He’d go for a walk at some point, clear the cobwebs, get back to being totally focused. Perhaps come back and write in his diary. That little book was a godsend. Like, as soon as he started writing, all the angst went away, spilling onto the page via ink instead of swirling in his body and making him feel all kinds of wrong. Cheryl was asleep now. She’d need some more drugs soon. He’d given her a small dose, just enough so that she would get a solid hour or two of sleep while he sat on the sofa and meditated, waiting for a sign or for Mr Clever to tell him it was The Time. He always liked that bit. Got to be someone totally different, didn’t he, or perhaps who he was supposed to be. Yeah, that was it. That was what his peRsonAl joUrnEy was all about. Becoming himself. How many women would he have to kill in order to be his true self all the time? Or was the killing ritual the only thing that enabled him to be himself? He didn’t know, and that’s what made this road he traveled so interesting.
