"I'll be round at 8," you say.
"With my cousin," you say.
You don't have a cousin, do you? I know exactly what will
happen at 8:
You'll turn up with a broom handle, with a balloon taped on to the end with a face crudely drawn on it with a
black marker pen, and it'll have a stick tied on halfway down with a glove on each end, and
you'll say "this is my cousin", and I'll say hello, and your "cousin" will talk to me, but
it'll be a high-pitched, freaky version of your own voice, and I'll be able to
see your lips moving, and all the while you'll be crying while
masturbating furiously,
and I won't say anything cause I'll be so scared, and we'll have a
whole conversation, me and your "cousin", his "voice" getting more and more wobbly as you
rush headlong towards your screaming climax, and when he stops talking, your thin,
unhealthy-looking semen will be trickling off my shoes on to the carpet, and I'll
look at you, and you won't acknowledge what has just happened, and then, in your normal
voice, your "cousin" will say goodbye, and I'll say goodbye, and
you'll take your "cousin" away, shoving him under the stairs in the little cupboard, ready,
ready for the next time you both come to visit,
and I'll be left at home, a quivering wreck, wondering when I'll see him again, your
"cousin", wondering if next time he'll come to visit me in the middle of the night, I'll just wake up at about
3am, and there he'll be, "talking" to me, screeching, and you'll pretend
that you're not even there this time, such will be the depths of your insanity, and I'll
pretend to go to the toilet, but I'll secretly call the police, and when they finally come to
take you away and
you realise what I've done, your eyes will be filled with sadness, sadness at my betrayal, the betrayal that you knew, eventually, must happen, that
you wanted to happen,
you wanted to be caught,
because you knew that you couldn't stop, only the police could make
you stop, because if I let you keep on getting away with it, it would only be a matter of
time before you acted on those fantasies, and finally
killed somebody, probably me, I mean, you'd be upset, sure, I'm your
friend after all, but of course your "cousin" would be the one to blame, wouldn't he, it'd all be his fault,
wouldn't it, he'd be the one who would flay me and dance around wearing my skin,
and late at night, locked away in your prison cell, banging
your head against the wall, scratching the stone floor until your fingers are raw and
bleeding, you would even start believing it, would look forward to the
day when you would be released, and could finally track down your "cousin", the man who is the cause of all your
sadness, all your heartache, all your despair, you'd tell the psychiatrists what they want to hear until they let you out, years later, but
you wouldn't be cured, no, you can never be cured, and deep down you know that, don't you, just as surely as you know
that you can never, ever, be stopped... |
