I was incorrect; I heard no footsteps. There was nobody in the house. My apologies for the little dramatic twist earlier. However, yesterday, there was; perhaps they read my blog and hunted me down. Or perhaps I was tailed. Either way.
D returned. One-letter names are so cliché; however, they create an inhumanity which is fitting for people such as D; those who lost their humanity due to the malicious intents of others. Are we not all fated to turn this way?
Regardless, it seems that our altercation in Cardiff did not leave a good impression on him. I had scurried into a living room; the mould was not so bad in here (although it was still present; I kept seeing shapes in it), and the only window had been boarded up. With one door and no other access, I could see anyone who came in. I was looking over some other tales when I heard distinct thumps coming from the direction of the door. I closed the laptop and placed it into my suitcase quietly . And then, I heard a key in the lock -- I'd broken the back door open and promptly boarded it up, and had been planning to break a window when I wanted to leave.
However, that D had a key did answer a rather important question -- there was electricity there. Obviously, since I posted from there; I shall presume the reason for it's continued supply of electricity was connected to D. That's just idle speculation, though.
Regardless, he was there. He knew where I was; I had the wisdom to take my weapon out of my suitcase before he came into the doorway. I'm not an expert on guns; I can't just ask anyone, they're illegal to own in Britain. All the same, it's better then a knife when it comes to killing vermin. The mask, obviously, was on anyway; it is better to be 'in-role' when reading other blogs.
D's physical and mental state are more fractured now then they were last month. Frothing at the mouth; the bloodshot veins looking like scars in his eyes. His hair had grown longer and ragged; his clothing, simply falling apart on his frame.
What he said is of little consequence, so I shall not quote it word-for-word. He asked me to take off the mask; I refused. I asked him what happened; he claimed that a god had saved him. At this point, his voice distorted; a decidedly female voice spoke.
"Yes. I saved him."
I don't know what that was; if D truly is a Pupil, perhaps this is the Teacher? Whatever. I ignored it at the time, and I said that God was a myth. He laughed, and said that a god had spoke to him; that he was the Lord's disciple; that he was an experiment. I laughed at him, and that breathy female voice spoke again. We continued talking; I, D and the other-D. I do not think my brain was working at optimal capacity. It took me a long time to grasp that this... thing was masquerading as my friend. The other-D taunted me, and my temper flew off the handle.
I raised my gun and shot him. Two hands, one finger on the trigger. The handgun could store six, seven bullets. That's how many I had in there, anyway. That gunshot... I've shot before, but I didn't recall such a loud cacophony; I am surprised that my eardrums did not implode and cave in, leaving me deaf. Nevertheless, it worked; my aim was true. The bullet lodged itself somewhere in D's chest -- I saw his eyes widen (not a pretty sight) and heard him sobbing. Then the female voice spoke again.
"Hurt me. More."
As if pulled by strings, D leaped forward; he's produced a knife from nowhere. I took the lesser of two evils and moved out of his way -- an inexpert fighter in his current state, he soon hit the floor. I used the gun again; such a terrible, terrible weapon. With just one click (and this time, the shot was almost whisper-silent) and some recoil, I ended his life.
No, no, I didn't. His life was already long since over. He'd been dead for months. I simply stopped him from moving.
I buried him. Or, rather, I flung him into a pit in the back garden and kicked dirt on him. He didn't live in glory; why should we have died in it? I packed my things once more, and left. Someone may have heard the shot, and I did not intend to be arrested for this.
I'm on the move again now. I'm planning to go into a hotel for a few days. I'm really, really tired.
I am tempted to philosophise about my life and my choices. But what's the point? I'm trapped on this road I am on anyway; all that has changed is that events once in my future are now in my past. That's all.
So, why do I want to cry...? Such pithy emotions are unbecoming of an unremitting traveller. I must endure. I must move past this.