Confession from the Crack

13,753 Words

by b. strong

This story has been entered into the following contest(s):

First of all, I must give you a brief description of myself. That way, when you call me a lunatic, or say how fucking crazy the shit is, you'll know how I came to be this way. I was that fat kid in grade school, you remember, the one even you picked on when you were with your buddies. I never had any buddies, just one best friend, Jerry Lane. He got picked on as much, if not more than me back in those days. We hung pretty tight in junior high. That's when we started up a club for rejects, and got the government to fund us under the Just Say No program. It was our secret little revenge on all of the stoners, jocks, and preps during high school. We used the money to have our own fun, which at the time seemed fun. Now I half believe that my angst that welled up inside me and made me a crazy was there all along. While thinking we were better than all of the "socials," we were actually a group of lonely kids getting lonelier together. We only really met at meetings, which, we were always the only ones that attended them. Outside of school, if one of us saw someone else from the group, we would say "hi" or "what's up" as we passed each other by. I guess that was better than when you passed by a coolie and he had his car load of brutes just gave you hard looks.

Anyway, back to my upbringing, which I will try at best to make brief. God forbid, I bore the would be interested with the rubbish that clouds up my mind from thinking through a normal thought. So I was the zit faced fat kid and I never got laid in high school - big deal, right? I had lots of loser friends, and eventually, we figured out that the best way to spend the Just Say No money was to buy lots of pot and smoke it all the time. That's when our group got tighter, really. There were a few stand outs, but they kept their mouth's shut. Rejects have a kind of mutual understanding when it comes to that sort of shit. Court reporter, cop reading this confession, you know what I mean, you were there. Sorry.

So, these meetings were just giant burn downs, and there wasn't anything to talk about except deep interpersonal things. Like getting laid. Every fucker there, boy and girl, said at least one thing about wishing they could get laid. It should have occurred to someone that maybe the rejects should just all fuck each other and stop complaining! But all the girls had seen too many Tom Cruise flicks, and all the boys whacked off four times a day to high quality (and I do mean the raunchiest) internet porn. It was sad - even the rejects had too high of expectations about sex. Well, we had each other, and that mattered. I mean, it was good to get all of the envy off your chest - every time you seen a jock making out with a hottie in the hallway, you wished that you were the one grabbing onto those ass cheeks, tonguing those plump red juicy lips, rubbing yourself against those pert tities . . . but you weren't, and so you had to tie it all into a knot inside yourself. I never went to parties, just heard about them. Heard about who puked, who did acid, who had the skunky greenweed, who fucked Gena Thomson and her slutty friend. By the way, I have to give a lot of credit to those two, I mean, for my condition. You see, while everyone dreamed about getting smothered by a locker room full of naked cheerleaders, they knew that was out of reach. But in those days, there was Gena and her friend . . . I can't seem to remember her name. They got their reputation by doing the unthinkable. They went around during the summer and hooked up all of the popular guys with the experience that will last them a lifetime's worth of quality memories: Gena and her friend were into threesomes, but they only did guys who had girlfriends. It was a shame for all the other guys in town, me included. I even paid this one girl to pose as my girlfriend for a week in hopes that they might hook me up. They were hot, too, let me tell you! They were the slutty types that had bodies that emitted sexual craving - tucking themselves into fishnets and miniskirts every day.

I keep going off into tangents, sorry. High school was long for me. I look back, and those four years seem like they were ten. I got out of high school and ended up working in a pickle factory. It was my aunt that told me about the job, and I'll never forgive her. I shouldn't say that, I mean, I do hate the job, but the factory has been good to me. After working there six years, I was promoted all the way up to plant manager. I make good money, and I live pretty decently - alone. That's the whole problem. All the people from high school, they faded into their own mediocre existences. Each one has a story or two every time I bump into them at the grocery store or the mall. They didn't change much, any of them, but then, I guess, neither did I.

I think I should talk about the loneliness. It seemed like the whole root of it was from living at my parent's house. I mean, most guys are out of there by the time they're 20. Not me. I was always in debt somehow. My parents never bought me shit, so you know. I was always borrowing money from my rich uncle so I could fix my piece of shit Ford Escort every other week when it broke down. It wasn't that it was my weed habit getting the best of my paychecks.

True, my dealer was Ted Bosley, a jock from high school who worked at a gas station in town. I know, you probably think I'm an idiot because Ted always ripped me off. He would do it just because I aloud it to happen, I guess. How pathetic! I remember a few times, up at the gas station, his two or three loser friends would be hanging around up there, bullshitting and what not. I would ask him if he had a bag and he would say out loud, so his friends could laugh, "yeah, but hold on, let me go pinch it down to size for ya Raymound," and he did, too. Right in front of me. Finally, I put an end to that. It was during my younger sister's open house, see, she was a big pot head, too. Only, she was popular, kind of, in her own way. She had this little anti-prep movement going and her whole crew was like a pack of hippies right out of Woodstock. Anyway, she got the money from the "family" open house and gave me one hundred bucks to get her an ounce with. She was planning on smoking the whole thing in a Cheech and Chong paper she had that came in a Cheech and Chong vinyl album from the seventies.

Well, I tried some other people first, then I called the gas station. That piece of shit was there, and glad to hear my voice. I asked him if he had an ounce for a hundred and he got even happier sounding. I knew something wasn't right, but I got in my rusted out piece of shit Escort and drove up there anyway. I told him, when I got there, that it was for my sister, and asked him very kindly if he would, "hook it up at least so that it weighed." He let out a big laugh, and said, "oh, it weighs . . . in fact, I think I made it a little heavy because I thought it was for you."

I took the bag and gave him the money. As soon as I rounded the corner, I opened the bag up and looked at the weed. It looked like an ounce, that much I was sure of - but an ounce of what? It looked really really green, but there was only a couple of small fluffy buds in it, and they were darker looking than the rest of it. I smelled it, and it smelled okay, but not quite like weed. I guess I really looked like a total fucking idiot when I gave the bag to my sister. It was a bag full of stems, seeds, and a couple of shitty brownweed buds, and the rest was parsley. I actually started to cry. My sister had a lot of older guy friends, three of which, were there when she opened the bag. They were from a town about ten miles north of where we lived, so they weren't known to many of the local dicks. One of them, Raleigh Norman, was a big guy. Not all muscle, but enough to make most men back down if he was pissed and wanted to fuck with you. He was a big death metal dude, always wearing black tee shirts with corpses on them. He had long jet black hair and a tattoo of a pentagram on his left earlobe. He also wore black eyeliner and black lipstick on nights when he "dressed up." That night was no exception, he even had black fingernail polish on his nails. I told him about Ted, and how he always fucked me over, but this was the worst, and last straw. Raleigh told me that he remembered who Ted was because he was getting gas there one day and Ted's jock loser friends were up there, buying beer. Raleigh was dressed up that night day, big time, because he was picking up the crew for the Marilyn Manson concert. The group of jocks was too much for Raleigh to handle, so he silently accepted all of their comments about how he looked like a girl and how only sissies paint their nails, and that he probably was one of those really big guys that had a really tiny dick. Then they did something that stuck in his head - they started running their stereotype Marilyn Manson sucks comments at him one after another, ending with, "you're going to Hell you cock smoking Marilyn Manson looking sissy fag!" being yelled at him as he pulled off. Ted was laughing along with them.

