Storytellers

“You could make a horror movie about my life. My mom died of cancer when I was five, and my father tortured me. I mean tortured. Really tortured. Chained me to a chair. Slapped me with leather. It was like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’ Every single day. He’d never say a thing. He’d just kick down my door and come after me. I was born into hell. I spent twelve years alone with a demonic presence. And now I’m nervous. Really nervous. I play the piano to calm myself down. I always have these thoughts they aren’t even my thoughts: fat fuckers, fucking bastards, fuck all of them. They’re my father’s thoughts. The violence is inside of me. My energy is black, black, black. I used to kill little birds when I was a kid. Then I moved on to cats. By the time I was seventeen I was beating the shit out of everybody. Bigger than me, taller than me, I didn’t care. It was more torture to keep it inside. If I kept the violence inside I’d mutilate myself. Suicide myself. A few years ago I set a guy on fire. It was 3 AM. He was passed out beneath a bridge. Just some druggie. I didn’t feel a thing. I felt like laughing. If anything, I felt free.”

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