The note or blog feature of the account is stagnant. It has not changed. In his mind, you tell the screen, do not follow the light. You are controlled, in his mind, like a marionette. You are in his mind that is why you tell the screen not to follow the light instead of him. You are confused just like the day the kindergarten teacher questioned you, “Why is this apple purple?” But you are always confused; it has always been like this ever since you try rebutting that kindergarten teacher. Before you continue regressing, walking down memory lane, he tells you to do something with his account.
What should I do, you ask in your mind. Or on second thought, you ask in your mind which is dictated by another mind which is his. The way you think is orchestrated by him; you have neither skill nor talent to whip up a single note because you have no control whatsoever. Then I question the puppeteer how he, the mind in your mind, creates anything if you have absolute power over him? Now I am involved in the struggle of the mind and the mind in the mind. I wish I am the kindergarten teacher right now, left in the recesses of the memories of the mind in his mind.
Right now, he argues I am defending the mind in his mind—you. Yes, he thinks you and I are scheming against his plans to prolong the stagnation of his account. He calls you Puppet. He baptizes you that silly name. He leaves the room, away from the two of us, but of course, that cannot be possible because you are in him. I take the cutter, in the drawer of the bed’s corner table and slash his back, the shoulders. He stops and this gives me the chance to strike again, this time from his bare nape down to his butt crack, tearing his loose cotton shirt now smeared with blood. I hear you scream and it sounds weird, like you are in pain too. You become silent all of a sudden. I do not mind as long as you come out of his stupid existence.
After I cut him into pieces, peeled his skin from scalp to soles, with a cleaver I got from the store room, I sit by the doorway of the room, waiting for you to come out. But you are nowhere in sight. I am expecting that you would crawl out from his glutinous stomach lying on the carpeted floor, or from his cranium broken in crooked half after I banged it on the sharp edge of the computer table, but not a single patch of your being is to be found. I call you several times, shouting at a shredded corpse, with the name Puppet because it is the only name I know of you. It is useless. I cry, not out of shame but of pity because I have just killed my favorite kindergarten student twenty-one years ago. I put the cleaver away from me and run out of the house.