The broken diary Author Simon Basinger of Menorca
Broken Diary Part one.
this is how my story starts.
The day enveloped in dark clouds and heavy rain, the scars on the clouds silver lined with the cracks of light barely seeping through made me think hope was a fragile and consequential placebo ideal…nothing more. I drove through the smoke sickened drench streets of 1980 New York, a time where business sits in wonder of admiration to profit and high stress levels, sick desires infest the minds of maggots and cockroach people scurrying in allies with blood and drugs seeping from there very sweat. I can’t here God’s voice anymore, this life has become to noisy, so crowded, soaked within inadequate purposes seamlessly set in stone by demons of control. My name is Parker, thirty five, a private contractor, I take lives for profit and ask no questions of my victims or there loved ones…it makes my job easier though the rest of my guilty conscience is numbed with pills and vodka. A Russian refugee from the left over eminence of military order now laid to waste from years of war back in my home land. I guess The bullet and cold steel is the only reason I have purpose in this world now, so much happened. I lost so much including my home and girlfriend, We were soon to be married but our house was raided by homeless cannibals wanting food, She was killed in the struggle. I failed to save her and only saved myself, but sealed there fate soon after. Now in this time I contemplate the past too often, the cold war rage’s on but it is just another chapter in humanities endless war zone of existence. Maybe God gave up and left us to emulate in the flames of our own demise. I have only one philosophy I carry now to the grave consisting of that of which all I have witness first hand, That the world is an illusion and The wolfs shape that world into there ideal concepts of existence while neglecting that of false primitive God control and fate. This world is a rotting pie, a corpse of a planet that festers with animals strung on basic instincts, this is planet nightmare.
I pour myself a vodka 15 minutes after entering my safe house, watching intently as the liquid from the bottle slurred around the ice cubes and enclosed them, with the refreshing strong scent curling up my nostrils with memories flooding back of times when this drink was for social civilised reason and not my own gluttony and suppression of bad memories. I can’t sleep until I have drunk myself into a coma, There’s a lot on my mind. Thunder strikes hard and fast in New York, my mother said it was Angels in heaven playing bowling and that Purgatory witnesses the aftermath with a nasty storm. The rain runs down heavily, this is anger…This is stress, this is sickness…This is how I perceive storms being, and there expression to us…or rather a personal message from mother earth. God bless the day the earth meets its end and brings forth the re-birth, make me…a believer.
more chapter to follow in three days time, please leave your reviews of my first chapter of my book.
thank you for your time in reading my work.
October 1982 21st