Thursday, October 19, 2017

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 5:17 AM

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Sunday, October 15, 2017

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 4:09 AM

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New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 4:05 AM

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Friday, October 13, 2017

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 5:23 PM

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Thursday, October 12, 2017

Death By Oreo Overload: Part Nevaeh

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM!!!!

Dear Daddy,

I'm not sure how long I stood there, near the entrance of the
lighthouse, waiting for everybody to catch up. It seemed like an
eternity. Finally, growing more and more annoyed with every passing
second, I thought SCREW IT, and simply sat right down in the sand.
Mr. Thompson groaned noisily, but he didn't allow my downing to rain
on his parade.

Finally, Mom came to me. Chris was a little ways behind her, no doubt
trying to reign in his unruly son. Either that or clean up a bloody
scrape or cut. That boy was ALWAYS getting hurt. He was a living,
breathing, walking accident waiting to happen all the time.

"Hi there, Speedy Gonzales," she said, bending down to plant a
disgusting, wet kiss on my left cheek. I didn't bother to wipe it off
discretely. I was DONE playing the happy, animated game. My feet
hurt, my back hurt, I was thirsty as fuck, and I was with the WORST
company ever!

"Why are you sitting down? And, why didn't you hike with the rest of
the family."

The latter question angered me to no end. Chris and Andrew were NOT
my family. Jennifer was, whether I liked it or not, but, when I was
old enough, I knew, I could make some changes to that. Legally change
my name, cease all contact with her, even divorce her if I ever got
enough money to do that and if it was really something that you could
do in real life.

In movies, you can divorce your parents. People can also fly in
movies, too. So, who knew what you could really do and what was just
make-believe.

But I would NEVER, not in a billion years, accept Chris and Andrew as
my family. I would pretend to as little as I could get away with, for
survival, but, inside, they would never truly be a part of me or my
life.

"I just wanted to be alone for a while," I answered at my mother's
insistent "Huh?"

"And, it isn't like Andrew stayed attached to Chris's hip, either. He
was bounding and climbing about all over the place."

"He's littler than you."

In the beginning of my mother's relationship with Chris, she was
always defending Andrew, making excuses and exceptions for him. I was
always the target for her blame and wrath, not, dear, sweet little
Andrew. There always had to be SOMEONE she could use as a punching
bag. And, during that time in my life... Lucky me, I was picked!

Funny thing is, toward the end of their relationship, she came to hate
Andrew with a passion I never thought possible coming from her, or,
really, ANYONE. The tables turned and it was ANDREW who found himself
the subject of very unwanted attention. I think I contributed to that
some, but that story is for another day.

"It's up to you to set a good example for him. You're older. You are
his role model. And, actually, he DID, at least, check in with us
periodically. That's more than I can say about you."

I said nothing. Oh yes, there were PLENTY of things I WANTED to say,
but I knew it would be no good. Some of the things I wanted to shout
at Jennifer, just to give you an idea, were, "Andrew is not MY
responsibility! He's Chris's responsibility. He's not my kid!"

And, "If you feel that Andrew needs a good role model, why don't YOU
do it. One of the things you can do, in case you're having trouble
coming up with ideas, is, finally divorce your husband so that he
learns the right thing to do when somebody finds themselves unhappy in
their marriage."

Oh yes, and how about "They aren't my family! I'll be respectful,
because I have to, thanks to you, but that's ALL I should have to do.
Nobody has the right to push strangers on me and demand I act like
I've known them all my life!"

I would get in deep trouble, really quickly if I said any of those
things, though, so I didn't. Even though I was fourteen years old,
nearly an adult, Jennifer wouldn't hesitate to smack me in the face or
wherever was the most convenient to reach. There didn't seem to be
anyone around, (no witnesses), so I was fair game.

So, I just sat there and stewed in silence, staring at the
pebble-filled sand, now too angry to pretend they were crushed Oreo
pieces, rather than pebbles.

"Stand up!" commanded Jennifer.

"You look dumb just sitting there right in the middle of the path."

Immediately, I obeyed. What choice did I have.

