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BLACKMANE Chapter Two

I must speak.

There is something reassuring about seeing these words, now. By typing them they become real. They are no longer in my head alone, where they might be a delusion, or madness. I tap on this keyboard and the words appear, and by so doing I give them a permanence, or at least the illusion of it. They can be disregarded but not denied. You, reading this, you cannot deny that you have seen them, or read them. And because you have read them, I have been heard. Even if only for this one brief moment, I have spoken and you have heard.

I cannot hold a pencil. These hands of mine, which are not hands at all, are not capable of putting letters on paper. But I tap on this keyboard. Many mistakes; I must delete and type them over and over. My fingers, which are not fingers, are too large for the keys. I strike two or three at the time. It is difficult, but I am patient. This device, this machine is giving me a voice. I am grateful.

I am grateful to you, whoever you are, because you are reading my words. I thank you because you are listening.
I have so many words in my head. So many questions, and no answers for them. I can read, also. I have read books, I have read the words of others, but they have had no answers for me. Perhaps you, who are reading this, will have the answer to my greatest question, the most important question of all for me: Who am I?

Not “what am I?” I already know the answer to that question. I have known for some time. But that one answer does not satisfy. I know full well what I am. But that is not all. I am more. I have these thoughts, these words in my head, these questions. I must have answers.

I can see my reflection in the computer screen. My words appear as I type, written upon my face. I see my face, and know that it is not a face. A man has a face. And I am not a man. But I have a man’s thoughts in my head. These words are my proof of that.

I look down at my hands, which are not hands at all, which cannot even hold a pencil. They can scarce type these words. They are not hands. A man would have hands. I know that I am not a man. Yet I have a mind, which causes me to type these words. I must speak. I must be heard.

Can you answer my question, you, whoever you are? Can you tell me who I am? I must know. I must have the answer.

By The Evil Cheezman

WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS (www.evilcheezproductions.blogspot.com, www.facebook.com/evilcheezproductions), specializing in theatrical performances and haunted attractions. He has written, produced and directed (and occasionally acted in) over a dozen plays, most of them in the Horror and Crime genres. His first novel, THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER: WEREWOLF, is available for purchase at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/734763

MORTUI VELOCES SUNT!

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