The only appropriate thing to do is to start with the beginning. But I am an inappropriate individual, and thus, I shall start with the end; I killed the clown.
I do not fully understand the reasons behind this intense need I feel to write you this letter, all I know is that I have to write it down right now. As I sit here in a cold alleyway behind an old bar right off St. Martin’s street, in Creekwell City, I contemplate the series of events that led me to this wretched place. I contemplate the many holes on my skeletal arms that are products of plunging needle after needle after rusty needle into my skin, injecting that sweet, sweet juice in my veins. I can see him now, of course, with his white face, and his crimson smile. I can hear his hysteric laughter booming in my ears, reverberating off the brick walls of this lonesome alleyway. The Clown, always mocking me, always there ever since I was a child.
And so the birth of my madness began with the first encounter with him, and ever since then, he’s always been there, lurking in the shadows, following me wherever I go. I am getting ahead of myself here, I do apologize, I forgot to mention that it did not really start this way for the clown was not always evil. He made me happy once, I’ll tell you that, he took me to the carnival every week, he played with me, and he never failed to make me laugh. He was good to me, but as I grew older, he changed, his merry laughter turned into the macabre chuckles of pure darkness. And so I tried to get away, I tried to escape from the clown, but he never gave up. I turned to drugs, but that only made him stronger. I was terrified. I was. The warmth he once gave my heart turned into a block of ice, numbing me inside out.
Excuse me if I am not making much sense, but I have lost a lot of blood, and I am quite weary.
The fact of the matter is, I spent my whole life either trying to hold onto the Clown, or trying to get away from him. Every step I took away from him made him more powerful; he was so powerful that at times, I felt as if he was inside my head, buried deep, deep in the grooves of my brain.
And the deeper he penetrated my thoughts, the more I had to inject myself with junk. And the more junk I injected myself with, the stronger he got. I lived in a strange world where everything was Clown, the air smelt of Clown, the color of the sky was Clown, and the junk that ran through my veins was pure Clown. I could not take it. So I did what I had to do.
The only appropriate thing to do is to end with the ending. But I am an inappropriate individual, and thus, I shall end with the beginning; I am the Clown.