"Chin up! Smile! We're having a good day. This isn't supposed to be TORTURE!"

OH, Jennifer. If you only knew.

EVERYTHING is torture when I am with you. EVERYTHING!

The only time I ever got a reprieve was when she went to work.
Thankfully, she was a stewardess, so she wasn't home all the time.

I lifted my chin, but refused to smile. As I lifted my chin, my neck
muscles groaned in protest. It seemed so unnatural to hold my head so
high when there was nothing to be happy about.

Oh, how exhausting it was to always have to pretend to be happy. If
Jennifer had a different profession that allowed her to be home every
day, I really think I would have gone totally insane. I very well
might have plucked up the courage to end it all YEARS before I turned
eighteen.

Suicide had always been in the back of my mind ever since I was
thirteen. But, I never had the guts to try anything. Nor did I have
ready access to information about peaceful, effective methods as I do
now. Jennifer saw to that, though I really don't think she suspected
just how depressed I truly was. It seems so obvious to me, and even
to Chris (my Chris), when he looked at some childhood pictures of me
that Baba sent to my PO box, for some stupid reason, a few years ago.

Which makes me wonder if she DID know, but just didn't care or was in
deep denial about it. After all, if she faced up to the fact that I
was severely depressed, she would have to start asking herself why,
and THAT, Daddy, would force her to finally face what a shitty mother
she truly was.

Mom didn't keep information hidden from me because she feared for my
safety and well-being. She kept information from me because it was a
part of how she kept me isolated from everyone else and all to
herself. A very common thing, I learned much later when I studied
psychology, for abusers to do.

When I confronted her about it years later, she made up some
cock-and-bull excuse about how she was only trying to PROTECT me.
After that, I stopped listening to the rest of what she had to say.
It was all bullshit, anyway. I would NEVER get the truth out of
Jennifer.

It took quite a few years and some therapy to realize and accept that.
Well, I don't know how much I've really ACCEPTED it, but at least I am
aware of it, which makes it easier for me to detach myself from her
more.

Just then, Chris and Andrew came up, momentarily distracting Jennifer
from picking on me about how my chin wasn't up enough or some other
kind of bullshit. Immediately, I blew out my breath in a huge sigh of
relief.

I walked behind Jennifer so I could follow her inside of the lighthouse.

We walked onto a magnificent, large lawn just then. It was lush and
smelled very sweet. It was obviously very well cared for.

The grass was thunder cake. Thunder cake is basically chocolate cake
with a bunch of chocolate frosting, only it's somewhat thicker and
richer. There is a recipe people can look up online of how to make
it.

Surprised at how hungry my shoes still seemed to be, (they were a
bottomless pit), I followed my mother to the entrance of the
lighthouse, closing my eyes JUST for a second, so I could imagine
myself eating the lush, rich thunder cake that my shoes were so
joyfully feasting on.

All too soon, the grass ended. We walked inside of a large set of
doors. The doorway was very wide. I think there might have been
steps leading up to the front door, but I can't remember now. I
haven't been to the lighthouse since that day. So, it's been, like,
twelve years.

The flooring of the lighthouse was chocolate ice cream cone. It was
one, big chocolate ice cream cone. It was a sugar cone.

"Welcome!" said a friendly woman volunteer, posted there to keep the
lighthouse open to the public and to make sure nothing bad went down.

"There is tea and coffee, if you are interested."

"Thank you," Jennifer said in her phony, sweet voice.

"I'd like to have some water, please," I spoke up loudly.

If I didn't ask, I wouldn't receive. Surely, it would never dawn on
Jennifer that a three-hour, nonstop walk at a fast pace, could make
someone thirsty.

Chris, thankfully, wanted to drink some coffee, so I was permitted to
sit on one of the soft, comfy couches while he enjoyed his coffee.
Thanks to him, I got to drink a glass of cool, refreshing water.

The water wasn't as cold as I would have liked, but, it was water. I
didn't dare complain.

I think Jennifer had coffee, too. As much as I detested Chris, I
couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude toward him about having
wanted some coffee and speaking up about it.