Ted wasn't laughing when our little crew paid him a visit. We planned it out to so it on a Tuesday afternoon, when the town is as dead as it gets - which, in that town's case, is pretty fucking dead. Ted was working alone, and his buddies were probably all at their perspective parents houses, sleeping all day so they could do their typical beer drinking ignorant shit all night. It was a nightly occurrence for them. Raleigh and his two pals came by and I followed them up there. They hung back while I pumped my gas, and then they gave me a minute before making an entrance.

"What's up, fat boy, did you get really stoned off of that shit, or what?" he said, smiling.

"Here's five for the gas," I said, and then the three gloomy looking long hairs walked in, all of them dressed in black.

"What's up, stupid jock fuck?" Raleigh said, grabbing a can of beer out of a little barrel of ice that was set up by the counter. He cracked it and took a long drink, drinking about half of it.

The smallest one of the three, James, was a little twerp. When he acted like a tough guy, it made people like Ted pissed off feeling, because he was so tiny, you really couldn't fuck with him, it wouldn't feel right. Anyway, he approached the counter and threw that bag of parsley up on it, right in front of Ted.

"Yeah, I want a refund. I lost my receipt, but you should remember my buddy Ray over here bought it for me, Saturday night," he said, acting like a gangster.

Ted just looked at him, and I was loving it! He looked scared! It was great.

Raleigh's not one to bullshit around. He threw the rest of his beer and the can it was in at Ted, hitting him square in the forehead. Ted flinched and his hands went up to block it, but not quick enough. The can made a splash when it hit him, and James flinched because some of the spray hit him.

"Listen you fucking gas pumping loser, we want the money back for that bag. So cough it up or things are going to get really messy," Raleigh said, keeping his eye on Ted as he grabbed another beer out of the barrel.

"I . . . I . . . I don't have a hundred dollars . . . " Ted said. He was scared - and I was floating in the clouds of the whole thing. Plus we smoked a couple of bowls before we went up there.

Raleigh looked at Mike, the other kid from the same town as Raleigh. He nodded, and Mike went over to the Open sign and flipped it over so it said closed.

"You better find it really fast," Raleigh said.

Ted hit a button and the cash register made a nice ding sound that seemed to sustain longer than usual. It was a beautiful sound. He clumsily shuffled out five twenties and handed them to James.

"Thank you ass lick," James said. He turned around as if he was leaving, and stopped, looking up at Raleigh. "Go ahead, kick that worthless fucker's teeth down his throat."

Raleigh stepped forwards and reached across for him, but he slipped back too fast. Ted went for the open end of the counter, but Mike was already there. Raleigh walked towards it. As he and Mike entered the area behind the counter, Ted looked at the option of jumping the counter and running past me. Then he looked back at them. They were closing in fast. He looked back my way and jumped the counter without thinking twice. I grabbed him in a bear hug. Raleigh and Mike were coming back around.

"Let go of me fat ass! You're going to fucking DIE for this shit fatty!" he said, but I held on tightly. It was my moment for revenge, and I wasn't about to let it slip through my fingers.

I turned him over to Raleigh and Mike, and they beat his ass pretty good, even little James got a couple of kicks in. We didn't mess the store up at all. I picked up Raleigh's beer cans and there wasn't a trace of evidence in the whole store that could prove we were there.

Pretty cool, sure, but that wasn't the revenge I had planned for him. The revenge I had was one that I thought of for a long time. I had to wait until things cooled off before it would work. Things did cool off, too. The way they always do in the long haul. I stopped going through Ted to get weed, he never made good on his death threat, and I never really crossed paths with him again. I think it was about a month later. I knew that Ted always had a half pound of weed on Wednesday so he could sell ounces to all of the shop rats that got paid on Thursday. He always kept it in a duffle bag under the counter.

I called the police and reported seeing the male attendant with the name Ted on his shirt selling drugs out of the gas station. I told them who I was, but I told them that I wouldn't testify and I wanted to remain anonymous. They had no problem with that. I know, narcing is fucked up, but hey, so is what he was doing to me my whole life. They set him up with a bust and nailed his ass with about five ounces and three hundred some odd dollars in tens and twenties. I also heard that he had a couple of eight balls and some points of coke in that duffle bag. I was sorry about that, and I still feel a little remorse, I mean, he is still in prison, and all. Probably be there for another five years or so. They gave him ten to twenty for distribution. Oh well, fuck him.

I think I was talking about loneliness . . . yes, that's it. I had to get out of my parent's house. It was the epitome of my lonely existence. I was just a shell there, working, eating, shitting, sleeping, and whacking off . . . oh my God! Was I ever whacking! I used to smuggle in rolls of toilet paper to clean up the cum, then just toss the wad underneath my mattress, between the mattress and box springs. I figured I would clean them all out at once one day, kind of hit the reset button on the whole process . . . well, I kind of let it go for a while, and the lumpiness of the toilet paper balls began to push its way to the top. Whenever my back hurt, no matter where I was at the time, the vision of the toilet paper ball lumps would pop into my head. Pretty fucking sick, huh? Come on! I know I'm not the only kid that ever lived at his parents for five years after high school! I'm sure some of you others have similar whack off stories to share . . .

I had to get out of there, you see, and it took a great deal of discipline and sacrifice for me to be able to afford it. It took two years from the time I started saving. In those two years, I received a drunk driving ticket. It was bullshit, really, I only had like, two drinks at a going away party. The cops were basically camping out around the corner of the hall, busting people as they left. What a farce. As a psychological punishment for still living at home at the age of 22, my parents reinstated their nine o' clock on the weekday and midnight on the weekend curfew. They said it was because my father needed his rest and me coming in late at night woke him up - which was a total fucking farce in and of itself. We lived only three streets from train tracks. Now if a train won't wake a man up, nothing would. True enough - I seen him sleep on the couch like a baby while my mother ran the vacuum cleaner in the living room.

I had one date while still living there. Her name was Sandra. She wasn't the prettiest girl to look at, but hey, I was beyond anything that most people ever dreamed of what desperate was. I moved too fast, and she freaked out. I remember asking her for a kiss goodnight. Then, when she refused, I knew it was our last date. We were sitting in my parent's driveway, she had the car in reverse with her foot on the breaks, so I knew she was anxious to leave. I quoted some cheesy line from a movie I had recently seen at the time, it was, "so I guess a blowjob is out of the question," and she just tilted her head in shame of me.

She thwarted my hormones pretty bad. The only thing left to do was to hit the computer and go online. All of those beautiful hot chicks bearing all, spreading wide, and doing the craziest things. A guy like me gets to wondering how many of these chicks would be available for sex if they weren't out in LA or Hollywood trying to "make it big."

