YEARS have passed-on, days have blurred betwixt the thumb and index finger of fate, a black cloud of bad-moods rain specks of hate upon my pillow at night. Exciting forms of devoiced whispers through the brickworks tell, I am a-someone, woo-hoo! I have not only made a name for myself in True Crime Magazines and number four on the top ten psychopaths of this millennia documentaries but also as a world-famous word fiddler; I am something of a big deal. If I can't kill my readers with my bare hands, through my pencil I will message my metallic messiah mania as malaria, more so malicious than these morsels of mischief. They've had my scene pictures of insubordination to horror and honour over. Just look at how each of the crime scene slideshows of art has gotten my stories to stir-up their screwed-up sanity.
Black bags of insomnia weigh down my eyes now, shadows of untrimmed facial hair wallpaper my jaw line, what would my paparazzi say about my unkempt look; no pictures, please, no pictures, please. I flip the pillow to the cold side; one leg over the blanket, the rest of which is snaked between my thighs, for support and the illusion of women when I wake-up with a stiffy. White cardboard clothing is my three-piece suit of armour I wear to my timed certainly certified doctorate ceremonies every other night with my sick doctor, a T-shirt, trousers and sandshoes, fuck the catwalk models, these bitches ain't got shit on me and I prowl and pounce and kill-it in a different way. Bring on the bulimia.
Chasing my dreams within this barred home of hope; I am a gluten for self-punishment. My daily routine consists of waking-up, popping villainous pills, masturbation, writing a little, energize with food, frantically masturbate again, write again, day-dream about fame and fortune, day-dream of the murderous happy-days, fanatically masturbate some more, doctors meeting, appeal to pill-pop again, fall to sleep, wake-up with a sweat-on and sometimes piss drenched from nightmares, masturbate for a final time tonight, knock-out myself after I've knocked one out, re-up and repeat, my days are stress filled in a stew of strenuous sludge.
The sunlight jars in through the meshed windows, a hand of illumination rests upon my notepad; the angel of light must want me to scribble until a page is killed, the heavens must be trying to tell me something.
Clambering to the side of my bed, I stifle a yawn and fist my eye-sockets, this wispy mundane feeling of routine roots from my sagging eyes.
"I better get to work... Wake up; here we go, here we go, let's do it. Yeah-uh, I will subtract you with subterfuge, equivalence to one hundred hunters from up under you, I'll lumber you with a statistic number; you can run from this thunder, which is coming for you... I'll blunder you in blood, how bloody wonderful." Grogs, croaks and rhymes are my second language.
With a shake of my hands, the tingles fade after cracking my fingers knuckles. I don't sit at my secured dingy tinny classroom styled chair, I lob myself at it, in an act of prevailing.
Pen in hand, I strike at a heartstring and gnaw out a vein, entertainment nowadays doesn't come at a cut-price; they can only find comfort in reading a fucked-up life.
"Wait a fucking sec... I was thinking about something before I fell asleep, what was it? Shit, that was a good idea too. Arrgh... Kyle, you are one sorry son-of-a-bitch. You have one job to do and you can't even do that. Let down, mate, utter let down." Yes, I'm scolding myself, don't give me that look with those eyes, you do it too.
The doctor made an agreement with me, if I were to write all of my nightmarish notes, which shade my heart into story form; he would deliver it to the devil decipherers and make us both a wad of pound-notes which will notably float our collaborative operations to a surgical significance. I better finish up here, they'll be coming for me soon. I sign off on my work with my autograph and the date.
"What's the date today? Pretty sure it's Wednesday." Wed-nes-day. "Sounding it out in my head before I spell it, is the only way to write that day, Ba-by." That's me, all finished.
I'm being led, brought to my new thing, my new vent, group therapy; retch. Sprung me from captivity and trusted to be at one with all living entities; please. A cage or shackle springs to mind but a guillotine or hanging would be my true test here. I'm in the same boat as the Titanic, shit is about to go down.
I scope out possible exits in case of a fire drill or someone forgets to lock me in. I read all the signs CAFETERIA that way and LOUNGE this way, good to know. I eye the clock up high on the wall and boxed in with a metal mesh, the time is 3:14pm. Time has escaped me for years, I read somewhere you can go crazy if you didn't know it, it hasn't ever bothered me. Jake, a newbie to the looney-bin; he points to the wall next to the group meetings room.
