Copperfield.

Prologue — Where we find peace, noisy and in threes. Read this out loud.

In the end, there were things I wanted to do that day.

First, I wanted to be free. Free. Even saying that word makes me want to spell it out on paper, just to write it down and own my version of it.

Free.

Free of everything that I felt held me down, everything that felt like a weight on my chest…or on my back— whichever way I was on the floor that day. Whatever North I faced from where I was.

South, obviously.

I really wanted to be a magic trick, the turn without the prestige.

To vanish.

Disappear without the need to come back for anything or anyone. To go away, but not completely and without a trace and more out of wonder— to a better, brighter place. More away, more than anything.

The second thing— I didn’t want to be a part of this anymore.

It was the wrong kind of complicated. And I have to say that because I kind of liked complicated. Just not like this.

Me, I…you have to know, I love things that way; specific complications.

That bite, that struggle with teeth, pulling hair over position and sleeves, duct tape on a table— spit and paint. It’s what would make me stay, easy is boring. Painful tickles.

Just not like this.

Just not like this. Like this, this— it’s bitter and poisoned.

Colchisine and whiskey sour, nausea and not the good kind. This won’t get me anywhere, and I need it to get me somewhere.

Simplicity is the virgin of my dreams.

Elusive and rare, distant and always a little bit out of reach. We all act surprised when faced with proof of a better way, of all better ways; and then we tell ourselves that we were already thinking about it. That it crossed our minds one time, once in a while. Just not today.

“You beat me to it!” cue laughter.

Insanity wearing a beautiful dress for dinner.

Third.

And third, I wanted to dull this blade. This knife is too sharp.

It cuts too well. Splits too easy.

I don’t think it hurts enough when I spell words onto her back. It spoils the verses I can’t get out with sound, over-shaped irregular after trial and error on wood and glass. It’s a song I can’t stop singing.

An itch I can’t stop scratching.

These are the spaces that I need to fill out in red and bone. A sore I can’t stop tonguing in my mouth, getting it out. Just a bit brutal but not with ice and soda, never with ice and soda. That always keeps it down. Just like the last one.

This is the second person that I’ve “killed” in 5 days, not in total. Just in 5 days.

Does that number make me a “serial killer”?

Huh. Funny. I’m all for it.

Serial. Killer.

Those words put together gets me all awake, all on fire and still burning.

Am I a killer?

Do I get classified…categorised differently from here? Labeled into a totally different kind of monster. A better villain.

Nemesis?

It’s way too exciting too fall deep into a kind of love with the mirror, polished glass and lies, reflected into trusting eyes.

Monster, is more like it.

Monster.

Because then they’d name me, then they would come up with something bold and epic, large, for a bit— all mixed in with a banal moniker that the folks would be aware and afraid of even in the firelight.

And then they’d settle for something relatable, real…like skin. Something devoid of medieval horror and obscure references. Lovecraft be damned.

Something simple. Like Copperfield.

Monster.

I am the magic trick. I am the wolf that pulls back the covers to chew on your shoulder. The warmth of my mouth on your neck is only as safe as you think it should be.

I want you to remember me when I disappear after this is over. All of it.

As soon as I get bored with all the blood and shine. When this all gets too real and routine and…ordinary. Day old wine left open after eating.

I’ll be gone. You’ll never catch me. The wolf around your neck.