One thing the lonely man who never got laid in his life wonders about is what that stuff smells like. I mean, Christ, you hear it all the time in the movies, on songs, and guys talking about it around school and work. And then you hear guys who say that they are addicted to eating pussy . . . man, what a terribly tormenting thing that is! Of course, guys are only talking about the really hot chicks when it comes to eating pussy. If they are talking about a fat chick, or a girl who's been around the block a few too many times, they're talking about blow jobs. What that must feel like! I did everything imaginable to simulate what that might feel like before I even got out of high school! I mean, I've basically stuck my dick in some things that I'm not about to reveal in this confession. But I never fucked any animals, if I did, than this would be a different story altogether. I accidentally stumbled upon some pictures on the net, and let me tell you, even I will say that those are activities that should never occur.

I watched a porn movie when I was saving up for the move out. It was pretty weird, I mean, watching it in my parent's house. They were gone for the day, I wasn't worried about getting caught. It just felt strange, I couldn't sit on my dad's favorite chair, or even the couch - where my mother slept most nights. I tried my hardest to block out the weirdness, but it just kept occurring to me. Like, there would be a part in the movie where there wasn't anything going on, and I would turn and look right at pictures on the wall of my father and mother's wedding, or younger pictures of me and my sister. I got through it though, and it was the closest thing I ever got to actually getting laid.

I spied on my sister getting laid countless times before she moved out. I think about it now, and regret it the most. I think she knew I was watching some of those times. In fact, I knew she knew - what I'm suspicious about still is that I think she enjoyed being watched. I even took some Polaroid's of her sunbathing nude when she fell asleep one day out back. I hated the guilt associated with these situations, and it still rises to the surface daily. When my sister turned sixteen, I was nineteen. That's when I first started getting in-between the washing machine and her bedroom. It started out small. One day, while she was at school and everyone else was at work, I was in her bedroom, looking at pictures of her friends, trying to find something new to whack off to. Then I scanned around on the floor, and there they were. A pair of my little sister's thong underpanties, with a crusty looking thick stain on them. They were black see thru thingies with crazy spider web designs everywhere. I stared at them for about two minutes straight, I think, and remembered that she had some guy over the night before. They never actually fucked, but there was some heavy making out going on in there, I remember it bothering me - keeping me awake.

I picked them up, and I swear to God even now that I smelled the most beautiful smell in the world before I even had them two feet in front of my face. My cock was as hard as it can get, and the tip was so wet that there was a large stain forming on the front of my sweatpants. I put them up to my nose with my left hand while I reached for my dick with the other. It all happened at once - I got an extremely powerful whiff of the panties at the same time as I touched my dick - and I came just like that.

That's how the cycle began. I started spying on her having sex later that same month. By then, I had this process where I would intercept a new pair of her dirty panties about every three days. I don't think she ever caught on, I knew my mother's laundry schedule like second nature. Anyway, I heard her having sex like, later the same week as the first panties incident. It was a different guy - the other guy's older friend. He wasted no time, and their sex cries woke me right up. My mother was doing the dishes, and my father was passed out on the chair. I went downstairs and got a glass of Coke in the kitchen. I could still faintly hear them. I wondered if my mother knew. It seemed like the biggest deal in the world, and if she got caught, she would get in really really big trouble. That was how it seemed the first time. And the second, and the third. The fourth time, about two weeks after the first guy, she was on yet another one of the “guy who didn't go all the way” ‘s friends. This time, it was a guy from the neighborhood. She took him right up to the bedroom one night, while I was watching TV with my parents. Twenty minutes later, during a low volume break in the movie's action, the sound of my sister moaning and growning could clearly be heard in the background. I looked at my mom and dad. They just sat there, their gazes fixed on the TV, with no expressions on their faces.

The next day, when everyone was gone, I came home from work early. I went into the tool shed and got out the drill. You see, my sister's bedroom was the room right next to mine. In her room, there are hundreds of posters and torn out pages from rock magazines plastered everywhere. I found a spot where there was a gap, behind her little stereo table. I drilled a ½ inch hole through both sheets of drywall. Then I lined her stereo up just right so she couldn't see the hole real easy. On my side, there was a table with a lamp on it. It didn't take too long for me to be able to test it, either. That same night, she brought over yet another guy. This time, I didn't know who the guy was. He looked older than me. They both went upstairs right away. This time, my parents were both passed out in the living room. I was eating cereal in the kitchen when they started fucking. I heard them clearly. That's when I figured my parents had a pretty good idea about what she was doing. I went up there, slid the lamp aside, and looked into the hole. They did it with the light on, so I could see everything pretty clearly. I didn't masturbate that time, I just watched. It was the strangest thing in the world. I guess I figured she caught on to my little peep hole the day she moved her stereo cabinet to the other side of the room about a year later. The funny thing is that she never said anything about it. She put a picture from a magazine over the hole. This stung me, like it was her subtle way of saying, "I know what you're doing, quit now and I won't bust you out."

Of course, the sting wore off about two weeks later. She had a steady boyfriend at the time. Some preppy rich guy that was totally the opposite in every way from my sister. I went into her room when she was out one night to fetch some fresh dirty panties when I couldn't avoid looking at the picture on the wall, covering the hole. It was cluttered in with about twenty others, some being plastered over the previous layers. I walked over to it. I guess I figured I could just slide it over a bit, and no one would be able to visually tell the difference. It was foolish logic, because she knew the hole was there. She covered it herself. In reality, she probably looked at it every time she woke up and every time right before she went to sleep, because it was in plain view from her pillow. I knew these things, but I had a tiny drop of logic to justify my actions, and that is all it that was required. I moved it up and over about two inches, and the hole was fully opened again. I went over and laid down on her bed, to try to see the hole. It wasn't really as noticeable as one might think. I went into my room, and placed a white piece of paper on my side of the hole. I went back to her bed and laid down again. It was difficult to tell that the paper was there, but if you stared long enough, you could tell it wasn't just the inside of the wall - there was a definite hole in the drywall on my side as well.

She looked eye to eye with me that same night, just before she turned out the lights to go to sleep. It frightened me in a weird sort of way. I guess I started to watch her during other times about then. Not just when she was having sex with the many guys she fucked those couple of years, but just about any time I knew she was either sleeping during the day or getting dressed or undressed. There were several times that she caught me gazing, but nothing was ever said. Eventually, the weirdness of it wore off, and I was able to act normal around her again, you know, like we became friends. We talked about everything, EXCEPT the hole. We got high together daily. Just before she moved out, she was single and seemed to be getting more and more into herself. It is during this era that she did a lot of masturbating. I think she was doing it to further entertain my little perverted peep show. She did it with dildos, old dolls, and even fruits and vegetables.

When she finally moved out, it was with her best friend. I was glad for one reason, there was no more guilt. No matter how much she did or did not know or care about the hole, the guilt still burnt inside of me just as hot. There was a period of withdrawal, I won't try to deny that. I held out on three especially creamy pairs of her panties, keeping them hidden very securely in the chest on the foot of my bed. I had them for the rest of the time living at my parents house.

