12/03/2003 11:44 am
I have kept the revolver in my drawer. It is a black and rusted revolver. I have acquired it from the black market. It wasn’t hard to get hold of it — they give life-taking-tools away at a sufficient price. I am the kind who does not buy things without the purpose of using it. My room is moderately furnished with a cot, a writing table, a steel chair, and a small wardrobe. I have three sets of clothes. Yes, the bare necessities — I do not ask for much. So now I have gotten hold of the .22 revolver with ‘m.K’ carved on it wooden, perhaps one of its old owners, I know I have to use it. I wonder how many hands had held the revolver; how many shots had been fired from it; how many lives had been taken.
The revolver is in my possession, but I have to learn its use. I have six bullets with me and nobody to shoot at. Acquiring more bullets was not to be a problem since the black market was open to customers all around the clock. But I am not the one to acquire things and not use them — I am a man of bare necessities. So tonight, I am going to the graveyard to practice my shooting skills. But before that, I must eat and gain some energy. I must fry some eggs and toast some slices of bread. A little of the juice must be left from last night. Today I got a termination letter from my workplace. I am an accountant in a bank. The work, I despised, for it left me with little time to look over my personal needs. I like sitting in my balcony, legs crossed, smoking cigarettes and reading magazines. This cannot be done at my workplace. After working for six years, I quit my job – oh, I did not quit it, I just stopped going. Oh, how hard it is to part with my newly acquired revolver. But I must eat. I am hungry.
12/03/2003 11:57 pm
I have packed my little brown backpack. The revolver rests in my front pouch. It is loaded. I am ready to start shooting it. My neighbourhood is not a quiet one. If I shoot at a target around, people will wake up. There are two women who live in the apartment below me. They are sisters, and I have a feeling that they do not particularly like me. Last summer, I had killed their cat, for it had been drinking milk from my kitchen. They never knew that I had killed their cat, but they had accused me of doing so. I do not understand their dislike towards me. My actions are a result of my circumstances. The cat was troubling me. It had to die.
13/03/2003 6:03 am
Ah, what a long night! I managed to fire two shots. To cut down on the noise, I dug up the ground six inches and shot a bullet in the breast of the earth. The shock was unbearable, but now I know how it works. The bullet, I assume, went into the ground, straight in the heart of the earth — the core — and melted in the fire which burns there. I must make myself some coffee and go to bed now.
14/04/2003 8:26 am
Today I write in the bare necessities of a prison. I have a water pot in the corner, a mattress on the floor. That is all. The steel rods in the gate are cold when and the guard in his uniform stands outside the gate. I know he has the key to this door, but he would not let me have it — he would not even speak to me. Oh, how I wish I had my revolver to take care of the business. Just one shot and the guard would be dead. But this is mere fantasy. I have been accused of murdering two women. Yes, these are my neighbours that I am talking about — those mad women who watered their flower pots every day. Now their plants are withering. There is no one to water them. I had killed them because they asked for the whereabouts of their pet dog. I had killed their pet dog too. It was the day after I had gone to the graveyard to practice my shots. Their old beagle had pooped at my door. I am a man of bare necessities; I do not like to have any poop in or around my house. So, I took the old hound to the terrace, but the funnel of my revolver in its mouth, and shot him. The noise was enough to have them — my neighbours — the two mad women who would water their flower pots every day — to come and check on me. Seeing their dog blown to bits and me holding a gun, they started shouting for help. Help was to arrive but after their departure from the world of the living. I fired the remaining three shots into their bodies. They had it coming. When the policemen arrived, soon after, they saw me laughing at their dead bodies — isn’t it comforting to laugh at your dead problems? I have done nothing wrong. I have committed no sins. I had merely relieved myself of my terrible circumstances. Now I am in prison, writing this on my limited supply of paper. I am waiting to be hanged. My death is due tomorrow. I must perish — I had been looking forward to this day for a long time — to go depart from this world with only bare necessities — my relieved soul, and nothing else.
Painting by Danielle Shepard