The tenth year of my life was a dark and tortuous year for my tender, still fledgling soul. Leading up to that year, at the age of nine I had to confront my abusive father and declare that I would no longer be visiting him and taking the beatings he dished out. Then I turned ten.
Ten found my family moving to a new house, in a new town. A town where there was seemingly a church on every corner and all the kids seemed dirty and strange. We moved the summer before my fifth grade year and it was a long, painful, hot summer. Somewhere in that time my mother pulled away from the family, from herself and landed squarely in a mental hospital having tried to off herself in the middle of one desperate night. Being the oldest, I felt I had the weight of my heavy, upside down world sitting on my shoulders.
I turned inside myself and curled up in a ball. I spent hours reading. Being precocious in nature, I read books much too mature for my years. One book in particular will forever be seared into my soft ten year old insides. As the summer grew cool, I picked up The Other by Thomas Tryon. With book in hand, I spent days reading and absorbing the horror, the terror. I was too young to fully understand what I was reading but, I was terrified. I was utterly horrified and scared out of my little mind.
Suddenly? The world was a big, bad, mean place and I now understood that. The mind is a strange thing that can fail you at anytime, releasing the darkness from within. Darkness that you can produce but not even fully understand.
Reading today's blog gave me that same terrible chill that The Other did so many years ago when I was fragile and frightened. The blogger's 'About Me' only offers up this:
Sack Posset: I am a green glass bottle full of filth and bees.
And indeed she is. There is no sense in even going on about the template of this blog. Simply put, I doubt she cares.
Without much to go on, I started with reading a few of the current posts and was oddly intrigued. Wanting to know just exactly what, I was reading I went back to the beginning and it was there that I started the chilling voyage of Sack Posset.
Yesterday I saw the cat with the human face again. It watched me as I passed and it was still staring when I looked back over my shoulder. It insinuated itself into my dreams, where it tried to make me touch it in an inappropriate way and then disappeared under the bed.
It seems that the author is truly that, an author. An author who is deep in the mind of a serial killer, perhaps too deep. Skillfully crafted, the words flow into each other painting a picture of a mind so black and dirty, you feel intimately violated by the stark, fear inducing nothingness of her soul.
However, just like The Other did for me all those years ago, while I was petrified, I also felt wrapped in a web of comfort. I could see the spider closing in to sink it's teeth into my fly flesh, but I was paralyzed and couldn't do anything about it. And, you know what? I just didn't want to.
Step into this world and sometimes you will wonder if the "we's" are actually other people or just the characters inside her head. You'll see glimpses and flashes of the real person that is there, but then you will be tugged right back down into the murk. Snarling, angry words are cleverly twisted around the mundane like watching Britain's Got Talent .
It seemed to me that at some point the author put aside the writings of the killer she has created, and at that point the tone changed ever so slightly. It became lighter and different, but still that blackness is there.
You find yourself imagining that there might just be someone chained to the water heater in the basement, crying for help, as this person clicks away on their computer in a filthy bedroom all day.
Just stay the fuck away from me.