CW: intrusive thoughts, rape mention, pedophilia mention, holocaust/genocide mention

A thought. It took just one. The black birds above the empty fields rioted against the thick grey sky, pressed against the industrial estate with its chemical factory, standing as unseemly and disquieting as my first erection. The thought was simple, it should have led nowhere, it should have been forgotten as quickly as I forgot every sin I had committed. The thought was this: what if I couldn’t stop thinking about the horrors of man.

Top five things that disturb me:

Rape – Paedophilia – Genocide – Madness – Torture

The news story that triggered me could be summarised in five words:

Child two, raped by father.

I didn’t know something that horrible existed. I’d studied the Nazis, the Russian Revolution. I had watched Braveheart so often in history, with no apparent justification, that I could give a one-man rendition of it.  But my naivety and innocence (locked beyond the clutches pornography) had clung with animalistic desperation to the sacredness of children. My studies of humanity had been superficial. I was an idiot, a teenage imbecile.

Graphic images now resonate through every thought. Just picturing it, makes you want to lock yourself up or cut your dick off in protest. The world coughs up daily horrors, so exact in their malice, monstrous – alien at fist then disconcertingly banal the next. The lonely despair of men penetrates every waking breath.

Sometimes I feel so fractured I think I’m a character in a Shakespearean play and make northern accented soliloquys to the neighbour’s cat. He looks at me like he’s criticising my lack of iambic pentameter. An example, which is as poor as my future prospects, goes something like this: All I have, all I am is corrupted by images I cannot control. What putrid weeds flower through my flesh? I swallow the rose’s sweet effusions and germinate its sacred promise in every pore. But memories become shadowed by every present grief and no promise can be fulfilled. 

I stay in my bedroom for six months, playing old Nintendo games and watching kid cartoons. I will never marry. A woman will never love me. My mother gets me a dog and I have to go outside. The sky and the wind are tainted with man’s grief. The air is filled with every repellent memory. I can’t breathe. Everything is consumed by horror. Fucking twat, always so dramatic. Just stop thinking. Just stop. The morning rips a scream from my throat and plasters it against my blue bedroom walls. I know I am no longer innocent. There is no such thing as safety.