Chapter 5 (previously Chapter 6)
The Dark Side of Bestrewn

“Show me the way
To the next little girl
Oh, don’t ask why
Oh, don’t ask why
For if we don’t find
The next little girl
I tell you we must die
[Chorus]
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say goodbye
We’ve lost our good old mama
And must have whiskey, oh, you know why” – Alabama Song (Whisky Bar) – The Doors, 1967 – (Reprise) Perception, 2006
The hum of the dial-up. That’s the sound of the abyss opening. '99. Feels like a lifetime ago, a different world. Y2K looming, everyone terrified of the computers crashing, while I was just excited to plug mine in, finally join the party. Somerville, that was my stomping ground back then. Little did I know, that machine wasn’t a gateway to the world, but a trapdoor to hell.
Before, there were excuses. DVDs, videos, bought in a store, so, legal-ish, right? Deny, deny, deny. But the internet, the internet whispered something else. A secret, a promise, and a black hole. And I, Andrew Jacobucci, was already teetering on the edge.
Fell right off. No hesitation. No looking back. Sucked down, spiraling, the darkness swallowing me whole. Now, years later, I look back and wonder: How? How the fuck did I get away with it for so long? Fifteen years. A goddamn decade and a half. It sounds impossible, doesn’t it? But addiction, it twists reality, makes the unthinkable… routine.
The new millennium. A fresh start for everyone else. For me? The start of a slow, agonizing death. Yahoo. It started there. Innocent enough, or so I told myself. A curious search, a wrong turn. But the hook was in.
Then came mless.com. “Shudders.” Just typing the name makes my skin crawl. And then IS Shak. Chatrooms. The bottom. The absolute, goddamn bottom. Worse than you can imagine. Infinitely worse. Deplorable doesn’t even begin to cover it. Just the vilest, most depraved corners of the internet, and I was diving headfirst into them.
It’s a ride you can’t get off. That’s the only way I can describe it. Each click, each search, tightening the chains. Every second, every minute, every hour, for years. Gnashing away at my soul. I survived? How the hell did I survive? I don’t know. It feels like a dream, a nightmare.

9/11. I remember exactly where I was. Somerville. Watching the towers fall, the world changing forever. But my world? It had already ended. The smoke and ash were just a reflection of the filth inside me.
The 2010s. Not that the decade mattered. It was all the same. Just the internet. Just the addiction. I’ve never done heroin, but it sounds like the same damn thing. My whole life, organized around the next hit. The planning, the devices, napkins ready… desktops at first, then laptops, then multiple devices, always chasing the fix.
Mom died. Another level of hell opened up. There’s always another level, isn’t there? I thought I was scraping the bottom before, but no, there was always deeper to go.
Up until then, I’d been able to pretend. Hold down a job, keep moving, chase some semblance of normalcy. A waiter. That was me. Smiling, serving, while inside, I was rotting.
After Mom went, it all crumbled. Back to the Cape. Back to that childhood house, a house of horrors even without the internet. Now, alone, with the inheritance burning a hole in my pocket, I had the money to fuel the fire.
Geographic escapes. That’s what I called them. Moving every few years, trying to outrun the mess I was making. The double life, always on the verge of collapsing.
2014, 2015… I made it back to Worcester. Luxury apartment, across the street from the federal courthouse. The irony. I feel it now, like a cold hand on my back. Working at The Sole Proprietor again, like nothing had changed. But everything had. Seismic shift in the Jacobucci tectonic plates, lithosphere displacement, dislodgment.
I knew they were watching. Or, I suspected. Living across from the courthouse, you see things. And the news, every week, another guy gets busted. In my neighborhood, just like me. The articles, the shame.
“Sexual predators pose a significant threat to a community by endangering individuals through sexual violence, creating fear and distrust, and potentially causing long-term trauma and psychological harm.”
No shit, Valentina Nappi.
But I couldn’t stop. I was drowning, and I was too far down to even reach for the surface.
The internet had become a cesspool of violence, and I was swimming in it. Lamentable child sexual abuse material, pasión prohibida twisted fantasies, I was planning suicide. That’s where I was. I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t live with the addiction. The crucifixion of the arduous, odium’s forbidden deviant passions… make the Marquis proud. Dying ‘hard’ was now a palpable possibility.

Paradise Lost by Lily Dafu
The air… it chokes, doesn’t it? A sulfurous, cloying sweetness that sticks in the back of your throat. Not the pleasant nectar of Heaven, no, this is the bitter fruit of the Underworld, of my Underworld. Milton got it right, didn’t he? Lost paradise. But his was a rebellion against a celestial tyrant. Mine? Mine was lust. A slow, creeping rot.