"Hold up, brother. Just wait right here while I check to see if they are ready for you." With a deprived knock, he shows face around the door; my ears don't pick up the words he utters. "Okay, big-man, they're ready for you." He keys my locked wrists. "Hang on, these locks take the piss sometimes, and... There we go. I'll see you when the meetings over."
Jakes hair was army cut, maybe he didn't serve, he might just like the style, the big faker. He has strong shoulders, someone temples their body. I can't read him. His eyes build great walls and he never reacts to the things I say. You can always look into people by their facial expressions, an eye twitch, a scornful lip. These are all tells, what turned him off from all of this?
The therapy room turns into the old west at high noon, tumbleweeds and all. They stare, that's all they are good at, their goggles ogle the surface of me. Dragging my heels to my throne, heads bow. Over in the crevasse of the corner lounges an ugly chick, her yellow tinted teeth overcrowd her mouth. She doesn't take care of her body or skin, her fat cheeks leek oils to shine her spotty face. The way she sits, belly flab flops from the top half of her grey uniform, bellybutton on show. It pains me being in the same area as her. What makes a person do this to himself or herself? Disgusting. If she acknowledges me, I will cut into her, make her squeal like a pig, although, she may just talk like that.
McKay pipes-up. "Afternoon everyone. Hope you're all well. Now, we were talking last time about when we encourage criminal activities, how these actions affect the people or victims around us." The doctor snipes Davis. "Davis, I left you with this same thought the other day, what have you been thinking about?" He asks.
Davis, he was a Nazi, well, wanted to be one. His skinhead and pale stoned skin sticks out, swastika tattoos randomly splodge his arms and skull. He looks like a smack-rat who had come off the hard-core stuff, his cadaverous extremities hold onto whatever food he swallows. This little fucker burned crosses in people's gardens, that would really show people you mean business; fuckin' hate racists.
Davis nets his fingers together ad begins to twaddle his thumbs, this is his sign for nervousness.
"I've been thinking about the whole process of what I had to go through just be racist and be in with my clique. Sawing wood panels, hammering in the nails to make a Jesus sized cross. Driving it over to some poor family's home and digging a hole, I didn't stop to think when I squirted the lighter fluid and set it alight. I ran away like a lily-livered coward. I'm sorry to your race Mr. McKay."
A nod of delight is delivered, Davis dives his head into his hands, cry-baby.
"You've came a long way, Davis. Does anyone have any thoughts on D's thinking before I jump in?" I check everyone around the healing circle, faces are blank, noses are picked and fore-focuses have fucked-off. I raise a finger up.
"Yes, Kyle." Dr. McKay says.
"First off, I hate racists, it's motherfuckers like you..." Waving his hands, the doctor interrupts. "Kyle! That's enough. If your opinion is not coherent, please, do not cut into someone."
"My bad, my bad. Got caught up in the moment. Just, what's the point? Going all that way, for what? You only intimidated these people. If you put that same amount of passion into something which actually makes sense, you'd be great at it."
The doctor raps his hands together. "Kye, that was great, I am sure Davis will take on your noble advice."
I halt him with an open-air palm.
"Hold that thought, Doc." My trident of a finger fingers Hitler. "Secondly, I hate motherfuckers who turn their backs on their true intentions, have some fucking self-respect, man. No-no-no-no-no, I don't believe in your views but all I'm sayin' is, grow some balls if you want to play in the Devils Playground."
The Doc's pissed-off, his eye just laser there, at me.
"Have you finished? We're here to help one another, we do not help breed the hurt, which provokes this world. Apologise." He demands.
I sniff up and clear my nostrils.
Out of the blue, Greg crushes through the door with panic on his smoky-coffee breath. "Doctor! We have a problem." Greg blows. Dr. McKay lurches from his chair, leaving his fountain pen and notepad.
"Carol, can you watch these guys? I won't be long." Carol nods then doctor-dunce disappears, locking the door behind him with the beep, beep, beep of the keypad.
The other patients start to talk amongst themselves, the schizoid plays up, head taps and humming. Hitler blabbers to Cassandra, clumps of her red hair had been ripped from the roots, her head fleece was uneven. She also has claw marks over her face, the scars stand out. There's some weirdos out there.
Carol, the trainee doctor, her attention is brought to the other patients, but you and I know she is watching out for my reaction. Because of this, the anger starts unearthing and building effigies of F-ing bad sentences and terror scenes, all these things tempt me. My restless knee lives again. My fingers want to curl into the palm and brick-up.
I have come to group therapy to find a monster, and I have, he's on the hunt and caught on to their scent. I thought he died, confliction causes friction.
