#149a

When I swing the light it looks like John is alive. Shadows move across his face and it gives the impression that he's smiling or grimacing or sleeping. So I do that, I swing the light and sit in his chair watching him and smiling and crying back. And then the light stops and he just looks dead. So, I stand up and knock the bulb again and the illusion starts all over.

You're probably thinking that I've lost my mind? Moving John's body then sitting in front and talking to it for hours. But it's not like that. It was my reaction to a shock which I thought I could handle but which I was quite unprepared for. I suppose my last chance to try and find some kind of personal solace before I put an end to this affair. More than talking to John I was reasoning and arguing with myself – trying to come to some logical explanation or understanding how love had turned to this, how the relationship had slipped so far that it had even become possible. It's a tragedy, and I need to somehow reconcile what has happened with the millions of other things which could have happened but never did. Why do I sit here today a murderer and not just a heartless bastard? Why didn't I just put John outside with a sticker 'Not wanted here!' attached to him? The authorities would have taken him away and taken care of him. If I'd have done that he'd still be alive. Why didn't I do that? Why? Why? Why?

Of course, that's nothing to do with the reason why I turned John's body over and sat him up against the wall. Those are just a few of the things I thought after, when I finally had his rubbery, off colour face looking my way. I actually moved John because of Brian. Yes, that little shit again. It seems that his corrupting influence filters right through walls and skin and flesh, that his impact on events is far greater than the small cocksucking role he actually played. I will try to explain the best I can...

Yesterday morning I watched anxiously as Brian entered the front gate and came wandering up the yard. He looked a bit puzzled, as if something from outside wasn't quite making sense. He toed around in one of the bin bags, then went up to the window and tried to peek in. A second later his head was all misshapen in the spyhole and he pressed the bell: BRRRiiinnnnngggg! Brrriinnngggg!!! Brrriiinnnnn!!! I just stood there, not breathing and watching as he picked the top from a sore on his cheek. Maybe it was his postman's ear, but somehow he discerned that I was behind the door. He didn't say anything, but shook his head as if I was the bigegst saddo in the world, held a letter up to the spyglass, then turned and went. So he wasn't here for John – well, probably that also – but actually on official duty. He had a letter I needed to sign for.

That got me thinking: Brian wants to see John. I could do with Brian seeing John. But Brian cannot see John because John is all bashed up on the living room floor. But what if John wasn't bashed up on the living room floor? What if when I opened the door to sign for my letter, John was sitting in his chair, half in view, somewhere behind me? Wouldn't that be perfect? It'd soothe Brian's sordid little mind for a while and give me at least a few more days to try and figure some way out of this mess.

So that's what I did. Last evening I prepared myself, entered the living and swung John over... only it was much more unimaginable than I'd ever imagined...