There is nothing saving you. Nothing saving you. There is nothing saving you at all. No matter what you think. No matter what you believe in. The way you have lived will neither save you nor punish you. You have to live with the fact that you are here purely by chance. But it's a fact you won't have to live with for very long.

You see, I don't know you. I don't want to know you and I do not care about how you have lived your life. As long as you contain just about as much blood as the average person, you are more than qualified to be where you are right now. But don't worry, being unqualified wouldn't have saved your life either. I don't want to have any connections to the people who end up in here and I don't want any loose ends. The ones living in this room are a loose end. Including me, but I try my best to really make myself as safe as possible. Others, I cannot trust they will keep their mouth shut or wake up every night screaming until someone realises all is not well. And some blah-blahs later there is a knock on my door and the world will no longer be safe from the horror that lurks beneath it all.

Because I am the guardian. If I do not give it blood it will cross over to our world and it will all end. And to stop that from happening, you are a small price to pay and I do think you should be proud of this. Of course, you have done nothing earn this honour but it's my expercience that most people do very little to earn anything at all in life. Most reproduce and allows for our world to live on, but that's as far as it goes, and when you think about it, how special is it when most other people are doing it? No, you are most likely no different from anybody else, so why not see this as your opportunity to become someone?

Well, it is almost time. The clouds are lining up just right, the sun is whispering and granting me permission to sacrifice and save the world once again. It is about time. Can you hear the noise from underneath the floor boards? The scraping and howling almost too loud to handle. Must hurry now. Now. Now.

You know you want to watch. Well, no one is going to stop you. After all, this is your death. What kind of person would deprive you of such a final request? Not me, that's for sure and since I am the pulling this whole death thing off, I guess in a way you are lucky. And perhaps even grateful. No, fuck "perhaps." You should be grateful.

Let's face it. There are so many weirdos out there. People who just kill randomly and for no apparent reason apart from "the voices" telling them to. Too damn scared to take any responsibility. If they are caught they plead insanity, fake a mental condition and try to escape what they in all actuality deserve.

But that's not me. No sir, I am fully aware of what I am doing. Ain't no voices telling me to do bad things or an evil mother who screwed up my upbringing. Hell, I have been one of the most privileged people on the planet. Once I discovered the art -- and let's face it; the amusement -- of killing I have been given every possible type of support from my folks.

Man, I remember the first one. The gardener. Apparently mom wasn't too happy with what he had done to her award-winning roses and mom, always the efficient one, put two and two together and fifteen minutes later I had the gardener tied up in my special room in the basement. I realised later that the whole thing was a bit messy, but it was the first time I had ever done anything harmful to another person, let alone strangled someone. My mom was proud though. She even videotaped the whole thing and showed to dad when he came home from the office. Oh man, that video has been shown so many times at home and to victims that the tape in the cassette has almost deteriorated. I would show it to you but I have to hurry up and finish here.

You can however trust that even though I am in a hurry, it will not be sloppy. You are tied up hard enough to be unable to move or flinch and over the years I have become quite the expert, I dare say. And that's another thing you should be grateful for. You will be easily identifiable by your family, there will be no gore or anything like that. You will not shit yourself or piss your pants. I am that good.

I know what you're thinking; "What a fucking showoff..." but it is the truth. As long as I don't want a mess there won't be a mess. And look around you, this is expensive furniture. I have not had the time to wrap it in plastic and besides, the messier it is the louder it is. Even if I do not fear to take responsibility for my actions I would like to keep doing them at least for a few more years.

So, here it is; you will be facing that mirror over there. As you can see there's a camera rigged just beside it. What do you think of it? I got yesterday from mom. She said that digital is the way to go now. This one is apparently supposed to be able to shoot in high definition, but I haven't got around to figuring out how to use that. Just so you know, it's nothing personal.

In fact, I actually kind of like you. There is something special about you that I can't seem to put my finger on. Maybe it is how you seem to have given up all hope which makes it seem as if anything that isn't a painful, messy end to your life is a godsend. Or maybe you have realised that your death will not be some random act of insanity, but at least somewhat planned and well-executed. Excuse the pun.

Either way, I am in a hurry, just like I said. I'm in town for just a few days and my plane leaves in a couple of hours. I rarely get a chance to come back to where I grew up and when I do it's always only for a short period of time. However, my bags are packed and as soon as I'm done here I have a taxi waiting outside. I figured since mom gave me that beautiful camera, I feel obliged to give her something in return. And boy, was I glad when I ran into you at the tennis club.

So, here we are. Just you, me, the mirror and the camera. And the furniture mom and dad has put down here. Since I moved out, they keep my old basement room as some sort of storage space. Who can blame them? I know I can't.

Ah well, let's get this over with then, shall we?

I know it's been awhile since the last time I wrote here, but it's been a busy weekend. As watchman of the woods, the change of color and the fall of the leaves make this season the most hectic time of the year. They just won't stay out, these filthy, dirty humans. They are no good, mummy used to say when she was still alive. And she still says that. Lovely mummy. How I miss her. Miss seeing her face. Her voice I can still hear. They are no good. No, they are not.

If only they would leave all of this alone. They have to understand that this is my place. No trespassers. No trespassers. No trespassers are allowed in here. They are no good. They are bad, people. When mummy says someone is no good, they are bad. And bad people cannot be here.