The week I moved out was a time of private and interpersonal purging. First, I took care of the toilet paper monster between my mattress and box springs. Then I took the bed itself to the dump with my uncle's truck. I plastered over the holes in the walls, hoping that my parents would never give the holes much thought. Then there was my pornomag collection. I had them hidden throughout the entire house, and by the time I gathered them all into one location, it was a very heavy box full. I gave this treasure to my cousin Eddy. He, too, was a fat boy. He was fourteen, the perfect age to inherit a fortune in pornography. My computer had its own heavy load of porn stashed away on the hard drives, CD ROMS, and zip disks that were scattered all around the room. In a fit or purging lunacy, I went through and deleted every last kilobyte of it. Throwing the CD ROMs into the garbage bag that had lots of doodles I used to whack off to - pretty lame doodles at that. Stick people fucking, my ideas of what a pussy actually looked like. They were lame. I can't believe I ever even got hard looking at them. Then I stumbled upon those three pairs of panties. One was a thong - a yellow pair with little daisy prints on it. One was a pair of bikini panties, pink with little silky frills all over them. If I was eighty pounds or so lighter, I might have tried them on, they were cute. Then the black lace ones - they were my favorite. They still had a tiny hint of that smell in them. I breathed on them out of my mouth - like you do when you are trying to fog up your glasses to wipe them off. I smelled them for one last time. I couldn't resist. I checked to make sure my door was locked, and then I took off my clothes and got the bottle of Astroglide out of the drawer and had one final session with the panties. After I came, I used them to clean the cum up, and then I threw them in the garbage bag, burying them under the papers and old books.

I moved into my new place a couple of months shy of a year ago exactly. It was a house that I was renting to own. The house was simple, really. It was in the country a bit, on a dirt road. It had a garage, a shed, an upstairs which consisted of a big bedroom, a smaller bedroom, a bathroom, and a large landing where the stairs came up in the middle. The downstairs consisted of a kitchen, living room, bathroom, and a dining room. Then there was the basement. It was as large as the square part of the house. Where the laundry room was, there was a cubby hole cut into the dirt. The cubby hole was filled about half way full with dirt. The door leading to it was a 4 foot square window cut half way up the wall, where pipes and ducts ran through. The walls were cinderblock and the floors were poured cement. The house had all wood floors, and it was equipped with the basic appliances.

The purging seemed to be effective. I no longer got overly horny. I paced myself - beating off only once each night, before sleeping, and once a day at work. There was always a fresh batch of temps, like, every other week. The girl from the temp agency was very hot, and very flirtatious. Her flirting was borderline sexual harassment. It was annoying to look at it that way, because she knew no one would ever call it sexual harassment. If I was flirting the way she did, and flaunting myself the way she did with her short skirts and cleavage revealing V-cuts - I would be up on charges and out of a job. I can't count how many times I spanked off thinking about her! The batches of temps going in and out of that place always had one or two cute girls fresh out of one of the many local small town high schools. I would pace around the factory, looking at their asses through their tight blue jeans, watching their tits bounce around in their tight tee shirts. One girl I recall always wore tank tops, and she had some nice ones, too. I seen her nipples more than once while she was bending or leaning over working.

Like I said, getting out of my parent's house was a relief valve for sexual frustration. I never whacked my dick till it was soar living in my new house. I had a TV, a stereo, a few CD's, a VCR, and a couple of hobbies I picked up from sheer boredom. One was fixing broken furniture. This hobby turned my basement into a workshop. It was more than a passing interest, and some of the pieces were worth money. I got to know the old lady down the street, the owner of an antique store. The other hobby was lizards. I bought an iguana and a savannah monitor. Eventually, I had my house temperature fixed at 85 degrees, and the lizards just roamed freely. Currently, I have three iguanas, two monitors, four geckos, a swift, and two chameleons.

Everything was going smoothly for about the first three months of living there. That is when I first discovered the crack. The Crack. Seems like it deserves a more descriptive title, but for the purpose of getting this confession out in a quick and comprehensive manor, I'll keep it simple. The crack itself was weird, because it was never really a defined crack that existed in an object that it was attached to. It was a crack in the floor boards one day, and two days later, it was a crack in the bottom of a coffee mug. The first time it got my attention, it was a crack on my coffee table. As I dozed off after work one day, I began hearing the sounds of this girl, moaning and groaning, like she was getting fucked really hard. The sound was isolated and hollow sounding. I looked around the room, wondering where it came from. Then I seen some light coming from a crack in the table. Its appearance was strange, I mean, it flickered as if there was a TV inside there playing. I looked down at it from about three feet above, and could only see movement. I got down on my knees and put my eye right up to it.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There was a girl lying on my sister's bed! The view from the crack was almost the same view I had from the hole. She was naked and fucking herself really hard with a dildo. I was shocked! She looked about sixteen years old, healthy, perky - real cute. Her pussy was nice and juicy looking, shaved free of all pubic hair. My sister's old room was not as it was before, but as it is now - with all of her things removed. She left her old bed and covers when she moved out, and my parents pretty much left the room alone. So how was this possible? I didn't question it, I just took advantage of it. I ran upstairs, grabbed my Astroglide, and ran back to the coffee table, undoing my belt and kicking my shoes off. Again, I got on my knees and put my eye up to the crack. She was still there, still moaning and groaning, still slamming that dildo in and out of her cunt. I whacked for about two minutes, and when I came, the crack began to fade away. It physically sealed itself back up, slowly muffling her moans of passion out. Then it was silent, and there was no evidence at all that the crack was ever there.

Two days went by before the crack resurfaced. This time, the crack was opened up in a seam on my coach. I gazed into it after noticing it from the kitchen. It was the same girl still on my sister's old bed, only she had a larger dildo and a small one. Using Astroglide, she worked the smaller one into her asshole as she was using the larger one on her cunt. She had her ass towards the crack, because I couldn't see her face. It looked like she had lost some weight, because her ass was much tighter to the bone than I remembered. I didn't even bother grabbing the lube, I just unzipped my pants and started going at it. I savored it, making it last longer and longer. It lasted ten minutes, and in that time, the girl never turned around. She was always facing the other way, working the dildos with both hands. She was moaning and groaning, but they weren't real sounding, like she was doing it because she was told to. I came and the crack sealed itself over again.

