The following is filed as classified evidence for the Simon Falmouth case.
I’m not a fan of Mary, that bitch thinks she knows what’s best for me. To tell you the truth I fantasised about hurting her in the past. She always tells me though, ‘Violence solves nothing.’ She has no idea. I don’t want to solve anything. She doesn’t understand what I’ve been through. The others live their lives in blissful ignorance, I’m the one who has to take the pain. I just wish every once in a while I could get the pain out. But I can’t. Why don’t they try living with this baggage? Rather than complaining at me for acting out, why don’t they take some responsibility for once? Especially that fucking Mary.
People always tell me off for the scars I leave on my arm. They don’t understand that either. When the pain inside is so great it’s a relief to be able to concentrate on a lesser pain on the outside. I cut an artery once and almost died. That did shake me up a bit and I admitted to some of the stuff I’d been keeping in. I told people some of my memories, the really bad ones, the ones that haunt my dreams. The ones that Chris and the others have managed to forget. Do you want me to tell you those memories? Of course you fucking do everyone wants to know about my tortured past that’d make great reading material wouldn’t it? Well fuck you, fuck everyone. I deal with that by myself, why should it be anyone else’s business? Mary’s always poking that beak-like nose of hers into my business trying to find out what stuff’s happened to me so she can study and fix me. I’m already too far broken.
When I was younger, about fourteen, my brother showed me how to set ants on fire with a magnifying glass. Sometimes I just used to go down to the woods for hours with my magnifying glass and burn as many of them as I could. It used to make me feel calm, I was in control of everything in those moments. Nowadays I wish I had a giant magnifying glass that I could hold over Mary until I see her shrivel into a clump of black ash on the floor. Sometimes I wish someone would do the same to me. I do wish I was there to see Badman stab her though, I want to see the bitch die and I’m glad she’s gone now.
There are lots of people that think they can understand my problems. They are wrong. First of all no one who has a fully functioning mind can possibly cope with the things I’ve been through without ending up as fucked up as me and then they wouldn’t care to have to learn about other people’s issues. Another reason is that if people understood my problems they would know that I can take care of myself without fucking Mary following me around and making sure I’m not making the rest of the world feel uncomfortable. But the biggest thing that gets me is that if people understood my problems they wouldn’t spend their whole pathetic lives trying to get me to tell them stuff because they’d know how painful it all is, that’s why I know that no one understands because all anyone ever wants is to hear my story. They want to know why I’m like this. With Mary gone that’s one less person to poke around in my head.