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fudgetusk 10-21-2017 02:14 AM

I Am the Lord Of Death
Who Am I ?

When I was seven I bit a girl at school. I have no recollection of doing so. I only discovered this fact when my older sister told my mother and my mother asked me why I did it. A voice in my head told me what to say and I relayed it to my concerned mother.
"I like biting people...it relaxes me."
I have no idea what it means. I haven't bitten anyone since, as far as I know.

A few years later I began to fear a picture. It hung in our living room and depicted a crying boy wearing rags. I have no idea how long the picture had been hanging there. I do not recall it being put up. All I knew was that it was looking at me and it frightened me.

A year later the picture was in the newspapers. A fire officer had contacted the papers to report a strange phenomenon. He had attended several fires and found pictures of crying boys at the scene, untouched by the flames, the houses gutted. People began to talk about the curse of the crying boy. All the fires happened in the region of England where I live.

I began to have nightmares about the picture. It would appear on the walls of any room I was dreaming about. I would see it and it would begin to move. The face of the boy would change, become an evil sneer. I would wake up terrified in the dark sure the boy was in the room with me.
These dreams went on for ten years.
When I was sixteen I began to become obsessed with serial killers. I adorned my walls with posters of horror film serial killers. I loved the films too. I began to realise that I was destined to become like them one day. But first I would need to die. I attempted suicide several times and always failed.

My parents found me a flat when I was eighteen. On the wall was a picture of a crying boy. The same version that hung in my childhood home. My mother had thrown that picture out years ago. I wondered if it were the same one.

A year later I commited a crime. I sellotaped razor blades to the tops of pieces of card and put them in envelopes. The idea was that when the recipient slid their finger into the letter to open it they would cut their finger.

I was arrested and narrowly avoided prison thanks to my uncle, who told the magistrate that I could go and live in his residential home so he could take care of me. I didn't like my uncle. he made fun of me. He kept ducks in his backgarden. One day I closed my eyes and visualised I was an animal killing his ducks. A week or so later I came down for breakfast and my aunty asked if I were up late that night. The ducks had been attacked by an animal. Most of them were gone or dead. How the animal got over the fence with the ducks in its mouth we do not know.
My uncle also had a budgie that sat in a cage on the TV top. Once day I visualised its lifeforce leaving its body. The next day it was dead.

I left the residential home a couple of years later. I had a girlfriend and other friends. One day me and a friend went out on our bikes. In a wood I found the stone. The stone had images on it. I could not explain it. They looked so clear. One even looked like me. I fell out with my friend not long later. He said I kept insulting him. I had no idea why he thought that. Maybe it was that other person in my mind. I had for years felt there were someone else there besides myself.

I was alone now. I kept experiencing strange things. Strange coincidences. One day a voice in my head said "Would you like to see a plane crash into a building?" A month later 9/11 happened.
One day I began to really think about the stone and I decided to write about it so I could post it on the internet. That's when the deaths began to happen. Three in a month. All the same. All in locations in the city that had interested me lately. I seemed to be linked to them. They all died the same way: by being beaten up. All the culprits were caught. That was when I realised I had dreamt about the deaths a year before.

The stone was responsible. I was responsible. The other person in my head was responsible.

I began to experiment with the stone. I would write down what I wanted to happen and then I would stick it to the stone. It usually came true. I killed a famous pop star. I caused a plane to crash in Spain killing three men. I stopped using the stone after that.

But I didn't need the stone I realised. I simply had to think about something hard enough and long enough and it would happen. Usually by accident. I don't know how many of the deaths and tragedies were me or just coincidences. I don't think I believe in coincidences anymore.

Now the voice in my head talks to me all day. He gets stronger and stronger. He is now able to speak through my vocal cords, able to move my face...into horrible sneers.

He tells me is he is the devil. Sometimes he tells me he is God. He says a lot of things. His thoughts are horrible. He tells me that every time we kill he becomes more real. He tells me that we will one day die and he will be free, to hurt all those people who hurt me through my life. We have a long list. When I try to talk him out of it, to be forgiving, he cries.
And when I cry, he laughs.
I wonder if he is just part of my mind. But then that means all the deaths were my fault.
Who would do such a thing?
Who am I?
Who am I?

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