Did he ask for coffee because he TRULY needed some in order to keep up
with my mother's fast pace, both mentally and physically? Or, did he
actually have enough sense to know just how damn tired and dehydrated
I was, so requested to take a coffee break so that I could nourish my
tortured body?

Or, was he only thinking about Andrew and how HE might want to have a
break, too?

In whatever case, I did find myself feeling grateful for his presence,
in spite of myself, though, looking back on it now, he didn't DESERVE
my gratitude, even though it had only been a teensy, tiny twinge. It
was a stupid feeling, and, thinking about it now, both disgusts and
embarrasses me.

NO, don't you start getting a soft spot for him, I told myself.

HE doesn't deserve it. Harden your heart and keep it that way.

Grandma Chris, your mother, wouldn't have been happy if she knew I was
softening, just a little, toward Chris. She detested him for the same
reasons I did. Adultery was not something she took lightly. Was that
why I thought it was such a big deal? Had she managed to project her
feelings on vulnerable, innocent me?

It wouldn't have been hard to do, being that I was so young and very
much more sheltered from society than my peers, thanks to Jennifer.
Now, I don't think that adultery IS such a big deal. If people want
to screw around with someone else while married, let them! The hell if
I care!

Perhaps, I've just become desensitized to it because my mother treated
it like it was a normal thing to screw around with other men while
married. Or, maybe it's because I'm a Satanist, now, and celebrate
every sin that mankind commits upon god just to spite him.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM!!!!

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

New voicemail from Blind Satanist at 10:24 AM

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Monday, October 9, 2017

Wommy: Haunted By A Suicide Girl, Book One

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM

Jennifer is lying flat on her back in the long, deep bathtub in the
upstairs bathroom of her gigantic house. The curtain is mostly
closed. There is a little opening toward the front of the bathtub,
where the drain sits, waiting anxiously for the plug to be pulled up
so it can immediately gulp down the hot water. Being a drain is such
a difficult feat. They are constantly thirsty; rarely does their
thirst get quenched, no matter how much the bathtub gets filled to the
top. No matter how many baths or showers one might take in a day. To
be a drain is a miserable existence. It's a runner-up to the
miserable existence of being an uppy.
To be a drain is somewhat like being a vampire. Only, it is water
they thirst for, not blood.

The light is on, the fan isn't. The door to the bathroom is closed
all the way, most likely to keep the dog and cat from invading her
privacy.

Little does she know that she is NOT alone. Little does she know I've
been drifting about near the ceiling, watching her every move,
listening to her every sigh as she tries, without success, to release
the tension that has all of her muscles in tight, unbreakable knots,
for the last fifteen minutes. And, little does she know what's about
to happen.

Becoming bored with the simple act of floating around in the bathroom,
which has started to become too stuffy and hot for my comfort, I inch,
slowly, toward the curtain. I am floating near the top of the tall,
flower and butterfly decorated curtain. It looks so tacky! My
eyesight still sucks shit, even though I am dead, but, nevertheless, I
can just FEEL the tackiness permeating this poor room. NO... The
whole HOUSE!

Because I have new powers, powers that only ghosts possess, I walk
right through the tacky curtain. Steam immediately smacks me in the
face. I almost retreat. But I don't. It feels wet and slimy, like a
giant tongue licking your entire body all in one, fluid stroke.

I hate it! Nevertheless, I stay where I am. I've left too many times
before. High-tailed it to safety too many times to count.

Or, simply given into Jennifer's evil wishes and demands because I had to.

FOR SURVIVAL!

Not anymore. Tonight, I am going to stick it out, no matter what. I
have lots of unfinished business to deal with, and backing out
CERTAINLY won't get me any closer to crossing over.

Suddenly, Jennifer sits bolt upright in the tub. Her butt makes a
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBDDDDDDDDDRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOPPPPRRRRRRBBBBB vibrating
sound with her rapid movement, and the water, once calm and peaceful,
becomes disturbed. Little waves begin slapping both sides and ends of
the tub, as if frantic for escape, wetting the ugly shower curtain in
the process. It doesn't move. It almost looks half-dead itself. I
wonder, vaguely to myself, when Jennifer is finally going to let the
poor thing retire. Surely, there are plenty of other tacky shower
curtains waiting, eagerly, to be bought and put up. After all, not
everybody has the same bad taste as Jennifer.