Hello evil my old friend, have you come to visit me again? The ticks from the clock above the door mimic my heartbeat... This silence lasts forever, almost. I swipe the fountain pen from the doctor's chair and ram it through the epicentre of his swastika tattoo in the middle of his forehead, as the pen enters his skull the chomp of a snapping celery-stick sounds.
Roy, the schizophrenic, he barely eats, I heard they have to force feed him because he believes monster eggs live in food. His bone joints poke through his skin, I could knock him out with the smell of my socks. Roy's eyes lock on to Davis with shock. "It's not real, it's not real, it can't be, stop, stop. It's all in the head, nothing's happened, all inside." He says.
I took out Davis first as he has felt the sweltered hand of violence and pride. His limbs domino in order to the floor; heads, shoulders, knees and toes. I must follow this plan, if the room folds on me to make ends meet, they'd surely make both my ends meet.
My eyes slurp up the deformed catfish in a human woman costume. The orderly, she may have outside training techniques in restraining troublesome people. Become appealing to her and peal her look off.
I put a foot to her and break her face some more, her chicken wings hunt and flap for balance as she and the chair cartwheel backwards.
As she lays there, bloody nosed and dazed, the same foot finds her phizzog, I stamp and stomp frantic, as if spiders and critters covered her.
I've split and fragmented her mug, pointed triangles and curves of bone ascend from the deep red. Her eyes have engorged to mushroom proportions, I bet her tears clog up. I've also taken her nose to spite her ugly, she must know it's distressing to see something like that, not a bloody mess, her walking, talking hideousness.
Blood hangs on to me for sweet life, to skin and clothes, dots of spray irritate my eye.
Cassandra prolongs her squawks, to the frequency and pitch of a dying cat who's being raped by a bulldog.
"What to do with you? What to do? What... to... do?" Cassandra's hands grip onto the handle for dear life, crouched down, making herself miniature, trying to turn invisible. "Tch, tch, tch... Listen, stop that noise. It's really not helping you or me or Roy, the people in charge can't hear you." Her sulk switches to the hiccup snivels, which erupt after a real heavy cry. "Everyone has gone to the other side of the building for the patient's outburst, and I guarantee you, one orderly and the doctor are defusing the situation and seven other orderlies look on idly by. So, stop, they're not coming back, yet. What we have to figure out is how we're going to hurt you." She glances at Roy. "I won't hurt Roy, he has a real illness, he shaped-up, so he's in my circle. It's not his fault, he didn't create this, you and all the others did, and that pisses me off. You built your own world on the idea of no self-respect, you didn't have to think like that." I arse Davis's seat. "They underestimated me today; I told my brain that, along time ago. They thought I was fixed, I'm going to show them all just how ordinary I am. I'm becoming one of you, can you see it?"
I bend down, and immerse my hands into Davis's bled brain blood for effect and colour only. As I lift myself up and stand over Cassandra, she lays down with a hand aired in limbo to protect herself.
There is a million and one ways I could kill her, my anger slideshows all the patterns to murder. I settle on strangulation, I've never been so close to someone as I squeeze the life from their neck to their eyes.
I do just that, her hands try to over-power my arms, no luck, all my weight and fury is in them. Her tonsils crackle for a breath, tears run sideward to her ears. I don't want to miss a thing, as her eyes plead for a mercy, mine are thirsty for more.
Her grip loosens, her eyelids flutter and shut, finally her chest stops working.
Crossed legs on the doctor's chair, it's a waiting game now. The beep, beep, beep of the door lock goes. Cassandras body blocks the door. "Sorry, guys, it took longer than... What the hell is this?" Greg, Jake or McKay say.
The door pushes the body to aside, the three workers scan the room in horror.
Covered in their blood, I make sure it's me the first thing they see. "I didn't do this, Roy did it." I say. Doctor McKay scorns me behind his glasses, I hope he chokes on the nightmare. "Tell me, Doc, how are you going to explain this to their families. Once an addict, always an addict." Swabbing the blood over his important chair, this makes me cheery.
"Greg, get him the hell outta' here!" The doctor says. Greg steps over the bodies. "C'mere you son-of-a..."
I'm grabbed by my collar and torn from my wingchair.
"Geronimo! I told you I didn't want to do this, I told you doc. You should never have left this fucking room, this is your fault, McKay, you should have listened to this awful orphan."
Me and my sick heart, our cohesion co-exists completely in company. I need to be locked up.
"Take me back to my cell."