The nights are drawing in. Not that I mind, I prefer the darker months anyway. It's only when the change first sets in that I feel tired, lethargy seeps through and attempts a hostile take-over. I slept the sleep of the dead last night, waking up with a dead arm gave me time to slip into semi-consciousness, tingling and numb, drift in and out and teeter on the edge of captivity and escape, heaven and hell, life and death. This is where my thoughts are real, this is when I feel uninhibited and free to roam the thought planes, skim over what was processed in my dreams the night before, like thin memories wispy and fleeting, blowing where the wind of untarnished thought blows lucid.

Situations around me are reaching bizarre heights. Another one of the family situational frenzied fandangos has peaked - at least I hope it's peaked. Behind the wall of not caring, partly because I feel worn out, at the moment that is, I know things are about to heat up, about to step it up a level from simmering to boiling. Someone has been torturing my sister, tormenting her, raping her naivety. He sodomised her innocence. A loose canon about to burst into twisted fragments, a pressure cooker about to squeal and blow. The nature of explosions is such that they send shrapnel flying. I'm there, tapping a nail into the side as the wee top whistles, sizzling serpent, septic steam appears from the cracks, reeks of putrefaction. My taps are becoming more deliberate, tap... more precise as I find the weak spot in his cold sides, fat, hostile, ready to burst and buckle the heavy frame. Tap...

I am going to deal with him personally, I'm going to gauge just how far I can tap nails into his head, tap... rusty, poisonous nails, tap...tap...tap. The flakes on his head, the sweat on his lardy brow all an indication of the self-inflicted siriasis, the pressure cooker ready to strip its seal and blow its top, send flying a scalding waste of sordid soup. He'll scratch the itch, his head peeling open from the flaking wounds, a nervous scratch, a liar’s brow, a whistling top, sweating, squeezing the juice of untruths from the pores, pushing the septic beads through the skin. I'd love to watch him squirm, like a slug lovingly rolled in salt, watched over by a cruel uncaring youth intrigued by the anguish, salt cellar in hand. Hang him out to dry, cured, the wind ready to carry him off into a wasteland of nothingness, barren, emaciated and crumbling - flaking away in the breeze. Tap...

I must remain calm, calmness can be impenetrable, calmness in the face of insane rage can send someone over the edge, it's like some kind of chemical reaction. Something I learned from my older brother as small boy. He would slowly whip me up into a confused and frenzied state, I would feel as though all control was lost, I was at the mercy of evil, panic would set in. He was older, calmer, and smarter. The more enraged I became, the calmer he would become, tap...tap...tap. His eyes smiling, enjoying me writhe in the pain of fury, tweaking me, finding the optimal point, mental terminal velocity, a hair's width away from destruction, a whisper away from an almost Zen-like killing spree, Flight of the Valkyries in my head - I could have ripped him limb for limb, but I was just a boy.

Like water off a duck's back.

I'll do that, cool, calm and viscous. He has no options, this contorted soul who defiled my sister is a failure of the highest order - a supreme failure, nature gone wrong, he will meet his maker, hopefully by his own hands, because that's what failures of that degree do, he must complete his work and rid the world of himself. Nature will try to weed him out, reject him like a cancerous growth, but he wants to infect others with his cancer, leave his mark, smear the world with faeces. A blubber rat that has weasels for fingers, lining everything he touches with his bacteria and disease. His type will survive, but he won't.

'listen dog shit... You know what I do to dogshit? I step on dog shit, you'll dry up and blow away.'