Personal journal entry
April 23
I wish she could have been alive to see how beautiful I made her. She had done herself no justice with her choice of clothes and with her hair pulled back so carelessly. Brushing her hair, cutting it to the proper length, and styling it gave me such momentary joy. If she hadn’t been so physically weak when it came to the drugs, she would have agreed with me.
I remember the smell of her hair. I can still smell the shampoo I used to wash it. The scent engulfs my every thought and torments me with thoughts of her. The real her, not the imitation.
This need in me is unsatiated. Try as I might to dilute it, it’s growing. I want her. I want to watch her die. I need to watch her die. I need her to breathe her very last breath and then suck that air into my lung
