The Venus Fix

Thursday Eight days remaining
Fifty-Three

Dearest,

One more candle has been lit to commemorate one more death. One more step closer to full retribution and one act closer to fulfilling my promise to you. There are only eight days left and then I’ll be done with the fun and the blood and the guts and the gore and nothing will matter because you are still gone.

I am so tired. Tired from being careful and from keeping track. I have so much to do, to monitor, to control. There are a million details, just like the millions of men out there addicted to Internet porn. Addicted to watching women, women who are not women. I pity the men who come up against them and, more than the men, I pity the boys who have had their first sex on screen. Watched virtual women undulate and whisper to them and them alone long before they’d ever approach a real young woman. All during their developing years, the Web lifts its shirt and flashes these spoiled boys the prettiest breasts and tightest vaginas and never ever asks them to give anything back. Not a word, not a thought, not compassion and not caring, no, none of those, just a credit card number that their parents give them, or they steal.

No one, not therapists, not lawyers, not teachers, not parents, has the experience or the knowledge to deal with our troubled children because they are a mutation-the first generation who have been suckled by twenty-four-hour, easily accessible and practically free instant gratification. Twenty-four-hour poison.

The more I watch what you watched, the more sacred this quest, the more critical these rituals and important this cleansing. We need to burn every one of them at the stake until there are none left to tempt, lure, entice, bait and seduce. To set the devil’s examples that young women follow into hell.

It was frightening to watch that girl cutting herself and watch the razor blade slice open her skin and see the blood rise so quickly to the surface and to think you once watched her cutting, too. This time she made fourteen cuts until her skin was ribboned with thin, sad lines of blood.

When she was done cutting the computer did not go black and she didn’t realize what was happening. She never went for the phone and no one came to her aid.

She was dark and alien-the kind of witch woman who lured you and swayed you and turned you into something dark and alien, too, and that’s one thing I can never forgive her for. It’s not just that because of them you’re gone, but because of them you thought you lost me, because of them I lost you.

Soon, I will have gotten to them all, in exactly the way they got to you. I promise.

This I do for you.