When There Is No More Room… Part 3…

“Doctor, I need you go speak with Stephanie. She still hasn’t got out of bed. It has been almost three days,” the nurse tells him. I don’t look up from my desk.  My pen digs deeper into the chart I’m working on. The nurse holds on to my office door to afraid to fully enter, “Doctor, did you hear me?” Pushing the pen the tip deeper into the chart. “Is there anything else?” I asks looking up to her with a fake smile. “No, I guess not,” she answers before closing the door and disappearing. The pen tip snaps spilling ink all over the chart, “What could the little psychopath possibly be up to now?”

I enter Stephanie’s room and the first thing to hit me is the smell. The smell of three day old shit and piss. Jesus Christ does no one do their job around here? Doesn’t matter I think as I rub my forehead in frustration. Lighting up a cigarette to try and mask the smell I fight the need to vomit. “Stephanie may I have a moment of your time?” I ask in the fakest version of myself I can. She only sits there on her bed with her knees to her chest staring at me. “The silent treatment for me as well. That’s fine I suppose. It won’t help you I’m afraid,” I take another step into the room. Her eyes burn with a furry. All of their eyes have this look. A look none of my medical books have ever been able to explain. The two orderlies I brought with me wait a few steps behind me. I can hear them as they try not to breathe. Unfortunately that isn’t much of an option at the moment.  

“Heard it has been over three days since you’ve attempted to get up. Moving around is good for your mind you know? A little outdoor time. Maybe some sun would make you feel better?” Still nothing only her burning eyes. “I also heard you are refusing to eat for the nurses but I see you have some of the plates there in your bed. That is good. That is positive. What isn’t so positive and judging by the smell in this room I have to believe is true? Is that you have been pissing and defecating the bed again. We’ve talked about this Stephanie. We can’t have you doing this. It isn’t healthy or sanitary. To be quite frank it isn’t really fair to the staff. That is beyond the point though. Stephanie you need to get out of bed.” My anger begins to rise as I stomp out my cigarette and light another one. Her eyes burning. Their eyes so dark. Sometimes I just want to grab them by the throat and watch the flames slowly smolder out. No, push it down. You are here to help them.

“Stephanie you need to get out of bed now,” I inform her unsympathetically. “Bring her back,” she screams at me. My ears ringing I fight the urge to scream along with her, “She doesn’t exist. We have been over this.” The fire rages in her eyes, “Bring her back.” Bits of dried shit fall off her arms as she screams. “She doesn’t exist therefore we can’t bring her back. We have been over this. You need to understand this Stephanie,” I shout threw her screams. “She does exist and you took her away from me,” her whole body shakes with every word. The orderlies rush to my side but I signal them to stay back. I can feel my own frustration and my own anger fighting to release itself. “Enough of this screaming Stephanie,” I say with a stern voice. “There is no reason to scream at me. I promise you we never took her away because she is not real.” She shakes her head no causing more dried shit to fall off her body. “You are a liar. You took her just to make me unhappy. Just to make me suffer. You are just like them. Just like everyone else,” she throws herself into her pillows.

I take a step closer, “Now why on earth would I do something like that? I’m here to help you get better. You are here to get better. So let me help you. Let us help you get there. Let’s get out of the bed and get you cleaned up.” Her face still buried in her shit covered pillow, “Not until you bring her back to me.” Standing just out of arms reach of her the smell is becoming too much to bare. “Stephanie this is no way to live. We need to get you out of this bed,” I say as calmly as one can in this situation. Staring at her I wonder where everything went wrong. How could such a beautiful girl turn into such a mess? If this were another life or if things had worked out differently I would have been staring at her up on a screen. Not in a room with her shit smeared on the walls. This world can be too much to take at times. Before I even have time to react. Stephanie springs from her bed and tackles me to the floor. With her hands around my throat she begins to scream, “Bring her back.”

Despite her small frame she has a strength I don’t understand. The two orderlies fight to get her off of me, but with every ounce of effort her hands grip tighter to my throat. Her screaming fills the tiny room with so much noise. My ears ring as I try to fight her. I try to find a place on her body that isn’t covered in shit as my hands slide off her skin. I just want to help them. I can’t understand what is happening. That’s all I ever wanted to do. But right now I just want to kill her. Gouge out her little eyes and watch her scream in pain. So disoriented as all my sense become over stimulated confusion sets in.  A nurse runs into the room and injects her with a syringe of diazepam. She fights the effects as I fight for air. Fight the urge to not kill the life from her. I feel the strength leave her hands and her weight off my chest. Inhaling deeply the smell of the room takes over as I vomit on to the floor. Staring into my own pool of vomit. I am left wondering why is it that any of this needs to exist.

