Invasion by Mary E. Palmerin, Poppet

than the pope kills heretics, then I tried the radio. Same shit. Christmas carols, Boney M, Michael Buble, and every cheesy xmas tune accosted my hearing. The only time I left it on was when someone had the foresight to play AC/DC’s Mistress for Christmas. Now that’s a sentiment I can solidly get behind. Every pun intended. It’s unfortunate but listening to xmas gives me bile inducing rage, because now I associate it with Carly’s tear stained journal entries. I have no memories, but I have hers.
    Maybe I’m a guardian sent to her in her hour of need. I hope so. It’s nuts, but I’ve got no one and she’s got no one – so why can’t we just rebuild something solid without all the fuckery?
    Weren’t man and woman created to be a cohesive unit? Isn’t that what we are all raised to believe? I feel it sometimes, especially now, in a place where if I walk into her bedroom I can smell her; when I open her closet and run a finger over the hangers like piano notes, releasing scents of a female instead of music. It is music though. It’s a symphony for a barren heart.
    She is the deluge the arid soil of my being has been unknowingly longing for. I didn’t know it until I fell into her microcosm, and found that in all the universe this place feels like home – because she’s in it. Her presence and touch is everywhere, surrounding me with maternal warmth.
    Glancing at the clock in the kitchen I take a last deep breath, leaving behind the creature comforts of the past weeks to hide downstairs after switching off all the room fresheners and resetting the windows, undoing the blackout.
    I have a back up plan in place just in case things go south fast. I have no clue why, but Mark thought it would be fortuitous to leave his motorbike behind. Maybe the new wife doesn’t think it’s a suitable vehicle for a baby – I have a chuckle, imagining his shit life. Anyhow, it’s my escape. If I need to evacuate in a hurry it’s there. I used some of the money from my generous dead-donors to fill the gas tank. I checked the oil lines, brakes, and made sure it has the snow tires on. It’s got storage compartments which I stocked with emergency supplies, a survival blanket, and a medical kit.
    It never hurts to be prepared.
    If I had off-road wheels like that I sure as shit wouldn’t be leaving them in my ex’s garage – unless that was his plan. He wants her back so gave himself a reason to return. After hearing his multiple messages via the P.A system known as a fucking answering machine, I can see through this guy’s reasoning like rice paper. It’s just as flimsy. He’s a douche, a cunt, and a dipshit. I’d love to meet him just to put that dog down.
    But I pray the night sweats and brutal dreams stay away. The last fucking thing I need is to have Carly calling the cops because she has a screaming stranger in her basement. I’m hoping that the floor between my den and her bedroom will be enough of a barrier to stop sound from traveling to her in the dark hours after midnight.
    Trudging down the concrete steps now swept of evidence I consider my predicament. The only money I have comes from the two people I murdered while here. It’s not like they gave me a choice. I know killing doesn’t gnaw at my conscience, it seems it has zero effect on my wellbeing and state of mind, which makes me wonder just how much of a psychopath I am when I’m not on guard.
    I didn’t mean to kill Madi Trenton, but she died because I had a moment of freedom to simply indulge my need for a woman. The more I live a celibate life the more I understand why so many women are trafficked for this express purpose. We need to get laid like we need to breathe. We wake up in first gear every fucking morning. The instinct is hardwired and I think I could easily be the kinda dude who takes what he needs and introduces himself after. I’m not a nice guy, and I don’t see why that’s an issue. Nice is fucking overrated.
    Reading Carly’s work