Bit by bit, I lower myself to Jennifer's level. When I am about a
foot directly above her head, she makes a sharp intake of breath as a
shiver runs down her spine. A shiver that I caused, simply by blowing
her a cold, wet, slobbery, silent raspberry.

The house is always cold, so she doesn't seem to think much of it.
She merely splashes water up her back, then quickly dunks herself back
into the tub to escape the chilly air, and sighs.

I imagine that she has just closed her eyes. GOOD. Now's my chance!

Without hesitation, I zoom back up to the ceiling. I'm still directly
above her head. The one with the ugly, long, disproportionate nose
that waddles when she talks. Or, that's what Dad tells me. He said
it when he was alive, and he still claims that it's true now.

Dipping my right pointer finger into the huge, gaping, vertical slash
in my left wrist, I begin to let the finger soak up as much blood as
possible. My blood is no longer warm; it's as cold as ice. Still
just as sticky and as gruesome, though.

After about a minute, I pluck my finger out of the gaping wound, look
down to make sure that Jennifer hasn't moved, (she hasn't), and begin
to write in thick, sticky, red smears.

WOMMY! Wommy! Wommy! Wommy!

Only, it's not in print. I'm writing Wommy in bloody Braille. Bloody
Braille letters that I know she will understand once she has managed
to calm down.

The steam is really stifling. I can't take anymore. I need some
cool, fresh air.

So I book it out of the bathtub, gliding through the curtain, once
again, then out through the bathroom door into the hallway.

Immediately to the left of the bathroom is my bedroom. My bedroom is
situated at the left end of the upstairs hallway. To the right, a
ways, is the den. Or, as I often called it when I was alive, the TV
room.

The cold air that I had always hated when I was amongst the living now
soothes me. I am psychotically in love with it. I suck it in like a
chain smoker eagerly sucks tobacco and nicotine from their cigarette.

I can only be a second. Just a second. I can't risk missing
anything. Not a single thing.

So, with much trepidation, I glide right through the bathroom door
once again, and hurry over to the tub.

Jennifer is still lying where I left her, but, just then, she opens
her eyes. Her head hasn't moved nothing has. She suddenly finds
herself looking right up at the bloody smudges on her ceiling.

Only, they aren't just smudges. There is a meaning to them, a meaning
she will understand immediately once she connects the dots.

A little scream escapes her as she simultaneously sits bolt upright
again. Once more, her giant ass makes that same, peculiar sound as it
drags along the cream of wheat floor of the bathtub.

Her eyes, I can imagine, are HUGE! Popping right out of her head like
giant saucers.

She continues to stare at the writing on the ceiling for several
seconds. Her pulse quickens to machine-gun rate, forcing her
breathing to quicken as well.

"Honey," Coalie calls from somewhere in the house.

"Honey, are you okay?"

Jennifer doesn't answer him. She is incapable of speech at the moment.

Now, that's a first!

Footsteps! Hard, fast, thudding footsteps!

Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud!

Coalie is coming!

Right up all fourteen steps. Steps that will lead him to the crime scene.

"Jenn?"

No answer.

He barges right in. Too bad Jennifer hadn't thought to lock the door
before she climbed into the bathtub.

Too bad I hadn't thought to lock it, either. Just think of how much
MORE she would be creeped out to see and hear the door suddenly
locking as the lock clicked into place, shrinking down into nearly a
tiny blob.

OH well. MAYBE next time.

There WILL be a next time. This is just the icing on the cake.

Coalie races to her, ripping open the curtain so he can get a better
look at her.

By now, she is trembling all over. Like a leaf! And, I imagine, she
is as white as a ghost, too. Like me!

Still incapable of speech, she simply points to the red splotches on
the ceiling.

