I enter into the office of the infamous Dr. McKay. Perched on a highly expensive coffee leather chair, his notarized glasses gently braze the end of his nose. He rises and walks straight for me with his open-hand directed in my way. I appear humble and without the grumble I am usually hung too, I buckle and agree to his welcome and shake his turgid paw.
"Please sit." He propositions me to a large settee positioned in the middle of the floor, must be to stop me from grabbing heavy objects or semi-sharp things. The doctor sits with his right foot on his knee, from this obscure angle of dull medication even I know this is an indication for a psychological barrier, I wonder what he is hiding? This psychologist's physical-body is simply a side-kick to a more unknown characteristic's â God, I hate people; and I hate people I have to drown who are on the same wave length as me, we are hunters for the body of truth. I treasure my secrets so no one can truly find me.
While he wastes his breath and my time, talking about important big words with underlining meanings and lessons to be learned from losing my temper. My overactive thoughts rape any chance for a soldier's attention to his details, so I carve curious counterfeited creativeness to cover the chattiness this cunt comes at me with... Daydreams are welcomed with gaping holes and broken minds.
I have finally fell in love, and it's about to destroy me upon this skyscrapers rooftop.
"Please, get back from the edge, baby!" I shout at her disregarding ears.
She has her arms opened wide, ready to be caught by Deaths chilling grip, she's to be auctioned off to the night, at half price for her half-life but this is a man's wife, a man's right. Standing on the edge within her spotlight given off by the boom of the moon, with the idea of stepping down from her manic stage to end her final act with screams and sobs. The stars are laughing at our plight with shimmering lights.
"Just look at me... Look at me, please!" The tears free-fall from my frozen face, I am in a low place up here. The wind pushes against her, whispering warnings of what is to come as it makes her hair whip and dance in a sudden surreal setting. Gravity is the middleman within our maddened love triangle but bargaining with his mighty power on this edge always results in death.
She must remember me; she is still wearing the red dress I bought her on Valentine's Day; her mind is not lost yet to the illness inside. If only she took my arm, we could take off and pursue our life together again; hand in hand until death do us part. Her heart is diseased, it's cheating beats from her; this is the reason we are here.
"What will I do, if you go through with this? Have you given any thought of leaving me behind?" I ask her.
"You will live strong and go on without me." She replies with a refining address.
"But the best dreams happen in real life; don't you want to be a part of that with me?" I sputter.
She turns her head into the misty rain, which begins to make the horizon of our city distort and disappear; life is bleaker than the weather.
"Baby, if you do this, food will taste poisoned, water will seem dry and time's hand will not pick me up from your memory." She adds to the rain with her quiet tears for me.
"Life is like a strand of hair, it can be as long as you need it or as short as you want it. Isn't this my decision?" The words are quietly carried upon the winds message.
"In sickness or in Health... I said those words to you and you alone; I never backed away from what I pledged!" I plead to her emotions. So why is this happening? I look at my phone thinking about dialling for help but it is already too late. Love is the killer to the heart, not the sword or tainted arrow but used as a weapon against itself with amative armour. "We can get the help, the doctor said there was still time." I say almost giving up. Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing, but bad things soon follow. I jettison my sight to the floor, collapsed eyelids and all. "Come with me." She asks.
I don't make eye contact, searching for a new answer to our old problem. Thunder murmurs from behind the black clouds, which are passing overhead. Weather calls for extreme conditions; angels will fall as the world sits by and listens. I nod slowly, holding back the right thing to say. She holds out the hand I have always held, I walk over and take hold, bringing myself up to her new level of living. I look down, the streets seem like mazes for mice and the people are going about their business, unknowingly.
"We shall take on death together." I say to her, brushing her hair behind her ear. She wraps her arms around me and presses her head against my chest.
"I love you so much. Whither thou goest I will go. That is my purpose." She says. The destruction of my world is the true love I gift upon you, dismantling my heart and sharing the pieces equally between us, who could want more? "I love you too." I say. We tilt to the side within a deep breath of one another. We fall, gazing into the eyes we wake up to each morning. It still puts a smile on my face. The roar and scorn of the wind rages passed our ear. "Any regrets?!" I shout.
"Not loving you longer." She replies. Kissing me as the ground creeps closer. This is how you fall into love.
Wait... What? Is the doctor talking to me? Did anyone catch what he was saying?
"...Kyle, are you listening? I have just explained why getting angry is not always the correct way to act, it can lead to a life of such solitude, you will beg for someone to speak to you."
"Yeah, yeah... I got it. Don't be a see-you next Tuesday to people. Got'cha!"
"So, in your first day, how are you finding it?" His eyes arms concern around the cursive corners of my cursed mouth.
