I’ve said that I’m writing more than one book at a time, and though this is true, it’s been a particularly slow going process (really, really flippin’ slow). So as I prep the release of The Skin Collection, plan the sequel to Doguhn and write What Lurks Beyond the Shadow City, I’ve started The End to the Dawn; a story of hope, drama, romance, horror, comedy, murder, love and loss.
This is going to be my serial killer story. It’s going to be dark, disturbing and twisted, but it’s a story of hope and dreams and second chances, and believe it or not it’s inspired by the music of Tanya Donelly, even named after a song by her.
So as I ramp up my gears I’m hoping I find the energy I once had to promote this growing body of work, and more of you lovely people can discover it, to your enjoyment or dismay. In the meantime, please don’t forget you can preview and pick up Doguhn and The Lost Pages of Trevor Sunburn on Amazon, in either kindle (CHEAP) or trade paperback (less cheap, but I still haven’t warmed up to e-readers, preferring the feel and smell of a physical book in my hands). You can check out my amazon page here!
And with that, I bring The End to the Dawn…
Hope—dreams— the bright light through the window. This is a love story. And like any other love story there is also tragedy and heartache, turmoil and tribulations, but there is also death; lots and lots of death. I can’t say where I’ll be by the end of the telling; whether I’ll be dead, incarcerated, or riding off into that bright light shining outside my window, but one thing I can tell you is that I’ll be happy, content, satisfied because I’ve been able shed my demons, if only for one night. For once I did not race towards the darkness. For one night I didn’t shun the strangers awkwardly hanging on my shoulder, smiling and singing at me, with me.
God help me I sang.
And I felt love. What happened that night I can’t say, but I can tell you that I didn’t find love where I had thought. It wasn’t in a person or a place, but in an idea, a dream, a song, and with it I think, in my own twisted way, I was able to see how the sane world lives.
I’m tired; tired of trying to figure out where I fit in, of the running, of the hiding, weary of waiting to die, of waiting to live. I’ve even grown tired of the killing.
My name is Edward Cutter, thirty-five years old, Philadelphia resident, a son, a friend, a boyfriend at times, a nightmare at others, a ghost, invisible and alone, unable to feel or to truly love. At one point or another you may have read about me in the paper, seen a news report about me on the television in your living room, bedroom, kitchen, fucking television in the shower for goodness sake, maybe even heard about me in a ghost story around the campfire, but you wouldn’t have heard my name attached to the tale, at least not yet.
Edward Cutter has not yet been discovered, and his horrors have not yet been relayed to the living world. If you know the real Edward Cutter, you’re likely grumbling your tales to the earth, echoing from inside your hollow container, or roaring to the oceans that don’t give a damn about you or me. But perhaps you’ll see me again by the end of this story, wherever the hell it is that we end up.
I’d like to think I’m a pretty well-mannered guy, or at least I’m trying to be, problem is I keep on killing people. No one would suspect, aside from maybe my therapist if she wasn’t so blinded by her attraction to me. I work a decent job, have a close-knit group of what I suppose one would consider wonderful friends, was even married once—divorced, I didn’t kill her I swear, even if at times I wanted nothing more—but at the end of the day I guess you’d say I’m a serial killer, if you were going to be so blunt and black and white about it. But I believe people can change, even evil people, and that’s what I’m trying to do, step by step, day by day.
I go to therapy, every week, sometimes more if I’m having a particularly difficult time, sometimes less if I’m busy disposing of a corpse. I date, I try to fit in, I try to blend in, to become one of the masses and wander down the same streets as your angels and your God. I’d like to see the beauty others see in the world, in each other, in themselves. I think I finally have, or at least I hope with all that I am, because I may never have another chance.
So this is a story of hope and laughter, of dreams and nightmares and romance. This is a story of horror, mutilation and death. This is a love story, from here to the end of the dawn.