The crack was good therapy, it seemed. Since it opened, I stopped whacking off at work, which freed up my guilty conscious at least that one affliction. I even had a thought about the crack at work before it started popping up every day. It was like, a week after the second time that it opened up again. This time, I was in the shower, and I could swear it was coming from the shower head itself, you know, the girl's moans and groans. Of course, I thought I was hearing things - easy to do when you are really thinking about something and there is a shower running one foot over your head. But I turned it off, and the girl was clearly making her passionate cries through a tiny crack in the shower head between two holes. I got on the ledge of the tub and peered in. Sure enough, it was her again, on my sister's bed. She definitely lost a lot of weight, and her complexion was very pale. The hair had grown back on her pussy, and it looked nice. I stood there, trying not to fall, and whacked away. Shortly thereafter, I sent my load down the drain and the crack sealed up again, silencing her still fake sounding cries. I never felt any guilt with the crack either, like with the hole in my sister's wall. It showed up again two days later, opening itself up on the lamp shade of the lamp next to the couch. She was there as always, lying on my sister's bed naked. She was wiping a pair of panties on her wet pussy, getting them soaked with cum. She just kept switching between the vibrator, vibrating herself wet again, to the panties, which she stuffed into her vagina and rubbed around. I wanted to come rather quickly watching, noticing that she was really pale looking this time. She had the look of a starving prisoner. Her eyes sunken, with big black rings around them, her ribs poking through on her sides, her hip bones pointing above her sunken in stomach. I just imagined myself being those cute little white cotton panties she was rubbing all over her pussy, and finally, I finished. The crack sealed over like the others, and there I was, a grown man sitting in a pile of his own cum. But where was the guilt? I had none. I threw my cum stained shirt into the laundry and went about my business.

The whole rest of this confession focuses on the crack - if you'll pardon the parody. I could tell you about Mrs. Blacktree, my friendly neighbor who makes the best sun tea in the world, or the new plant supervisor who I had to fire to get the promotion. But what good would it do you? You only want a confession, you don't want to read about ordinary every day shit. My hobbies are meaningless to you unless there was a direct connection between them and my deranged acts of insanity. If you were a psychologist, You might be interested in knowing such insignificant details as what kinds of music I liked and what kinds of movies I rented. I'll let the true detectives do their work on that stuff. Here, you are only going to get the confessed facts.

The crack.. Sometimes, I wondered if the crack was ever real to begin with. I mean, there was actually moments of silence, like after a CD got through or a movie ended, when I sat listening for it. About a month passed by, and there was no more instances of it opening up. I walked around the house, in total darkness and silence, looking for it and listening very carefully. I even looked in dark corners, like behind the stove and in the linen closet. No crack. Then one day, it just opened up right in front of me, on the dining room table's wood grain surface.

It opened slowly, with a couple gasps of heavy breathing, opening about a quarter of an inch. I bent over the table to look inside. Then it opened a little more, as she gave out a quick pout. I looked in, squinting. It was a different girl this time, a younger one. Too young, really. She had cute blonde pigtails, and her body was small, she couldn't have been over thirteen. I couldn't bear to watch, but looked in enough to see what was going on. She was tied to my sister's bed on her stomach. Someone was standing outside of the aloud view the crack allows you, cracking a whip on her ass about every ten or so seconds. Her bare ass was already turning red from the whipping. I really couldn't bare to masturbate to this, so I decided to go away for a while, and hope that when I came back, the crack would be gone. I got into my car and drove around town for about a half hour, went to the video store, rented some porn flicks, and returned to my house. By then, I wasn’t even thinking about the crack. But sure as shit, it was still there. I put the bag of movies down and peeped in. It was the same scene, only her ass was very red now, and there were tiny splashes of blood everywhere. Tears were dried into her cheeks and new ones were working there way out. Now she had a red ball shoved into her mouth with a leather strap that wrapped around her head, keeping the ball in place. Her cries were mere muffles. I set the bag of pornos over the crack, dulling the already muffled cries. Then I took one out and put it in the VCR. I tried to masturbate, but I couldn't even get a hard on. I watched it, but was thinking about the crack. It was a lame porn movie, so I tried another one, but it was worthless. Finally, I decided to look back into the crack. Now the man with the whip was sticking his dick out. I tried to look around that crack's corner to see the rest of him, but it was just impossible. His dick was sticking out just far enough to see her on her knees, handcuffed to the bedpost, sucking on it. I realized at that moment that I was hard, and thought about running back into the living room and turning on the TV, finishing myself off to the porno. But I knew that wouldn't make the crack go away, I knew it was going to be there until I finished the process. So I did, and it went away in its usual fashion. The crack was like that and it showed up at least every other day for a week straight, in places and at times when I didn't want it to. Once, it was when I was on the phone with my mom. It opened up on the side of the phonebook - where the pages are visible. It opened like ten minutes after I masturbated one morning, in the bathroom on a crack between the two tiles that are directly in the center of my feet when I'm sitting on the toilet taking a shit. I didn't have time to do anything about it, so I looked in really quick to see what was going on. It was the pig tailed girl still, wearing latex panties, rubbing her pussy through them. I went to work thinking about it. Then I thought about the girl herself, how her pigtails were looking all frizzed out, her face was getting that hungry prisoner look, and she was strapped to the bed - the gag ball in her mouth, a vibrator in her ass and one in her pussy. Hanging about an inch in front of her nose from the ceiling was her latex panties. They were tied up to the light fixture with black yarn. For some reason this made me incredibly horny. I came fast, wishing that the crack wouldn't close when I did. Wishing it would re-open right away. It never did that night, but it did the next morning, only this time, right on the mirror in the bathroom. I looked in, noting that she was clearly fifteen pounds lighter than the first time she was in the crack. I noticed that the crack in the mirror was like liquid, as it balled up around the edges. The crack's inner seams reflected the girl inside. I finished quickly, shooting down the sink's drain and washing it down as the crack faded away. Oh, yeah - the girl. She was still in the same position as the previous night, only now, she was taped up with duct tape. The panties were still hung up there.

She appeared a couple more times, once a day, always in strange places. I became disturbed by the fact that it was such a young girl, and the crack stopped coming for a while. The thoughts of her just wore off eventually.

The crack gave me a well needed break for a while - about a month or so. I think that is when I decided that this crack thing was something I was imagining - like a hallucination projected by my sex crazed feverish mind. I thought - if it's possible to go crazy because you never had sex - this was it and I was actually losing my sanity. My twisted mind was playing serious tricks on me - ones that should have prompted me to seek therapy. But I didn't because I was afraid. Of what? I wasn't exactly sure then , but now I know, and who ever is reading this probably knows by now as well.

During the break from the crack something strange happened. The temp agency rep, Jacqueline Maybe, disappeared. I mean, really. The agency had another girl come in to drop off paychecks on payday, and I asked her about Jacqueline. She said that police are looking for her. She didn't show up for work or call one day. The other girls at the agency called her house after lunch, and got the answering machine, they left a message, but she didn't call back that day. She didn't show up the next day either. When they called the cops, the cops told them that they ware already on the case. Her roommate called them after getting a weird call from her. They said she called her from her cell phone and said that someone had kidnapped her. Then her cell phone made some rustling sounds. There was a mans voice saying, " give me that phone bitch!" and then it cut off. I was amazed and very concerned. I knew there was no chance in hell she would ever do anything with me, but I still cared about her deeply. A week passed and in came a different temp agency lady with the paychecks. I didn't even want to ask her. The newspaper ran a story on it a couple of days prior. I hadn't checked the paper yet that day. Back in my office, the paper sat on the desk, the story on the front page. She was still missing. There was a reward being offered for any information leading to an arrest. I was saddened and decided to go home early that day..