But they still come. They still come even though they know. People disappear. I make them disappear. Me and mummy try to keep these woods clean. It is our job. It is the job mummy gave me and I am a responsible boy. A responsible man.

These people are no good. They came first to the old cabins, long ago, and did filthy things. The smoke and the noise and the drinking and the nakedness. The filthy unclean nakedness. And the stench of sweat and bodies on top of eachother.

The disapperance of those people stopped nothing. New came the following year. As if they could not remember. They disappeared too. More people after that. I began leaving what I could spare. It changed nothing.

Five years ago I burned the cabins down, with everyone still inside, naked and screaming. Mummy whispered in my ear that it was the right thing to do. She had gone to heaven the year before but came back to me as an angel. They are not good. Fire is what they deserve.

The fire stopped some but not everyone. They came with tents instead. But it made everything easier. All my tools eat through the fabric easier than they eat through dirty, naked, unclean skin. And how it burns. It needs a little help to get started but to hear the flames melt the fabric and make a cocoon smelling of burnt flesh is better. The more they suffer, the better it is.

This weekend another group arrived. Filthy women. Dirty men. Mummy saw that right away, They were no good. They had tents. They had bottles. I could hear the bottles in their bags long before I could see them. The men always the same. Trying to impress the women. The women always the same. Pretending to be impressed by the men.

It didn't take long until they were doing what they always do. And as always, they had no idea we were watching, me and mummy. They never watch the leaves change color. They are only interested in eachother. Why do they have to come here to be that? Why do they have to come to my place?

This time I used the hammer and the axe I keep in my toolshed. I don't even have to open the tent. I used to want to see their faces. Not any more. A few years ago they all started to look the same. I had seen it before. Several times. So many ways to kill them, so few faces to make as you die.

Once the handles on my tools were too wet and hard to grip, I found use for their bottles. Thinking back on it, it makes me laugh that they actually packed their own death just hours earlier and were not even aware of it. Stupid. Ugly. Dirty. Filthy.

I left a message. I always do that these days. But I don't expect them to listen. They read it. But they never ever listen. We just want to be left alone. We live here. This is our home. I have lived here with my mummy ever since I had my accident. And they are no good. They are no good. They are no good. They are no good. They are no good, mummy. Just like you have always said.

The beauty of the scalpel. The clean cut through tissue as if it were butter. Butter in layers and as each layer is penetrated and sliced the blade would need a little more pressure, but only at first. Once it is pressed through the layer it is back to the butter. When the scalpel is removed almost no trace can be found at first. Unless you know what to look for, noticing the thin line running down the skin is virtually impossible. For a little while that is, until the warm red blood pushes through and widen the line to a gap. Outside in the cold the opening of the gap is followed by steam as if the soul is escaping the body along with the blood. And if the cut was made just right that is exactly what happens.

Unfortunately, what the scalpel offers in beauty it takes away from the wonderful experience of sheer brutality. Of using bare hands to pry open an already existing hole in a body and sometimes, just sometimes, the animal, the predator, the monster takes over to such an extent that hands alone will be enough. Nails and bony fingers eagerly eating their way through flesh, the muscles in the arms and chest contracting, almost convulsing. When patience no longer exists and bones stab through the last bit and are rewarded with the warmth of what's inside. Sharp nails scraping against muscles and organs, tissue sticking underneath them. Enough DNA to lead to a conviction, but that matters little when warm blood pumps through veins underneath the skin and with each heartbeat pulsates out the newly-torn holes and onto the fingertips. In the cold night or a cold room, the soul is visible as it escapes the gaping wound and the crimson-coloured hand.

Beauty and brutality. Beauty in brutality. And you are all beautiful to me.

The tentacles! What have I unleashed unto the world?!

The fire consumes us. In eachother's arms we drink down the flames and feel our living insides blackening, coughing up soot to accompany the taste of burning flesh in our mouths.

Our nostrils smell hair as it catches on fire and before burning our skin black, the scent of meat cooking reminds us of our last meal together. I want to laugh, but it is impossible. If your convulsions are the result of laughter or not, I have no way to find out.

The sensitive fingertips feel more pain than the rest of the body and as our fists clench, we feel the skin of fingers melting and sticking to the skin in our palms. Pulling them apart, skin from the palm of our hands come loose and stick to the tips of our fingers.

It is completely dark, even though it should be bright as the brightest day. Just a couple of seconds ago it was that bright and before that I could see your eyes, the fear, but also the calmness in them and the satisfaction from being together. But now, inside what used to be the windows to our souls, we hear only boiling fluids.

If someone had told me that our hearing would be the sense that would be with us until the end, I would not have believed them. Now as I my mouth no longer tastes the ashes, my nostrils no longer smell hair or cooking meat, my fingertips have probably dug through the palms of my hands but I feel nothing and my eyes are bursting and I hear the sizzling sound as the fluid is boiled running down my cheeks.

I also hear wood cracking in the fire, people shouting, and the heavy breathing of the one I love so close to me. Her breathing becomes heavier, but slower, as each breath, once only giving life, now also takes it. A competition between two of the strongest forces in nature; life and death.

The last thing I hear are her final breaths and with the reassurance that she is at peace, I see no reason to fight it any longer. It is a losing battle either way. I let myself go.

Holding eachother's hands, we walk towards the unknown, to that which is new, to that which might not even exist. Maybe it is only one last dream. But I am still grateful for it nonetheless.