The pain of unrequited love can be throbbing, searing, a complete torturing set of emotions. There is nothing more agonizing than the loss of first real love. A love that was so good to be true I can’t even believe I actually had it. A flawless love with a flawless man. Not anymore. This whole fantasy of a lifetime relationship spent with a complicated and sophisticated attractive man was simply, a fantasy. I was sucked into it almost immediately and hardly had any time to question or process what was going on around me. I was so mesmerized by Matt’s appearance and personality that I gave myself up completely to him. I trusted him because he was as fucked up as I was, and I knew I would always be understood by him, not judged.
Nothing lasts forever, though. When something good happens always expect it to fall apart before you even know it. I am scarred and wounded. I’ll never be able to move on from this. I set very high expectations and left everything behind to pursue a relationship with someone I stubbornly thought was the one for me. And now, no matter where I go, no matter where I look, I’ll always sense his creeping presence haunting me. Even if he dies, he’ll still be there, somewhere. Matt’s attraction towards me was undeniable. However, he wasn’t attracted to the person I was before, but the person he hoped I’d become. A murderer. He was attracted to the potential I had in me to become an even greater social outcast, all while keeping a mask of sanity in public to pretend I was normal. Matt wanted to turn me into a cold blooded killer. He wanted to train me and expose me to his heinous world. He wanted to involve me in his crimes. And there’s no better pick than a vulnerable young man who longed for acceptance and a sense of belonging.
It’s Day 3. Ethan and I are staying at a cheap, unpretentious motel; a family-run motor inn called Motel 6. Our room is particularly small; the only one available. I’ve been spending long wakeful nights, thinking, replaying recent events in my head. During the day, me and Ethan would stay inside, keeping ourselves warm from the harsh winter. I would cook us breakfast in the morning then I would lounge restlessly on the couch, avidly reading old art and fashion magazines left in the room, eating chocolate, and beating time to the 80s music playing on the half-broken dusty radio while Ethan sat on the floor or in the bathtub and played with his toys. I thought about going out to the motel lounge or bar, but I feel so drained of my energy that I’d rather sit in my room and keep a low profile. Matt called me twice today and I didn’t respond. If I don’t get back to him by tomorrow morning, he’ll definitely get concerned, so I need to think of something to do before things get bad.
In some disturbing way, his basement “Murder Room” really troubled me. I keep having these awful nightmares when I finally get to sleep during the last few remaining hours of the night, right before dawn. I feel a chill to the bone marrow every time I picture myself in it, going through all the mess. I can’t help but imagine his killing sprees: How he planned them, how he chose his victims, and how he killed them. All the photos I’ve seen are now seared in my mind. Just when I thought nothing rattled me anymore, I’ve come across something drastically darker than anything I’ve ever dealt with before. It’s different because unlike everything else I’ve been through, it still haunts me. There’s no way I’d regain my sanity now.