I drank a little wine and passed out on the couch. During that sleep, I had a dream in which the crack was this giant doorway, and there was nothing but white and clouds on the other side. I passed through it, and there was Jacqueline, lying on a giant bed of soft pillows, wearing this pretty pink lacey looking teddy.

Two days passed and it was my day off. I was in my backyard, enjoying the privacy and sunshine, when all of the sudden, the crack opened up on a tree nearby. It was just around the corner of a bunch of shrubs. No one could see me back here, I thought. I noticed it because it was flickering a lot, the crack, I mean. Anyway, there I was, peering into a crack in a tree in my back yard. I checked around and was positive that no one could see me. My nearest neighbor on either side was a half mile down the dirt road. There was a house across the street, about a quarter mile down, but there are too many trees in the wooded area on that side of my house to provide them with any kind of view.

I looked into the crack. What I saw in there made me back out away from the tree about five paces. It was Jacqueline, with the handcuffs on. She had duct tape over her mouth. There were makeup runs down her face from crying. Her make-up was thicker than she normally wore it. Her hair was really messy, and her body was bruised a little, like she'd been roughed up a bit. I stood there, looking everywhere in the world around me for a reason why that was there. What was it? Was it real? Yes it was. I looked at it from many different directions and many different distances. It was really there, there was no denying it. I looked inside it again, really quick, and it was the same shocking scene - Jacqueline in my sister's bedroom. The perspective was the same as always - as if the crack was a camera placed right where her old stereo cabinet used to be - right in front of where that hole used to be.

I ran to my house, afraid to even think about that crack. That night, it was a full moon. I could see the tree in the darkness waving back and forth against the pale dark purple skyline. Its leaves rustling made different hallucinations appear on each wave of the overall tree in each pulsating breeze. I found myself looking at that tree, over and over again, wondering what was actually going on in the crack. I decided to go to bed, and wish the crack away, like it was just a fucked up hallucinogenic projectile that my mind shot out from time to time. Or it was a portal to another dimension that existed in my subconscious.

I was at work the next day, thinking about going to a shrink, thinking about something really crazy, and realizing that there was all kinds of problems popping up at the pickle plant. It was just the distraction I needed to stop thinking about the crack.. I put in 80 hours that week, and on payday, I noticed that the temp agency girl was the same as the prior week. Then I read through the paper. The story was buried deep into the paper's mid-section. A small headline read Still No Clues in Woman's Disappearance. There was one paragraph that followed, but it wasn't very enlightening. Tragedies of this nature are always like that - there is never a feeling of, "it's over now, we can all get some peace and tranquility." The concern seems to fade with time, but if the missing are never found (even found dead), the feeling is always there.

That night, I decided to go test the crack again, thinking after an 80 hour workweek and lots of reasoning that the crack might be a figment of my imagination. But it wasn't. It was still there, lighting up the small pocket of grass that is surrounded by bushes. I looked inside of it, and she was still there, wearing the same exact pink teddy that I saw her wearing in my dream. This made me fall back on some old fashioned reasoning - the kind where the strange becomes normal just long enough to . . . you know, seal up the crack. I had a weird thought that I told the police she was trapped in a crack in a tree in my back yard. Then I looked back in and became entranced with her, squirming about on the bed. I didn't ponder on the hows and whys any longer. The crack was there, it wasn't going away on its own. I had it in front of me - I was looking into it, sweat was dripping down from my soaked hair into my wide opened eyes. I yelled into the crack, but Jacqueline didn't hear me. I thought about what I had just done - I mean, as far as yelling like a madman in the middle of the night. It was rather funny at the time, and even now as I sit here writing this confession. I laughed out loud (just as I did right now). But right now, in my last moments, I am surrounded by the stench. I didn't smell it then, even though it was all around me.

Jacqueline was gone, I was sure of that. Some sicko kidnapped her and did whatever, and more than likely buried her corpse in some woods where he figured they wouldn't find her for a few years. Loneliness does some weird things to you, and now the crack. That's the extent of loneliness: justifying various acts of perversion, one after another, until you've climbed to the top of the taboo ladder and you are still eager for the next level. Poor Jacqueline . . . I wish she was just over at my parents house, lying on my sister's old bed. But she wasn't. I knew that. Wherever the real Jacqueline was, I prayed for her well being. If she was dead, I felt a deep remorse. All of these things drifted to the way side as I reached down and leaned towards the crack. I laid my left arm against the tree, so that I could lean my forehead against the bend where bicep meets forearm. There I was, on my knees, drawers pulled down to my ankles, peering into a crack in a tree at a girl who had been missing for over two weeks. Beating my meat. Pitiful, no it's something deeper . . . something words can't spell out. It was real. It was fake. It was a trick of the mind, cascading into the real world like some kind of wart growing on the surface of my reality. It showed me this, and I accepted it for what it was. I shot it all over the tree trunk. The crack began sealing back up, and for some reason, I was tempted to stick my finger into it before it closed. I stuck my finger out, then hesitated, afraid of what might happen if it got stuck. I could see her as it sealed up, tiring to scream through the duct tape.

I was exhausted. My shirt was wet with sweat. I had fat wrinkle stains on the back of it and they were starting to itch. I ended up running back to the house, suddenly feeling vulnerable out in the open air. I don't know what I was afraid of or why I was running, but my house suddenly looked like a safety zone. I got there in record time and went strait to bed. I slept good that night and felt good the next day.

The crack. I thought about the crack all that week and it finally made a shocking reappearance. I got to work a little early that payday. There was only a couple other people from accounting there, and it was especially quiet. I could hear a noise in my private bathroom. I thought it was the little radio that was in there, which only got played if I had to take one of my famous twenty minute long dumps after lunch. It wasn't. It was the crack. This time, it was torn into the side of the medicine cabinet. Sitting on the toilet, it looked like it would be easy to lean over and look in, almost as if it was inviting me to gaze in.

I didn't know what to do right then. Without even looking in and seeing what was going on or who was in it, I was suddenly affraid of it . I knew I had to close it, that much was obvious. I mean, there was some chance that it was real, and not just some bazaar mole on the ass of perception. If it was real - as real as it looked to me, then someone else would notice it, and they would freak out if they looked in. Then I decided that I had to at least start by looking in. It was still Jacqueline. She was pulling the pink teddy off. Her body was very sickly pale, and undernourished. I mean she looked like those zombies on Night of the Living Dead. Her face was smeared with dirt and makeup. There were old bruises fading away all over her body, which was just skin and bones. Her once large, perky breasts were saggy, misshapen looking things that were stretched across an extremely bony chest. Her face was permanently stamped with fear and hate, horror and astonishment. The overall look was that of pure exhaustion. Then the pivotal scene. I walked into the picture, only I was dressed from head to toe in this crazy latex stuff that tightened my fat up, making me look twenty pounds lighter, On my face, I wore a cheap Mickey Mouse mask - the kind you buy kids to wear on Halloween. I came in there and made her do all sorts of weird things to me. I don't know if she knew it was me, but I did, I could tell, I mean, it was me, my dick, my hands, my hair, my fat ass tucked into that ridiculous looking outfit.

