DEAR DIARY

Dear Diary,

It’s not often I write in you any more, but I need to talk to someone, I need to tell someone what I have done before it drives me mad.
Even now as I write this, I can feel my hands twitching, urging me back. They want to kill again, to take a life, to see its soul leave its body; my life has become that simple now.

I’ve not slept properly in days now, and when I do eventually fall asleep, images of the dead fill my mind, waking me from any rest I could hope to get. I wanted to be a writer, to put my thoughts to paper, to put my hands to a different use, but now, well now I just don’t know anymore.

I think its starting to affect my family, I am sure Karen knows, she’s not daft, when I’m missing for hours it’s obvious that she’s going to put two and two together eventually. I’ve started to sweat in my sleep now, after a day or two, when the images in my mind take over again and I slip out of bed for a few hours, no, she’s not daft.

So now I guess my options are reduced a little. Either I give it up, if I can. Stop and go back to writing, maybe take up a hobby to keep my mind occupied to keep my hands occupied.

Another option would be to tell her, see if she wants to join in, she might, I can hope at least, two of us would be better than one.

Last option is that I cover my tracks better, spend more time with the family, doing family things. Maybe take them out at the weekend and try to subdue my feelings, my urges.

Either way tonight is the night, the family are all in bed, let them rest for twenty or thirty minutes and then I’ll get myself ready, I should be writing, I know I should.
Damn it.
It’s the worst things I’ve done, I know that now.
I should never have bought bloody Skyrim.