The Mental Patient

Chapter 4 - The Idea

I must have passed-out. My eyes recoil open; my breaths are caught by puddles of beer and blood. I breathe in and it comes closer, I push it away with a puff-out, me thinks I found a new game.

I best get up, first I'll wriggle my toes; worst mistake ever, the pain is so severe only a prolonged glock sound is hammered out. I begin to wipe away the pings of glass from my feet and face cheeks; I need altitude to tend to my wounds.

I drive my fingernails into the floorboards and hoist myself forward, scraping my chest and belly upon the glasses jabs. Police sirens warn through the night; their sad safety is not for me. This isn't living; this is surviving between a rock and a hard-flying fist.

The whispering returns behind my ears. Why do you allow this? Your emotions are so much stronger than theirs are or ever will be; we think it's time you channel a sweet supernova, this world has seen your blood, an eye for an eye, time to see this world crease over in pain and exhume red-floods. Sometimes Kyle, you need to run away from who you are and sprint towards what you are.

"Preach it. This world wants to push me towards a dark actioned magic reaction, every time, so be it. From now on, I'm carving my own path in life in the truest of forms and words." The floorboards take upon my pain and whimper with a downtrodden creek.

They won't even know what will hit them, surprise amble ambushes and persevering anger will be your key against your villains. Time to transform... A force not to be reckoned with, nature in the simplest of forms will baffle and shiver their fears. Regain your soul by the retaining of evilest of actions, grit your teeth, stand aplomb and collide with sanity. You have always known you were different; it is our job to insure you step upon the proper bricks to deliver you to a superior notion of being... Snap. Snap. Can you hear his branches snap?

There I sit, contemplating rising as a new man, I'm no longer a mere feeble boy; laugh at your blood, its trickling chuckles with you now. The kitchen light seems duller; or is it? Am I now the Angel of the Light? Living in the land of the blind where all other tinkles and sparks can no longer surge at my rate. I exhale a fresh breath and retrieve a fresh new mind-set. I've been waiting all night for this. I clamber up to the kitchen side with a ragged drag, pushing my life to new heights. The elasticized electricity shock drives up my legs, the hunger saliva peers from my lips for more pain. A superhero is born.

Take control of your world before it takes everything from you. We will be your only critics when your brains first and final thoughts are not carried out with passion and purity. We can protect all in which you love with this and destroy all in which glance inverted eyebrows your way with your new way of thinking. Do not allow their beliefs stand in your way, beliefs are ideas clustered by mobs and enforced and forced into your eye line. You have been training for this, your entire life. If you believe murder is your only possible goal to an easier future, destruction when oneself self-destructs is your belief and what one must do to enforce a self-religion, stand firm and fight the world. All they believe is the illness, all the sanity they spread is the disease. The world is sick, time to give it its medication. Do you understand, Kyle? You are a kaleidoscope of killer instincts. We are going to make you into a Godly creature of mischief and misery. We are you. It's easier for a man to obtain power through evil crusades than pleasant triumphs. Follow us there.

A releasing high from my newfound drug of life wipes a smile across my jowls; I haven't felt this happy in all my life. Blood, I smudge my red-fingered war paint whilst feeling over this brand new hideous foreign facial expression of mine. Who are you in me?

"Be all I can be in a place which cannot help but suffocate itself, whilst I am being dragged down with the perks of an easy death and a quiet sleep within a slow-sinking-sand abyss. Mark my words, I will no longer write stories, but I will give this floating toilet something to see whilst it spiral thrusts a fucking flush of shit covered paper." A poisonous productive potion is now prepared into perfection, dig–in and eat. I am left with the recipe of war, which wrestles within me to install the best ability to inform my versatility in this hellhole.

Brains get to work. This isn't working out for us, this body, this me, this life; the Gods have summoned me to create another version, another extension of myself. Somebody who will no longer back down to foot level, someone who will no longer try and hold his head up high to life's lows and get knocked on the chin. I will kink my eyebrows at social order; a sinister smirk at a displayed hand for help; pop the heads off entire populations after my mother which I abhor, abandoned me for the dangerous angels, my repulsive father started being the after school living room live-in bully. How about when the child services disregarded these children, focusing on help the grieving father who has lost his wife, and the police were always too busy or helped my precious papa reinforce my cries for help and put my words down as a counterfeit cry wolf. Fuck you all.

Straighten out that slump in your back Kyle and stand tall when you beat them down. Getting lost in this noxious nauseous nonsense with no sense context to swim back from the deep end, my whole hole-of-a-life depends on me reinventing this evil self-centred menace with void feelings, leave your coyness in the corner steaming. Here I go, turned on within this painful monumental mental mellow moment. I cart my unkempt upper teeth over my dry cracked bottom lip; this bloodthirsty high is sensually sexual. My wits are finally losing their virginity. I'm fucked I guess, but at least you'll be the ones who'll all pay for me.