The flames lick at my skin, a constant, dull ache. Not the searing agony I imagined. It’s persistent. Like the memory. That face. God, that face. Little Lily, all wide eyes and trusting smiles, reaching for me. Reaching. And I wasn’t there.
It’s OK, they said – who did? No one would say CSAM is OK, you psycho.
Important. Deep-state-defining or defiling. The justifications pile up like the ash that swirls around me now, meaningless whispers in the howling void. All the promotions, the accolades, the corner office… all traded for a single afternoon. A single, irreversible afternoon.
I remember the connection. The shrill static tearing through the floor boards, the hushed apologies as I shut my eyes for a moment. Yeah, that bad. The voice on the screen, tight with fear, then… silence. A choked sob that echoed even louder than the screams that followed.
The playground. The swings. A moment of inattention. A click, careening, the rabbit hole is deeper than what Morpheus distracted us with, just like I was, always distracted. An accident. Just an accident. But accidents don’t happen in a vacuum, do they? They’re born of choices, of priorities, of a thousand tiny failures leading to one catastrophic collapse.
Guilt. It’s a tangible thing here. It clings to me like a shroud, heavier than the chains that bind the damned. I see them, the other souls, writhing in their personal hells, but not old enough to know what hell is. Each a twisted reflection of earthly sins. And mine is… Lily’s absence. Her laughter silenced. Her potential unfulfilled. The man in the balaclava wipes the machete against the bed, which is now maroon after staying red for a good seven minutes thirty seconds.
Pleased to meet you, I’m anilingus, but… but I prefer floral buds, not full-blown roses.
Oh, my buttfuck!
They say time heals all wounds. Lies. Time just stretches them, pulls them taut until they’re thin as parchment, ready to tear at the slightest provocation. Every anniversary, every birthday, becomes another jagged edge, slicing anew.
I try to conjure their faces, but they’re fading. The details blurring, the grainy color shift draining away, leaving only a sepia-toned ghost. Is this part of the punishment? To forget the faces of the fallen. I failed, again, and again, and again, so spectacularly? To lose even the memory of the light, the only light in a dark room? Pitch warbles, coupled with the occasional drop-outs, auditory texture filled with the irregular rhythm of vintage tech… gritty texture, color shifts, scan lines, slight blurring, and audio distortion.
‘Action’
He sliced her arm off. I think I’m gonna flog the bishop to puke… or wait for the disembowelment?
Sometimes, I hear her voice. A whisper on the wind, carried on the sulfurous breeze. “Mommy?” It’s faint, fragile, easily drowned out by the screams and the crackling flames. But it’s there. A constant reminder. A persistent agony.
I try to reach for it, that voice, that memory. But my limbs are heavy, weighted down by the leaden chains of regret. I’m trapped, not just in this fiery abyss, but in the prison of my own making.
They say repentance offers redemption. But what redemption is there for a man who wants to watch…? Nevermind.
Nevermind? Nevermind?
Can any amount of suffering atone for the monster I created? I doubt it.
Perhaps this is it. This eternal torment. This endless cycle of memory and remorse. This... deserving damnation.
But even in the depths of this hell, a flicker of hope remains. A fragile, desperate hope. Maybe, just maybe, Lily is somewhere else. Somewhere bright. Somewhere safe. Somewhere… happy.
And if that’s true, then even this eternal torment is bearable. Because as long as she’s safe, as long as she’s at peace, then a part of me can be too.
Though, God, the guilt still gnaws. The fire still burns. And the memory... the memory lingers. Little Lily, reaching. Always reaching. And I was about to bust a fucking nut!

Christmas was coming. The cheer, the lights, the fake smiles, children everywhere, fucking soup kitchen for the defiled. It was unbearable. And I knew, somewhere deep down, that I was being watched. My area was being surveilled by Internet Po-Pos.
I almost turned myself in. That’s how desperate I was. Chat rooms, virtual confession booths – all being eyeballed by the authorities. Confess, you shit!
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Instead, I did the next worst thing. I went back to the chat rooms. Confessed my darkest thoughts. Asked for the most prurient, the most forbidden. I practically waved a flag, screaming, “Here I am! Come and get me!”
And then I waited.
A trance. I knew, but I didn’t know. I did know, but I buried it. Pushed it down. Tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Every car that slowed down, every knock on the door, a jolt of terror, followed by a wave of relief. Not yet. Not yet.
But it was coming. I knew it was coming. Inevitable. The darkness was closing in. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t fight it. I wanted them to take me away. I wanted it to end.
