his plans to me in detail, but he strikes me as a very efficient operator in his way. I have thought of many ways to end it all, to save the readers and myself from future trouble is to end myself and receive endless torture in Hell, as I leave this story for Grimwade on Earth. But I must admit that it is a clever idea, that publishing such a story on the internet could bring about the end of the world. And please, don't judge my poor friend too harshly, it was a dead man's wish. You who are reading this story days, weeks, or even years after its appearance.

"Your world is still perfectly intact, is it not dear reader?"