"I've got serious problem with this whole no coffee shit, I mean, have you lost your mind. But, other than that, I've just been reading and writing. Ya' know, the whole sane thing. Bored people are boring."
"Writing? What have you been doodling?"
"Just some padded crap not in my padded-cell. Doc, I've learned a lot from those books you lent me. D'ya know where the term, I will swing for you, comes from?" Tonguing at some jarred food lodged in one of his back teeth, he shakes his vague head. He seems disinterested with what I have to say, already? I believe he's letting his guard down; what a dipshit. "It goes way back one hundred years, but people nowadays believe it's all to do with throwing a punch, but it's actually related back to when they used to hang people... They are saying they won't get into fisticuffs with someone, but murder that fucker and swing on a rope for their deaths. I like that. I finished some creative writing; I am guessing that is why you left the pad in my room. I called it... My evil pen told me to write this." I lean over, his nosiness moseys over, he grasps the sheets of paper with faint fingers; his eyes consume every word. Read, read, until your eyes bleed.
Crumple up the skies and erase out the white clouds, a slight just breeze will press against my skin, watch how it bubbles with the burn of righteousness. Stomp on their homes and the photo family portraits; keep their blissful memories beneath your feet, Kyle.
I was born to cause havoc between the bars of these pages, does that make me a prison baby? Time to turn this pen around within my fingers, shoot for the stars in my eyes and jab because I have seen the horror of their entertainment they rub upon me. Kyle, squish your dreams, blood tears will fathom under the fathoms of forever, so you can shake that idea out of your pretty little head.
I am about to destroy a whole civilization with thunder and lightning, welcome to one of my brain storms, on my hands and knees I am repeatedly stabbing the ground with my pen and watching it seep ink. The pen is mightier than the sword, but it's okay, I was born with two hands to carry both; Insert my evil guffaw laugh here!
I have come a long way from being a hobbledehoy but like every black caterpillar, I transformed in to a poisonous-psychotic-writer-fly, that'll show them all. I am no longer aberrant because this is my bailiwick. I will bereave for my lost soul, which rests in pieces, twitching with semi-life haunted by the decay of heebie-jeebies. My pens duty now is to immolate all which is wonderful and tranquil, where would this world be without a little anarchy?
You are no writer because you do not write for yourselves; you think of the small minded and only catch the small eyes, one day when I die my legend will live on within my works, to slink out from the basket when the flute of darkness is played. Serpent? Yes, I am.
If you would like to clash swords, I was forged in the fires of family and cuddled by the cold wind of the rough sleep of the street, pelted with pills by doctors as I sit naked in the corner holding on to dear life and bad memories. So, tell me, how would I not fit into fame? They will call me eccentric but we will hold on to the truth.
This is my quest, my journey to love hate. My curse, my job, my destiny and no one not even the almighty-himself can pry me away from this prize. You may know words, but I see words in all, this is where the line is drawn and if you ever think to cross the line, I will take my pen from its holster and create a masterpiece that could inevitably murder you into history.
I love wordplay; the play on words is my job title, I may not be entitled to make money from my writing but I know one day I will receive that knock upon my cell door. My eyes will darken and my soul will tweak with excitement, all alone staring at the sun, I will get closer to it than Icarus. Bring forth my weapon of mass destruction, Kyle, it's time to keep your pen busy again.
Murder is magic, from a stoic stance then a stone slab, in a wink of a blink, ta-dah! It's all an optical illusion, I opt to kill you in. I'm overdosing on this madness, this is my design. Stop me before my thoughts make this pen kill again and again and again. I'm hiding under my own bed waiting for myself to wake up, monsters lie here. I and the evilness I possess have a tryst and our relationship is based on volatile trust and bad words such as deflesh then devour. You may call my work whimsical fiction with a smidge of tittle psychosis but through my peepers, they are iris-portholes to other worlds balanced between love and flames.
I'm lonely, no friends over here but I like it this way, no one enters â no one leaves. You sane people think we are unthinking sharks but the reality is we do ponder about wonders and within this pond we can breathe under deep waters. This world has damaged me more than your eyes can take before you squeeze them shut tight; I wish I was born blind sometimes. These words keep the darkness at bay; I waft a light wherever I go, I am ready for the night time this time, clutching my pen and teddy-bear tight before bed.
I have hit a precipice in my life, today, while I write this; one where I can stay and enjoy the endless drone of life until I wake up at the age of fifty and tell myself I should have jumped feet first into that black hole. I know and you know I am not normal, well I consider myself as average through my eyes but it is your observation and critique of me telling me the exact opposite. What will happen if I can't stop writing? What if I carry on with this and achieve nothing within this skin? What if I acquire all I need with my words? This dream has my reality telling me false lies or un-yet truths. Do I continue or do I put the quill back in the bird? Take a breath, Kyle.