I caught myself laughing at the perplexity of the entire situation. There I was, in the crack, dressed like a freak show, raping a kidnapped, half-starved girl. I stood back, looking at the cabinet from different angles. I absolutely couldn't believe it. So I left it alone. I taped an out of order sign on the bathroom door, in case a secretary wanted to use it instead of the common bathroom on the main floor. Then I went about my day. For some reason, I was reminded of the days when I used to whack off frequently in the bathroom up there. As I walked the floor, I looked at a cute little black girl as she bent down to get a box of jar lids out of the supply drawer. She caught me gazing and gave me a little smile as she went about her work. I didn't know how to react. It stirred up some of that old guilt. I could feel it, like heart burn, welling up.

During lunch, I went in there and checked it. This time, she was laying back, and I was in there, eating her pussy. The Mickey Mouse mask was pulled up to the top of my head, and it looked shockingly comical for a moment. Then I turned and left. A few minutes later, I stood at my window, looking through the blinds as the new Temp agency lady stood by the bathrooms, passing out paychecks to the various temps. She looked up, probably seeing my silhouette, and met my gaze. The old guilt, crawling back up my spine. I let it pass, like a head rush after a water bong hit that leaves you choking in its wake of a room full of smoke.

I was in the bathroom, whacking to the crack, just an hour after the temp agency lady left. In the crack, I was doing Jacqueline doggie style. Then I stuck it in her ass. She was making loud muffled out cries, making me a little paranoid, like someone in my office might be able to hear it - the way I could hear my sister upstairs back in the day. I kept whacking away, finally cumming after five minutes of it. As I watched the crack fade away and fasten up, I had a weird realization. The only time I ever masturbated anymore was when I looked through the crack.

The crack faded away for a long while, like six months I would say. Yeah, it faded away from my mind just like the disappearance of Jacqueline faded away from people's minds. I still felt remorse, and I'm sure there are others, maybe reading this, maybe not. At any rate, the crack was so far from a real occurrence that I stopped thinking about it for a long while. Then, our of nowhere, there it was, opened up like a torso getting operated on, right on the carpet in my bedroom. I woke up to the sound of two girls, doing lesbian things. It didn't take me long to locate it, it was right next to my bed. I jumped up out of bed and looked inside. There were two girls - naked, doing lesbian things on my sister's bed. That part, the part of the crack where it always took place on my sister's bed, was beginning to burn a spot in my side. But there it was, laid out perfectly. I found it to be a little difficult to whack off while suspending myself on the floor, but I came fast, less than thirty seconds.

This was strange. The crack held out for a while, six months, and then, suddenly, there it was, ever day. Every day, for a week solid, always popping up somewhere in my bedroom when I woke up in the morning. Everyday, it was those same lesbian scenes. They never took more than a minute to get me off, so I was pretty content with seeing the same scenes. These scenes were detached from my previous memories of the crack, where the girls were like sex slaves, who were starved and abused. These girls always looked healthy, and they were beautiful, like models.

Then something happened that made me think that the crack had a semi-human conscious. I woke up one morning, hearing the lesbians. I looked around, and then jumped back. The crack was in my pillow, which was lying on my chest like my blue iguana sometimes does. It was wide opened, like a mouth ready to bite my face off. Inside, the two girls were laughing and playing. They had some weird rubber hoses and a couple of hypodermic needles. They shot eachother up. I was concentrating on it, not even slightly aroused. Then they began kissing eachother, and eventually, like ten minutes later, they faded into nods, or sleep, or whatever it is that junkies do. The crack sealed itself up, and it didn't open back up for about two more weeks.

And that brings us to yesterday. I went to work, and then decided to swing out to my parents house. While I was there, I thought how everything was so normal there, there wasn't anything strange, like me bringing girls into my sisters old room. The visit was me trying to reaffirm all of this. I even looked into her old room. It was all just as she had left it, as much as anyone could tell.

I went home, and kicked back on my chair, thinking about watching something on TV. That's when the crack opened up in the laundry room. I heard it, and from all the way in the living room, I could tell that it was my sister. I ran into the laundry room and got on my knees, looking in. it was her! And she had that refugee look to her, a dull glow that didn't seem to stop me from getting turned on when other girls had it. But this was my sister for Christ's sake! What the fuck were my options? I ran upstairs, to the spare bedroom.

Why? Why was I in the spare bedroom? I thought really deep - and then I found myself looking over to the old chest from my mom and dad's house. There it sat, with the same combination lock on it that was always on it. I looked back down the stairs, thinking about the crack, thinking about my sister. And then I approached the chest, turning the lightswitch on as I passed through the door. I bent down, and began turning the dial. The chest opened up, breathing its contents to me - breaking me out of this lunatic spell once and for all.

So here is the end of my confession. I don't care if no one believes me, and the cops are the only ones who end up reading it. I opened that chest, and on top of everything was Mickey Mouse, staring back at me with all the splendor of a plastic mask. I tossed aside the mask and the latex suit I wore with it. Then I began pulling out the trunk's contents. First of all, there was a bunch of videotapes from a VHS-C video camera stacked up in the corner. They were marked with dates. You'll find them, they are on the floor next to the chest. I assumed their contents, as I'm sure you will, but you'll probably still watch them anyway. There is this big pouch thing, like a money bag for making deposits with. Inside of it, there are dozens of receipts. They are from Victoria's Secret, Midnight Oil (a sex shop in Albany), and various other stores that sold me the rest of the things in the chest. I glanced into the chest, and there was the video camera, tucked behind the pink teddy that Jacqueline wore. I looked again at the tapes, some were marked "Dildo Girl." I looked at the rest. They were marked as follows: Bondage Teen, Jacqueline, Lezbo Hookers, and the ones with only dates. I noted that the dates on those tapes reflected a month ago. My sister's face was burning itself into my eyes. I dug around in the box. There was all those items from the receipts, like dildos, vibrators, and the whip, the handcuffs, the leather straps. I pulled out the white cotton panties that were worn by the first girl from the crack. They were stained all over with pussy juice - to the point where they felt hard all over. The red ball gag, a roll of duct tape, a zip lock baggie with two hypodermic needles and two rubber hoses in it, the strap on dildos the lesbians used on eachother, and a gun. I remembered every shot fired out of the gun at that very moment. Those loud, ear piercing shots that I fired in that basement, in the sound proofed room that I built in the corner, by the sump pump. I started to remember then, when I remembered the shots. The girls, starving in that cell, living in the shit and piss from the girls before them. Seeing the blood on the walls, knowing that theirs would be on it soon. I remembered a lot then, about the looks on their faces, the sounds they made as I loaded them into my trunk from my garage, drove them to my parent's house when they were both at work, and unloading them in their garage, moving them up to my sister's old room. Telling them, at gunpoint, what to do.