Fifteen years. A lifetime. And all it took was a click, a search, a moment of weakness.
The hum of the dial-up. The sound of the abyss swallowing me whole.
And the worst part? Somewhere, deep down, a part of me is still in that chatroom, still searching. That’s the real horror. That’s the part that will never escape. Lily is right here with me, you prudes.
Okay, okay, breathe, Andrew Jacobucci, just breathe. Somerville is quiet this early. Too quiet. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for what, though? That’s the goddamn question, isn’t it? Waiting for the axe to fall. Always waiting.
November 18th. God, I remember that day. The last… the last time. Pathetic. Disgusting. And now… now it’s all catching up. Like a tide rising, slow at first, then relentless, inevitable.
The knock. Jesus Christ, they’re here. 6:30 AM. Who the hell… No, no, don’t even ask. Just open the door. Get it over with.
It’s them. Two of them. Somerville PD, probably. Faces like granite. Eyes that see right through you, right into that black, festering core.
“Andrew Jacobucci?” The taller one, voice like gravel.
“Yeah,” I croak. Barely a whisper.
“We need you to come with us.”
No warrant. Not yet. Just that cold, official tone. The kind that chills you to the bone. “What’s this about?” Stupid question. I already know. Deep down, I’ve always known.
“We’ll explain at the station.”
Station. That means booking. Means paperwork. Means facing it. Facing what I’ve done. What I tried to bury.
My apartment. My sanctuary. Now, just a cage. The stained carpets, the overflowing ashtrays, the window overlooking the quiet street. It all blurs. Doesn’t matter anymore.
They’re already inside. Invading. Watching my every move. Like I’m going to run. Where would I even go?
The drive is a blur. Red and blue flashing in the rearview mirror. The familiar streets of Somerville twisting and turning. I used to love this place. Now, it feels like a trap.
The station. The smell of stale coffee and fear. The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The hum of computers. The weight of judgment hangs heavy in the air.
Interview room. Cold, sterile. A metal table, two chairs. A one-way mirror. I can feel eyes on me already.
The questions start. Polite at first. Routine. Where was I on certain dates? Who do I know? What do I do for a living?
Lies. Half-truths. Evasions. I try to play the game. Try to keep it together. But it’s all unraveling. The rope is snapping with me holding onto it, still. Ciggy? Soda?
No. Show me to the next little boy or girl.
You’re one sick puppy.
Woof, woof.
Play dead motherfucker.
Then, the photo. They slide it across the table. The color drains from my face. My stomach clenches.
I know that face. I know that place. The Cape. God, how could I forget? How could I ever think I could escape it?
It’s a black hole in my memory. A void filled with darkness. Fragments of images, sounds, feelings. All distorted, terrifying. But I remember the shape of the dunes, the salty air. I remember the... the feeling of being watched. A malevolence lingering along the coastline, waiting for a vessel.
I was that vessel.
“Do you recognize this person, Mr. Jacobucci?”
My mouth is dry. My tongue feels like sandpaper. I shake my head. “No.”
Liar.
Show me another photo. And another. May I have just one more, please, pretty fucking please? Each one more damning than the last. The evidence is piling up. Irrefutable.
The questions become more pointed, more aggressive. Accusations. Confrontations.
I crack. My shirt is drenched at the armpits.
The words spill out of me. A torrent of guilt, shame, and fear. I try to explain. Try to make them understand. But how can they understand? How can anyone understand the darkness that lurks inside me? Post-nut power surge; thank God the computer didn’t crash and burn, only the mind did, ad infinitum.
I was… not myself. I was… lost. I was… something else.
The porn. It was a trigger. An escape. A way to numb the pain. But it only made it worse. It fueled the darkness. It fed the monster.
That night, on the Cape, it wasn’t me. It was something else. Something… evil.
I wanted to stop. I tried to stop. But I couldn’t. I was powerless. I was a puppet on strings.
They don’t believe me. Of course, they don’t. How could they? I don’t believe me, fuck.
The arrest. The handcuffs. The cold metal against my skin. The walk of shame.
Jail. A concrete box. The stench of sweat and despair. The eyes of the other inmates. Hungry. Judgmental. You in for…
Yeah?
Even them cold-blooded killers would make sure I was ‘filled’, the jail-guard simply turned his back to my cell, whistling.
Suicide watch. A padded cell. No belt, no shoelaces, no sharp objects. The constant scrutiny. The endless boredom.
Christmas Day. My plan. A way out. A final act of control.
But they stopped me. Ju