Two things are certain, I know who I am and I know my limitations; what does my gut tell me? Perhaps and maybe's. I am merely a blank page dweller who knits words for people's amusement, Knot, I may not have an obligation to you yet, you and I know the killer's story brings forth their eyes.
But, my thoughts can switch from pleasant to scattering around the atmosphere and landing with a confidence with a dark undertone, which even scares me sometime. I can't help what I think or write, they don't call it a flow for nothing.
You cannot save me; I only have one hand, the other is only a bald stump with a pen attached. Kyle, you're fucking fugally fugly and no one likes you; start writing your bones outs boy. My knees have given way and my hands are soaking wet with sea-water and blood as I clench onto razor sharp mountain peaks; our whole world is literally against me at this juncture in my life and I am still holding it up. They throw their battle fists at my face or mouth but forget I am writer, you want to hurt me? Break my fingers, I'm good with them in all fashions; here's a small show for you, my middle-finger. Viola!
The sane don't believe in miracles or dreams, thus this rapscallion slash escape-artist will venture from this abattoir to the best-sellers list of all time. You may think this is my mere reverie or twaddle but this is something I can feel at the end of my fingertips every time I type, I just ramble-on and babble-on with overdrawn drama for everyone living within my Babylon.
I am back in the room before the doctor. While Dr. McKay is catching up with my words in longhand, I scope my scrapers over his feng-shui; he has chimed the room to his own beat, manipulated for maximum special effect. They say your subconscious keeps your most prized possessions within arm's length. I see a screwed down globe on a stand in the corner, he could love to travel, want to split from it all, or he like to imagine about travelling but never doing it... there may be something in there, I've seen globes double-up as safes. Keep looking, could it be the accumulated academic textbooks, cultural changes in psychology, new health in psychology, a brief history of psychology, and A PERSON'S personality psychology and individual damaging differences. They do say knowledge is a superpower, does he know something I don't?
His specks are stroked from his face and the papers are placed on his lap; I am unable to read passed his repeated frantic blinks. His mouth opens but... Nothing.
"...This is rather spectacular, Kyle. You have an extremely rare talent to harness feelings along with marvellous words; it makes you into another breed of writer altogether... If you wouldn't mind, could I send this out to literary agencies and see if anything comes of it? This could be really positive for you." He curls his lips inwards waiting for my acknowledgment.
"Of course, they will publish it, I'm a supposed psycho and worldwide diabolical killer, you can't buy that kind of publicity. They would be dumb not to. I wrote a few thousand words cause' I know they like to see all the picture, not just one colour. Think of the money they could make from it, the issues sold. They wouldn't pass that up? Send it out; I would like to see what happens. I have plenty of pieces of work like this..."
An eyebrow twitch with an amazement pings in his eyes. He shifts to the edge of his leather chair; he clasps his hands together to stop the fidgeting. He may as well as be licking his lips and counting the pound-signs. With his pen, he clashes with an itsy itch at the back of his neck.
"Yeah, I have a full pad of this sketchy-thinking, you can have it all. I have no use for it while I'm in here... All I can do is keep writing. In here, there's more of that stuff, there's also poems and short stories too. I needed to do something to pass the time. Can I show you another?" He waggles his head. I reach down to my feet and pull up the pad, from edge to edge are words, some are written so small the untrained eye cannot comprehend.
"This one is called Insane Scribbles... here."
Stones spread well throughout the land, as the temperature has dropped with the weight of a brick, they fly with anger for what I have done. Tears will freeze on your face for all time to laugh and point at; within this graveyard museum, I am waiting forever. Left on my knees, you took my ability to move on, shuffle or walk. My screams work willingly; but this pen will make me lose my mind, again and again and all over again, you were my teacher.
An indestructible idea is moulded from the clay of abused skin, which you have left cracked, with the bubbles of beneath, a killer in this kiln. Everyone is a nobody and I am an alien sent to Earth to take on the pain people prick onto me. My heart is an endless alley-way; footsteps beat with the dance of escape.
You look upon me as someone who is shipping nowhere but even an unknown voyage arrives at a destination. Committed to this killer addiction now, something so beautiful turns feathered into death. Kaleidoscopes of vibrant pills turn on the viewer, so a handful of pills will do, these transform into a mouthful; the end results are in as a pill-popping problem. I have trouble sleeping and being awake. Everything is falling apart, I can see the bones of reality. Eyes, they flay all, which is real to me. A problem is born again. I am lost within this mind, found within the madness of my words, a finders-fee favour for whoever finds me . I pelt my way from memory to authenticity, hope to hopelessness, the night and its loneliness is what I am left with. I will hide above these murky clouds one day. I used to believe as a child that when it rained someone died, now even my beliefs are all lies. I am so resilient today, under this barred sun; I make up my own stories to destroy your beliefs, lots of laughs.