All of the visions of what really happened the entire time I experienced the crack revealed themselves to me all at once: except for one. The things I did with my sister. I thought about those shots for a moment. They were all unexpected head shots. Each time, I entered the sound proof chamber, shut the thickly padded door, and locked it. Then I told each of them to turn around and face the wall. They did this, at gunpoint, frequently. In fact, that is why I only masturbated when I seen the crack, I think, because I raped them every day - every one of them. Then I shot them, none of them knew what hit them - I should say, neither of the three of them - the first two girls & Jacqueline. The lesbians died from heroin and cocaine overdoses while at my parent's on the second trip over there to do some videotaping. I remember having to transport their bodies, thinking about how crazy everything was at the time. But it got shut out somehow I guess, because when it was all happening, I only seen through the crack what the crack wanted me to see.

I opened the chamber and looked inside the gun. There was only one bullet left. The gun itself was a six shot 35 caliber snub nosed revolver. I remember two things clearly about it. One: I only had six bullets, the bullets the guy gave me at the store where I bought it. Two: I used one bullet on the first girl, and two on the second, because the first shot only grazed her head, taking a chunk out of her right ear, but a far cry from being a fatal wound. I put the tip of the barrel right up to her head as she went down to the floor in pain. I shot again, that time, killing her instantly. Jacqueline only required one bullet. So that leaves two. My sister.

I ran down the stairs with uncanny speed, trying to get to the crack as the thought intensified. I got on my knees, stooping down to look inside. There she was, naked and handcuffed to the bed, duct tape over her mouth. She had a very bizarre look in her eyes, and I noticed she had given up trying to scream for help through the duct tape. They always did - I thought for a moment. Then I seen myself again, only I was naked, and my head was heading for her wide opened legs. She squirmed to try to close herself to me, but I stopped looking in before anything else happened. I raced for the garage, where I found a pick axe and a wood splitter. They were remnants left behind by the house's previous owners, no doubt, because I don't ever recall buying them. They were there none the less, and so was a shovel. I grabbed all of the tools and raced back inside with them. I began chopping away at the floor boards where the crack was, and it chipped away, so more of the view could be seen. I kept hacking away with the pick axe until it dawned on me that the wood blocks were just laid there, on top of a plywood plane that was supported by 4 by 6's underneath. I went out to my car, the Buick Riviera out in the garage, and popped open the trunk, noticing the key to the sound proof cell on my keyring. Inside the trunk, I saw the blankets I used to cover up the girls with during transports. I tossed them aside and dug around, pulling out the crowbar. I went back to the hole I was making.

The scene below, in the crack, was getting further and further away. I lost my senses - just sort of drifting for time unending, chopping and prying away, until there was finally enough of an opening to stick my head through. I tossed the pick axe aside and did just that. I suddenly realized that I was looking down into the cubby hole. It was very dark, and that is when the stench became apparent. It was the stench of rotting corpses - various degrees and stages.

I grabbed a flashlight out of the kitchen and went down the flight that led to the basement. At the bottom of the staircase, I saw two things that sent the guilt through me in painful thrusts. The ten by ten cell that I built the first week in my new house. I didn't mention it earlier, because the whole time up until earlier yesterday, I never even knew it existed - only the crack was real. There it was though - it was there, and the crack was gone forever, along with the lives of those girls. There was a clear trail of blood that led to the cubby hole on the other side of the basement. The door to it was half way up the wall, looking more like a giant window that leads to a black abyss. There was bloodstains on the wall under the hole in the bricks, and on the heater ducts that ran through the right hand side of it. I had to know about my sister, so I checked the cell first, using the key that I only recently realized was even on my keyring.

I opened the door, and inside, there was another smell. The smell of moldy shit and decaying piss. There was blood stains all over, with little speckles and stringy splatters. The single lightbulb that hung down was splattered with it. There was a metal ring bolted on the wall in back, the ring I put there when I built the room. Its why I bought the stud finder - because after putting the soundproof pads in place, I lost track of the studs. That's where I handcuffed them.

I moved back away from the sound proof cell and then over to the cubby hole, remembering the procedure of lifting the corpses up and shoving them in. I myself had to use an old desk I was working on refinishing to climb up into it. The old desk . . . it was one of those long-term projects that ended up collecting more dust particles than hours of dedicated labor. I hoisted my lard filled body up into the hole, half believing that eventually, I would get too fat to fit through it. What a foolish thought! That old reasoning and desperately slapped together logic coming back. I flashed the light over the surface of the dirt floor, stooping down to avoid the network of spider webs. There were several lumps in the dirt, reminding me instantly of the lumps in my mattress at my parent's house. I seen something out of the corner of my eye and shined the light over to it. It was a hand sticking up above the dirt. Impossible, I thought, I killed them all - shot them all in the head. There was only one bullet left in the chamber . . .

I began moving the dirt away from the rotting hand that wobbled as I dug. I got to some more flesh after a minute or so. I pulled the dirt away, repulsed by the smell and sight of it all. It was Jacqueline Maybe . . . maybe she didn't die right away, maybe I had to shoot her again after she tried to dig her way out, maybe not. Maybe it was just me trying to justify that missing bullet. I dug around some more. I wished her last name was something different. I found skeletal remains, and then I found the freshest grave. I dug away, each handful thinking of how bad it was going to feel when I unearthed my own sister. I want to end this confession now, so I will leave you with that. I repacked the last handful of dirt back over my sister's body, said a strange prayer that turned into a lecture to myself, and descended out of the crawlspace.

That was like, many hours ago. I've been here, in the spare bedroom, writing this in a blank journal that was stashed in the chest. Its receipt was with the others, and dated about the same time as the purchase of the video camera. I don't know what made me decide to buy it, but I know now that I wrote in it the only thing that was ever meant to be written in it - this confession.

Its weird, you know, the crack. I closed the chest for a minute, to look at it and wonder why I didn't know what was happening all along. On the top of the chest, there is a crack from when I was moving it. It fell off of my uncle's truck, and it fell directly onto the bottom front left corner. The pressure caused the top boards to split all the way from end to end, and one crack of wood, about an inch wide and four inches long, split off and flew into the ditch.

So here I am, with that last bullet. Its almost daybreak. Someone will find this - it might take days, it might take weeks, but they will find it. And so they for sure read this confession, I'm going to stick my nose right in the center of these last two pages. Then I'm going to put the tip of the gun against the back of my head and blow my fuckin fat ass brains all over this book. That way, weather anyone believes it or not - you know, about the crack - they'll at least know how fucking absolutely crazy a man can become who has never gotten laid in his life. It was a process, and it will soon end the only way a process of this nature ever ends. I'm sorry Jacqueline, my sister, and the other four girls. Forgive me. That is all, my name is Raymound, I was that fat kid in grade school, you remember, the one even you picked on . . .

May 19, 2000

Confessions from the Crack by Braden