Coalie follows her gaze with his eyes. His mouth opens wide and, he,
too, inhales sharply, then holds his breath.

The absolute WORST thing anyone in the living community can do while panicking.

That and hyperventilating.
.

"OHMIGOSH!" Jennifer cries, suddenly leaping to her feet. She tries
to jump out of the bathtub, but one of her feet gets tangled up in the
tacky curtain. She falls forward, landing, painfully, on her already
fucked-up knees. She is still in the tub. Never managed to make it
out.

Mr. Wonderful does nothing to try and catch her. He just stands
there like a manikin, letting his beloved girlfriend or fiancé,
(whatever the hell they are), bang up both knees in a pretty epic way.
Then, continues to stand there as she moans in sheer agony over, what
might very well be, Smm Smm very broken knee caps. Or, at the very
least, fractured.

"Wommy!"

"Wh-wh-WHAT?!!!" he finally manages to stammer.

"Wommy!" repeats Jennifer.

"It says Wommy in BRAILLE! Wommy!"

At this point, I am doubled up with silent laughter. They wouldn't
have been able to hear me if I let it rip, but I'm still new to this
whole being dead thing, so I tend to forget all this juicy stuff.

Dad says it's easy to do. He's been dead for almost eleven years and
HE forgets vital information, too, even now.

"You'll catch on soon enough," he's told me numerous times.

"You will, don't worry. It takes a while to adjust."

NO SHIT Sherlock! Talk about the biggest understatement of the Century, Dad.

"Ashlee used to call me Mommy Wommy sometimes. It was her little
nickname for me."

"Honey, that can't be right. Ashlee is dead. She is gone. This is
JUST... JUST...

Oh hell, honey, I don't know. Maybe we've got an injured mouse inside
the ceiling or something. I'll call the exterminators tomorrow to
have a look around the place. It sure as hell won't hurt."

"We DON'T have mice!" shouts Jennifer.

"Hamilton makes sure of that. And, even if we do have mice, they
certainly don't have the capacity to write WOMMY on the ceiling."

This revenge, tonight, is for Jennifer. She deserves it; every,
little bit of it. However, I strongly dislike Coalie, too, so, what
the hell? Why not have a little fun with him, too? He's standing right
here, anyway. Might as well. I don't have to go according to plan
with EVERYTHING. When you're dead, anything goes.

Grinning wickedly, I drift right through him. Immediately, he begins
shaking violently.

DO you believe her NOW, ass hole?

OR, do you need just a LITTLE more convincing?...

"J-jj-j-j-jeeeesssssuuuuusssss!" he splutters. Now, he's ALSO
trembling like an abused dog that is waiting for the blow to descend
upon its frail and tender body. Now, Jennifer is NOT ALONE!

WOMMY! WOMMY! WOMMY! WOMMY! WWWWWWWWOOOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY!

This time, it's on the mirror, all over it, from top to bottom. In
neat, red, Braille code bloody fingerprints.

"Ohmyfuckinggod!"

Without another word, Coalie throws himself at the bathroom door, then
wrenches it violently open. The door growls in protest, but before it
can bend its head down low enough to take a good chunk out of him, he
is already halfway down the hall. The door remains ajar. It got a
nice jolt of pain when it crashed, headlong, into the wall.

It had no way of stopping itself. No door can stand a chance when
someone flings it open with such desperate ferocity like Coward Coalie
did.

I think he must have seen the writing on the mirror out of the corner
of one of his eyes. Just a glimpse. That was all he needed before
having an epic meltdown in the bathroom.

Once again, leaving his lover to fend for herself.

SOUNDS like a real winner, Mom! You sure know how to pick 'em.

Then, again, you two deserve each other. No sympathy here!

WOMMY! Wommy Wommy!

This time, on the wall, just above the towel rack. Then, all over the
banana linoleum floor of the bathroom. What is left of it, anyway.
There is a Hershey floor mat covering a good deal of it.

"Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" Jennifer hollers. By this time, her body
is wracked with great, big, huge, heaving sobs. Her breathing is
coming out in gasps.

Now, here's my chance.