My father speaks on behalf of my subconscious to make sure my choices are no longer wrong. When will I put this knife down? Try to put an end to this endless life. I spit and swirl the word, inebriated, at my mirrors reflections. Kyle, pick-up your tranquilizers, write your life-out and toast to death. Congratulations, you are now evil. You can now let your soul fall from your mouth and lock it within a miniature jar with no air; shake it and threaten it with fire, until it does as it's told. I need a sharper knife. You have opened your armour, Kyle, dumb-wittingly, within the moonlight, show this world a beast, along with your love with the same mouth. The moon is a penny-sized rock in the sky; you are now rock bottom, go find your rocket. Howl at the sun so there is no more night-time. Spiral your fingers around your throat like a suicidal snake, keep hold of that dream. Lash another wrist, lash another. What came first within my life, time or death? Cannot have one without the other, I guess they come from the same cut. We shall see soon enough...
"So, what did you think?" I ask, nibbling down the skin by my fingernails. His eyes close. I wouldn't do that around me Doctor.
"I am sitting here in awe of your words, I don't know whether to applaud the words you write or put my hands in my pockets to not hold the paper any longer because it's rather... wild, it really drags you so deep into uncharted territories of the mind. I think you have genius level in you. We're all good at one thing, yours might be writing. I have to make a note of this for future sessions."
I sniff the sluggish clog from my nose and pinch the last sheet of sleep crust from my eyes. "I can freestyle too, I mean like, rap music. The words just find a home in me."
"Let me hear some, being from the streets of the United States, I was brought up on old school hip-hop music. Let's see what you've got Slim Shady."
"I'm a pain-killer,
So, watch me grill up these chickens,
Wherever I be - weed suspicion be in us,
It's a lot me similar to David and Goliath proportions,
Saving Private problem,
Doctors, stay inside your office,
Cause my colours blossom to become an un-collared monster,
The world destroyer has been yet again called upon.
It's hopeless.
Fried circuits sent me to the circus,
Kyle, put that knife down!
Would you like a life now?
Stop killing all these kids in this classroom,
Come be a class clown.
People, wait until I get hold of,
All this weight I hold on my shoulders,
This soul dominates these golden gates,
Until - game over! And, this Joker's chauffeured lower,
Courage and knowledge mixed with hate,
It's a bonus!
Anticipate for another brain-donor or an opened opus,
I should just escape to my other persona,
Not that you'd notice,
Because I'm loving no one.
The world is sick, time for its medication,
Red ribbon wrapped,
Within haunting exhilaration,
Reward myself, so every pill I'm taking,
Supposed to be people of the commonwealth,
But still I have patience of a mental patient."
"...And that's all I've got. D'ya think I'd have a shot at the microphone?"
"Definitely, I am not sure how the world would take a rapper who is such a clever young man with words... and white. I don't know if I could do anything with the hip-hop thing, we'll have to put a pin in it for a later date. Moving on, I will send these creative writings out, try and gain some eyes with short stories, they may want that. We have to get back to our session... Let me see what we've covered already..." He flicks through page after page.
"I remember I secretly entered a writing competition once, without my dad's knowledge, he wouldn't have consented to it. I have a unique style of writing, as you know, but I thought I needed to blend in, I needed to be one of them, one of the wordy punters, so I dulled down my talents and got to work. The story was based around a serial killer called 'The Musician' now this guy likes to make music with people's screams. Moving on, in one segment he breaks into a family's house and takes them all hostage. He makes his presence known, ties them all too dining chairs, and lines them up from oldest to youngest. With a knife, he runs down the family-line, drawing the blade across their throats. I called the story 'The Human Xylophone'
Anyway, forget that, the thing that pissed me off was even though I came in thirteenth, it turns out that most of the writers who overtook my story, they were all good friends with the judges of this competition; I was fucking fuming. So here, I was, saving money I had scrounged and stolen, I gave them all I had. I put myself out there, dude. I believed in my words to help me escape that house, somehow, all the motherfucking awards were fixed, it's bang out of order. So, since then I turned up my writing volume. Do you wanna' know what shitty story won? What fucking story won? It was a craptastic piece of shit about a sheep herder in New Zealand. Are you fucking kidding me? It practically just outlined his daily routine, get up, get the sheep out their pen; I didn't finish the but I hope it ended with him butt-fucking them all. There was no heart and no soul on the paper. And he was childhood friends with the main judge, what a rip off."