Merch… Threadless… Books… Amazon… Broken Thoughts… Twitter

Look for part 4 next week… (3/20)… Hopefully you are all enjoying this… if not well it will only torture you for once a week from now on… : )

Hope all is well…

When There Is No More Room… Part 2… I Said…

I Said

“I’m not feeling particularly violent today. I mean no one was asking me to be. I just don’t feel it. Some days I can really feel it,” she says with a smile. The smile washes away from her face, “But not today. No, today I feel rather joyous and a bit vain. Callus is the word? No that is something that happens to the skin. What is the word that I am trying to say?” A silence fills the room as she stares at the wall. “Hey, do you want to know something else about skin? Do you know what happens when direct heat is applied? You know like fire.” Again she stares as she waits for an answer as she waves butane torch in her hand wildly. “Stumped you huh? Well silly it doesn’t just turn black. You know like with raw meat. No the skin bubbles first. Bubbles and bubbles until the water trapped inside causes the epidermis to explode.” She begins to laugh hysterically at the screams of her victim.

“Do you still think?” She screams into the victims face. “Do you think?” She asked calmly as she grabs the victim’s hair. She takes the long flowing hair and wraps it around her knuckles. She pulls the hair tight and raises it above the girl’s head. “Do you think that the same thing will happen with hair? Should we test my theory? Because I think. Well honestly I have no idea what will happen. Do you?” She asks curiously. “Better yet,” she pulls the handful of hair to the point of breaking, “Do you think that if I make you as ugly as me. You’d want me then?” She presses her scared face into the other girl’s face. Butane torch burning in the other hand. A look comes across her face as she stares into the other girl’s eyes, “Yeah bitch I didn’t get these scars sucking dick. I earned them. So let’s ask ourselves this simple question. Do you think you could ever walk in my shoes for a day? One day. That’s all.” She looks down at the victims shoes, “Because let’s face it those pumps look amazing. What size are they anyway?”

She turns the fuel knob on the butane torch to off and places it down on the carpeted floor. The girl only whimpers as tears flow down her face. “Tell me are they Capezio? Is that still even a thing? Fashion really isn’t my thing. I’m more or less into other things. Don’t get me wrong though. I like to learn.” She walks over to the dresser and picks something up. Slowly pacing back over to the girl holding something behind her back, “Do you mind if I take a look at them? You know up close? I promise I won’t hurt them.” In one rapid motion she lunges at the girl’s right foot with a hatchet in hand. Swinging the hatchet at the girls shin. Slightly above the ankle. Over and over again with everything she has the hatchet connects to flesh and bone. The room fills with the sound of screaming, laughter, and hacked away flesh. Her face sprayed with blood at every hack. Wave after wave of blood. The victim flails her leg in pain the best she can against the restraints. The victim’s whole body begins to convulse until it doesn’t.

She sits crossed legged on the floor staring at what is left of the girl’s foot. “Really don’t think these are so great after all. You know with all the blood on them and everything. Hey, are you still with me princess?” She asks her. She taps the girls left leg with the side of the hatchet. “I’m talking to you.” She slams the hatchet blade side down into the victim’s right thigh. The hatchet stands in place as she slaps the girl over and over, ‘I said that I’m talking to you.” She screams words of nothing with everything she has into the girl’s face. “That bitch is dead.” Sad she tosses the hacked off foot behind her. It lands on the bed with a soft thud as it bounces into the pillows. “We were just starting to have fun.” She says with a pouted face. “I knew I shouldn’t have done that. Stupid, stupid,” she hits herself on the side of the head over and over. Rubbing her knuckles against the scars.  The smell of smoke slowly fills the room. She looks around confused until she sees the knocked over torch. Watching the trail of fire as it spreads to the bed. “Well fuck, Father isn’t going to like this.” Random limbs hang from the ceiling as the fire takes everything.