Nimbly, I leap for the door. Grasping the handle firmly with my
see-through hand, I pull it shut. It bangs with a SLAM that sounds
like a gunshot.

"Click!" says the lock. Its voice is one of finality and I relish in
the beautiful sound.

Just like my mother had relished in all the pleading and begging
sounds that I had made as a child and well into my teen years.

NOW, who's the master?!

Jennifer doesn't hesitate. Her body has finally managed to pull
itself out of shock and negative panic mode. She Lunges for the door,
grabbing wildly for the handle.

For once in my life, I'm quicker than her. Because I'm still kind of
alive... In a way... Sort of.

I zing right out of the door, through it, of course, and, gripping it
firmly with my right hand, pull down on it. Jennifer has gotten to
the knob just a SECOND too late.

She frantically tries to open the door, but the handle won't budge.
You see, when certain doors are locked from the other side, it's
possible to lock the person who tried to lock you OUT IN! Pretty neat
trick I learned BGE (before ghost era).

"LLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!! MMMMMMMEEEEEEE!! OOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUTTTTTT!"

"Fat chance," I cackle.

"Coalie, Coalie, HEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLP
MMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" she wails, continuing to jiggle the
stubborn, unmoving door handle, while also pounding, loudly, on the
inside of the bathroom door.

"Who feels trapped now, bitch?" I shout.

"Who feels unsafe and frighten NOW? Doesn't feel good, does it? And,
WATCH THIS!"

Reaching through the door, I write my last cryptic message for the night.

Mommy WOMMY!

I write it on the back of her right hand. I think she will notice the
significance. That was the hand I used to read Braille with. And,
she knows that.

It's difficult to write on her hand because of how much she's jirating
all around, but I manage it. It takes patience, but, one of the perks
about being dead is, you've got all the time in the world! And, with
unlimited time comes unlimited patience.

Jennifer looks down in horror, and a fresh scream fills the house.
Her cries, by this point, are no longer human. They are cries of a
feral animal that is in serious, serious pain.

How she knew to look down at that PRECISE second is beyond me. Maybe
luck. Maybe she could feel me fucking with her hand. Or, maybe, she
just, intuitively, knew.

Jennifer used to always claim that she knew everything, so why not put
that in the range of possibilities. After all, I have all the time in
the world to speculate.

Now, I can do ANYTHING!

Suddenly, Coalie is at the door.

Perfect. Here's my chance to add the finishing touches on my little
fruit loop of revenge.

Just as Coalie reaches for the door, I walk through him, once more.
Immediately he stiffens, holds his breath. Just what I need him to
do.

Closing my eyes, I force myself to push every thought out of my mind,
as well as every smell, texture, sound, and emotion, both from me and
the Smm Smm living humans.

After a beat, I relax, just for a second, but that's all I need. The
spell has been broken. The only one who will remember what has just
gone down is Jennifer.

And... Me.

I back away from Coalie. Blinking rapidly for a moment, he reaches
for the door handle and tries to open it. Maxed out to the fullest
from stress, the lock releases on its own accord, allowing Coalie full
access to his lover and the bathroom.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

Jennifer is in hysterics. She's hyperventilating now; something she
always told me NEVER to do when starting to panic.

Rushing into the bathroom, I spin around in a circle Smm Smm Smm Smm
times, with my eyes, once again closed. I give the circles a wide
birth to make sure that the messages get cleared away.

I CANNOT leave a trace. ANYWHERE. It is essential that Jennifer
looks like the crazy one.

That way, she'll FINALLY get a little taste of her own bitter, hateful
medicine. Now, SHE'LL know what it feels like to have people think
you are crazy and not be believed. Now SHE'LL be the one who's
alienated from everybody and talked about like a living, breathing
joke of an existence. This time, it will be SHE who is not believed.
It will be HER they accuse of being an attention-seeking liar, not me.

It can't be me, anymore. I put a stop to that! Now, SHE'LL get to see
what it's like.

"Jennifer!" Coalie's tone is now very stern. I wouldn't exactly call
Coalie the comforting, nurturing type.

