The Confession of a Clown

I knew Jack as “the clown who would laugh if his a*s was on fire”, and there was no problem with that because for as long as I had known him, his sense of humour had always been a little out there, a little strange. To be honest, if you ever felt low and needed cheering up after hearing your folks row for the tenth time in under 24 hours, or if you had sadly broken up with a two-timing b***h, he’d be the “go-to guy” to take your mind off of that s**t. His comedy skills knew of no bounds and thanks to that, you’d be hurling up your stomach contents courtesy of your mom’s now wasted lunch money she gave you due to being painfully gripped in fits of hysterics – that was the life raft you needed when the s**t started to try and drown you. Yeah, while other kids in my crappy little town would go get drunk or high to escape their problems, I would go get Jack.

But here’s the thing you may have noticed by now, and you’re pretty stupid if you haven’t: I wouldn’t be writing this story on Jack if he was this “oh so perfect” guy, right? Of course not. Through my experiences in life, I’ve discovered that nobody is perfect, and yeah, Jack was the main catalyst for this belief, and here’s why:

When high school was over and we excitedly delved ideally into our 5 minutes of beautiful freedom before it was cruelly torn away from us by the warnings from our folks over having to find jobs, I noticed a change in Jack. He became despondent with life, friends, and worst of all, comedy. I tried pressing him for answers as to what was going on inside his head, his parents tried, and I’m afraid to say none of us were successful at getting through to a skull that was thicker than Kim Kardashian’s moon-like (craters and all) a*s.

However, everything was soon revealed to us in the form of a suicide note that his mom found placed neatly, amongst his most prized possessions for some reason, by his corpse. Jack had cut his wrists wide open. Apparently, he had been suffering from terrifying hallucinations for several months. He claimed he had a demonic-looking clown soaked in blood following him wherever he went, accompanied by the sound of its high-pitched cackling and growling threats that pushed him to the edge. Life stopped being funny to him at that point, and the same went for me after discovering what he had been going through.

Yeah, sure, my wit and wisecrack jokes remain intact, but they’re just coping mechanisms I’m using to bring you this tale. If I didn’t have the memory of the good times I shared with Jack with me in this cruel, unforgiving and unfunny world, I would probably be dead too. And it’s a big help to me when I’m alone with my thoughts, going over and over about what I did…

Please don’t judge me too harshly, but I thought Jack could cope with anything. He always seemed so resilient. I thought he was one of those indestructible punchbags that could take as much abuse as possible and would keep going, would keep coming back for more. It seemed like he could laugh anything off. But not the image of me as that demonic clown drenched in blood… Remember when I mentioned a two-timing b***h earlier? I always made her laugh. Always. But not in the end.

You see, I killed her… and Jack saw me do it. I laughed just like the Joker while doing it. Doing what? Chopping her slutty head and neck from off her shoulders with my dad’s axe, followed by cutting her limbs from off her torso and stuffing them into a trash bag… right where she belonged! My God, the adrenaline rush was unbelievable, my friends! I found it funny. Jack didn’t. As for the threats against him, I had to make sure he didn’t confess… the only thing I wanted him to do was make me laugh! But he couldn’t live with himself – the idiot. He wasn’t perfect.

My parents. I don’t like them. Maybe they’ll die too?

Just joking… 😉