Preface (warning)

This diary of a sadistic pervert who accidentally fell into the hands of the investigating authorities will most likely cause you to have curiosity, interest, doubt, internal conflict, outrage, anger, pity, disgust, shock. Approximately in that order.

Please do not read it if you do not want to experience the whole bunch of these negative feelings.

1

I immediately spotted it. Of all the zamuhryshkas that I came across, she was the queen of the Damned.

Pale as death, with two magnifying glasses in a thick frame, with huge purulent acne of different degrees of maturity - from burgundy abscesses to white champignons - she minced a gray mouse down the corridor so that she could not keep up. With an elusive shadow, she slipped past in a brown knitted sweater that hung with sacking on it and was all covered with pellets. Dark blue jeans with once bright white and now gray seams broke shapelessly on her thin crooked legs. Complement the wardrobe with black sneakers with faded yellow stripes on the sides. The same style black bag hung on her shoulder. Skinny, slouching, with shoulder blades sticking up behind her, looking like chicken wings, the ghost girl avoided crowds in the dining room, lobby and even the elevator, although her office was on the fifth floor. It was virtually impossible to get to know her.

I just had to watch her and wait. I could not just come and speak, she would immediately be frightened and run away. From me shied away and not so beautiful.

All my girls have developed a deep sense of inferiority over the years, and I do not blame them for it. On the contrary, I am excited by this timidity. They are ashamed of their appearance, but I know that under the ugly shell a fragile vulnerable rose slumbers, which craves to be torn, uncool, corrupted.

Each such girl has one feature that they are secretly proud of. Only one, but what.

This may be, for example, a manicure. Not bright, like some, screaming: "Look at me." No, she would not have taken so much attention to her person. My girls use clear varnish, so that short claws barely shine, so that it can be seen only by them alone. Or again: she can, for example, wear black panties with a thin strip of lace or socks with hearts, and no one will know about this, except her, and she will feel every millimeter of this lace on her ass and secretly dream, hope that she, too, someday will be able to join the ranks of the mysterious and mysterious, enchanting and charming. The temptresses.

My beauty had this hair hair. Chic mop of black fine hair. Finely curly by nature, fragile, rare, such that angular outlines of the skull are visible through the gaps, but thick in their entirety. What she didn’t get up with them only: she tied it in a bunch and hung a modest hairpin, spread it on her shoulders and hid her face in them. Once she hung a bright bow-clip in the shape of a butterfly - probably, there was a reason. She was pleased to feel the measured fluttering of this hair behind her back. With what bliss she shook her head as she walked. Her hair slid along her back and shoulders, tickled her chicken neck, she blinked and pressed her bag-bag to her side more tightly. Skinny like a board, she looked in her hair for the fullness that she lacked so much in her body.

Fat girls don't like that. They know that they belong to a cohort of fat cows. That there are male fetishists who do not mind the extra folds on the stomach, men who are ready to love their pig for a rich inner world, feed it with chocolates, so that there is something to take. The fat ones know that there are cows more self-interested than they are, envying the more slender cows in their herd, that is, to them. For them, fat, the degree of obesity is equal to social status. And the more the folds on the abdomen, the lower this status, the closer they are to the bottom, to the baseboard.Fat people are sure that at any moment they will be able to lose weight, rise, rise to the surface, if they just want to, they just have to go on a diet.

Therefore, I do not like fat. They are evil, greedy, two-faced, selfish, envious, narcissistic, aggressively proactive, always persecuted, like feminists or gays, proving everywhere and everywhere that being fat is not yet a cross on the career of a pop star, photo model, actress, TV host, even a nutritionist. There is a whole bunch of complexes that turn the worst out of a person inside out.

My girls are not like that. My lost all hope of ever becoming a princess. No one ever loved them except mom and grandmother. And even those were skeptical about the possibility of procreation. No one has ever told mine that they are beautiful, that they can like, excite, captivate, captivate. The boys did not write love notes to them, the girlfriends were always as ugly, just as lonely, because the prettier were afraid to spoil their status, were afraid to get infected from them, even to be noticed in their society. Sometimes my people still stuck to a beautiful girl in the hope that it would increase their chances that someone from the short-sighted representatives of the male half of humanity would be mistaken and look at one and love the other. It was a mutually beneficial alliance: one bathed in glory, feeling like a sister of mercy, providing all possible assistance, the other ran after her with a hoop instead of a net, trying in vain to catch elusive moths, feeling that she was also a catcher, and you just had to swing the hoop faster.

Mine were always in the caste of untouchables, contenting themselves with pitiful scraps from the royal table, drunken unlucky boys, who were looking for a minute consolation in them to climb, climb one step higher, push off from them to fly to the next more elegant height. Mine were always below the baseboard: no one noticed them, but everyone willingly stepped on them, wiped their feet on them to emphasize their position in society, to increase self-esteem. Mine do not know how to fight back, because the whole world has turned against them, nature itself is against them, as a proof of this, people invented a mirror.

Mine live in a dim world without love and hope for love. Their life turned into a miserable existence, whose name is "loneliness." That is why they love to read books, especially love stories, in which they can feel loved, desired, seductive. But when the book ends, they return to the harsh reality, in which there is no place for ugly, needy, homeless, disabled people, freaks.

For this I love them. For all this unspent potential that has been inherent in them since childhood, which has accumulated over the years, it matures like a purulent champignon on the face, ready to explode one day, break free, to pour out a volcano of passion and madness.

As I said, to meet with such a girl is virtually impossible. During the years of her life, she was so accustomed to bullying, to the fact that once again they want to offend her, that the usual ways of getting to know her simply do not roll.

How? Did you come to me because you liked me? I do not believe you. You must have argued with your friends. Do not lie to me! Maybe you're just a fool who wants to have fun? Is it possible to treat me seriously.

But I had a plan. Of course, I had a plan! When I started, I always had punctures. But after many years of observation, I already knew what to put pressure on.

After work, my beauty always ran back to the subway. I usually ran after her in the hope that she would slip and I would not have to arrange a circus. But that day all the tickets were already sold, the orchestra finished tuning. The lights went out, and the presenter entered the arena to loud applause.

The submission begins.