No... He's more the ogre type. Hard as stone, cold as steel bars
that you would see in a prison, and as sharp as a triple-edged sword.
Yet, my mother supposedly "loves" him.

To each their own, I guess. And, a part of me doesn't REALLY think
she loves him as much as she claims to.

"What's wrong?"

He grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a sharp, jarring shake.

"It's HER!" sobs Jennifer, as her legs give way and she sinks, slowly
onto the linoleum floor.

She would have FALLEN flat on her face if Coalie hadn't been holding
her and eased her down instead.

Too bad. But, to give the guy credit, at least he didn't let her fall
a SECOND time.

"What are you talking about?"

His voice is that of sheer frustration and impatience. Clearly, I
have done a good job erasing all memory of what had gone down in here.

"What do you MEAN?!" hiccups Jennifer.

"You SAW EVERYTHING! Wommy, Wommy, Wommy! Written all over the place. LOOK!"

She points to the back of her hand.

Coalie glances over at it.

"There's nothing there"

He says it without any compassion or concern. By the sound of it, you
would think he was speaking to an annoying drunk who he wanted off of
his property. Not his wonderful fiancé, who he plans on loving
forever and ever, until death do they part.

Blinking back the tears, Jennifer looks down at her hand, then gasps.

"Gone!" she exclaims in a disbelieving whisper.

"It's... It's just... GONE!"

She looks down at the floor, then the mirror, the walls. All are
blank and normal-looking, just as they SHOULD be.

"It's late." Coalie says, hefting her to her feet. Or, more
accurately, yanking her to her feet in one, fluid, jerk.

Jerk! What a fitting word for such a guy!

"I've got to get up early for work. So do you. Let's go to bed, now,
and forget about all this nonsense."

"IT's... NOT... NONSENSE...!"

Saying nothing, Coalie drags her out of the bathroom, without so much
as offering her a hug or even a quick peck on the cheek. He also
fails to notice just how badly she is limping, how she is moaning with
every step she takes. He also leaves the bathroom light on, something
Jennifer hates more than anyone I know. She believes that leaving
lights on in a room that isn't being used is a waste of electricity,
and, more importantly to her, money.

For once, Jennifer doesn't notice this. She allows herself to be lead
to the stairs, all the while saying, over and over again, "Ashlee's
here! She's come to haunt me! I did the best I could by her, really, I
did. Don't you believe me, Honey? Don't you?"

Coalie simply ignores her. I follow stealthily behind them and get
the awesome satisfaction of watching as he literally SHOVES my mother
onto their bed in their bedroom. Then, I get to listen to her gasp
and shriek in pain as her knee caps bang into the lower bed frame as
she falls, facedown, onto the comforter.

"Tomorrow will be a better day."

That is all the comfort he has in him to give. For him, it probably
almost Killed him to say even THAT much!

"Coalie, how can you deny what you know we both saw?" sobs Jennifer
into her poufy, down comforter, as she struggles to get her aching
body further onto their giant bed. Coalie hasn't even bother to
help her get dressed, or, at the very least, help her underneath the
covers. I doubt he will.

"I saw nothing," he snaps, turning out the lamp on their nightstand.

"Seriously, Jennifer, you really need to get some help. Maybe even
get started on some medication. You know, just for a little while.
Until things calm down."

JUST what I want and need to hear. My work, for tonight, is done!

Yes, Jennifer! Welcome to my world. Or, rather what USED to be my
world. Now you must surely know how I felt when you kept hammering
those evil, unhelpful words into my head. When you were able to speak
to me.

Now, we won't speak for a very, very long time. How does that make
YOU FEEL? How were you trying to make ME feel when you would talk to
me like that?

I guess it doesn't really matter anyway. You can't get me back. I am
dead to you and the rest of the world, and for that, I am quite
ecstatic!


Whistling gleefully to myself, I close my eyes, think of the Indianola
dock, where I know Daddy will be waiting for me, and a moment later, I
am greeted by cold, salty sea air and, best of all, my daddy.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

HAIL SMM SMM!!!!