Own My Soul


There’s a fire spreading out of control on Saddleworth Moor. Perhaps it’s the vengeful spirit of Ian Brady wreaking havoc on the place he once said he felt most at home. The place he killed and buried his child victims along with his lover, our Myra, back in the 60’s when life was good and times were simpler. Perhaps his shadowy entity wishes destruction on the place that owned his soul so as no one else will ever be able to claim it as their own. It’s difficult to say. I’ve got these blisters on my feet. It’s from all the walking I’ve been doing late at night. Does a place own my soul the same as the Moors did to Brady? More than likely it’s the quarry, but I don’t kill kids up there, just drink beer happy to be away from other people. Taking a needle and placing it in the flame of my lighter, I turn it around in my fingers then pop the blisters so they ooze clear liquid that dribbles down my toes onto my bedsheets. It’s a strangely sexual experience. Reminds me of a woman I saw in town earlier in the day. She had the tightest body. Great ass. Great everything. She wore this clinging dress that hugged every inch of her. Made me grow so hard, but when I visualised her as a walking bag of bones, strangely enough, she lost her charm. She smiled at me y’know, and although I smiled back and her body flowered before my eyes, there was nothing there at all. Running a bath, I rub salt into the wounds on my feet and grimace. The pain is brief yet illuminating, and as the tears roll down my cheeks, I suck on a cigarette and blow the smoke out through my nose. On the news they show firefighters battling the blaze as thick plumes of smoke carry up into the sky stretching for miles across Manchester. I wonder how close the fires will go to the body of little Keith Bennett, the victim they were never able to find, and of which Brady would never reveal, not even as he neared death himself in his prison bed. It’s strange how the years get behind you while all the time never leaving your side. How faces disappear only to remain in your heart as fresh and as soft as they were when you last held them in the palm of your hand. Gazing at the water as it spits and sputters from the taps, I suck on my cigarette while drifting away like I so often do.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

23 replies »

  1. I remember once, driving from Leeds to Manchester, we saw signs to Saddleworth and we chatted for a while about it. Then we just stopped talking because we could see parts of the Moor from the road. It was raining, a thick, grey drizzle and the mist was swirling about too. It was eerie. There was nothing beautiful about it though, and so we were all silent for ages, ’cause it felt disrespectful to speak, somehow.

    • It’s strange how places can be changed by human behaviour. How the actions of people can leave a scar on a certain location, not physical, but in the minds of those who pass by or visit. I remember Jimmi telling me about his experiences on the Moors. How they are at once beautiful yet haunting, and that’s without taking into account the terrible actions of Hindley and Brady x

  2. Theme is poignant. Enjoy the less sexual tone, still bringing the depth and numbness. The existance of non existance.
    Great late night read on night shift!
    Ta xx

  3. We’re, all searching, for that place of comfort, that place we felt, most at home in this lifetime, and, when we find that special place we felt, most at home in, we often, try, to hold on to it as long as we possibly can…

  4. I had no idea Brady had said Saddleworth was where he felt most at home. Well, that explains it (no, not really). Was ‘our Myra’ from around there?
    ‘Back in the 60’s when life was good and times were simpler’: loved this line. I was recently talking with a friend about facebook/youtube comments about how ‘back then’ life was simpler, clearer, more innocent, more this, less that, and people knew how to really love. Sure, whatever.

    • It was Saddleworth and his native Scotland. Growing up, his experiences visiting the Highland were said to have had a life-changing effect on him. He felt at one with nature, and closer to ‘something else’. So strange and terrible that he would then go on to do what he did. But perhaps being at one with nature on such a level led him to believe he was above everything else, including people and morality.
      Myra was from the streets of Manchester. Proper working class.
      People say life was simpler back then, but there was still murder, torture, and inequality. Always has been x

      • It’s not easy to understand why someone decides to harm others. Don’t they feel anything? Aren’t they at least concerned with getting caught? At that point they probably think they are above everyone else. Then they ‘discover god’ in jail (like Myra or Manson’s girls).

        I agree with you. Life was never simpler or more innocent. Different maybe. But human beings are the same throughout history.

      • I think they see themselves as being above everyone. And as such, above being human, so humans become fodder. Expendable. They become God, even if such a concept is something they ridicule.

        Man kills everything, as they say. Dreams, nature, and good taste x

  5. I enjoy the more somber, contemplative tone here. We’re all just bags o’ bones, roaming the moors or otherwise.

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