Merch… Threadless… Books… Amazon… Broken Thoughts… Twitter

I’m so excited for this project… I’ll probably fuck it up in some way… but I’m excited none the less… That’s all for now…

When There Is No More Room… Part 1

The halls are filling with patients I can hear their feet stomping. One by one they shuffle their way down the halls. The ones that can that is. None of them mine of course. No of course not they belong to my subordinates. All those long nights. All the studying. All the work to be at the top of my class. What a waste of time. No, I get the special ones. The ones chained down, the ones that most of us can only see through glass and steel. But why am I telling you this? Talking to myself. I might as well be locked away with them. I need. I need to get this all out. Before I end up on the other side of the glass. We all have our reasons for being here. Locked in this place.

I am here to make sure they get “better.” Help them, cure them, but there is no cure for crazy or deranged or homicidal.  So all of my education, all of my time is nothing but a waste. I get to pretend to be the very thing I call myself. The title I have earned, Doctor. Head Doctor of Psychiatry at a state run asylum to be exact. I get to pretend that I can make them all better. Trapped in purgatory with the monster who will never see the light of day again. God damn it. I just want to leave this place. Trapped in my head. Trapped in place. Day in and day out. When I close my eyes. All I see are their faces smiling back at me. They should be put down. Put down like the animals that they are. One way trip to the pits of hell. But that’s not humane is it? That’s not right. Not in this day and age of medicine. We can help them.

What a joke. A broken idea stabbed into our brains. Not all of us were born equal. Not all of us deserve to live. All those long hours, all these long days, this endless life time, and that is all that I can come up with. Kill them all. Let the devil have his play things back. Not good enough. Not the solution we are looking for. “Do we need to replace you with someone better?” Better than me? Someone better than me can administer the same test with the same results. Would it make the difference to help these monsters? Question my very existence in this world. Driven crazy by the very people who I have entrusted me to heal. Nothing. Surrounded by the madness and the endless cycle of nothing. The nothing is pointless and unavoidable. The fact that nothing I will ever do will mean anything. That’s the part I can no longer take. Life here is an unknown mystery with the same outcome.

Welcome to the Alabaster Behavioral Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Yes, when there is no more room. Welcome to hell.

Merch… Threadless… Books… Amazon… Broken Thoughts… Twitter

So this was that project I was talking about… either last week or the week before… I don’t know… the days bled together after awhile… Hopefully I can keep up with it… this week I will be posting three parts to it… after that I will be posting a new part every Wednesday… and filling in the days with Broken Thoughts… poems… the usual stuff… trying to change things up… taking a chance on this story… maybe I will talk about it more later… okay I will be talking about it more later…

Little Fears Is Chewing On Glass…

Or is Chewing On Glass looking at Little Fears?… Either way… we have done it again… Honestly I think this one is pretty good… could be our best collaboration so far… So send some love over to Little Fears aka Peter… and enjoy… (I wrote this before it was out so if you are reading this after 3/3/19… You are just enjoying… Little Fears…)

Okay… now that you have checked it out… you did check it out?… I can talk a little bit about the original project… The piece that you just read… is from a project I have been trying to get off the ground for a while… okay… it was an idea I had that I wrote a two page treatment for and meant to come back to… shit that was probably… seven years ago…

Time fucking flies by… almost two years ago… I offered it to Peter… we are a both a little consumed with our projects… to be honest though… I pitched the comic, Is That A Funeral, to him in our second email… maybe our first correspondence… haha… I was a bit excited to work with him… I’ve been meaning to pitch it to him again… but I left it in the idea bin and kind of forgot about it… then Peter sent me an email about doing another project… hyped… I knew this was the time to actually do it…

In reality though the part of Is That A Funeral that you read is more of a second or third… idea for the project… turns out that the two page treatment was just that… a treatment… so I rewrote the best version I could based on how I wanted it to be seven years ago… hopefully you enjoyed it… I enjoyed working on it with Peter… but he is always a pleasure to work with… so that part wasn’t difficult… and yes… my publishing company is also called Is That A Funeral?… I named the comic after it… seemed fitting…

New logo for Broken Thoughts?… Let me know…

Sympathetic to Your Needs

“Am I being recorded?”
“I hope you don’t mind. It is for journalistic purposes. Try to not let it affect you or your responses. Best to think of it not being there.”
“Okay.”
“So you wanted to tell me something about where you work and how it pertains to my story?”
“You won’t publish my name right?”

“Click,” I insert another tape.

“From my perspective, I don’t see why racism in America is even happening. I mean at what point do we move past it and grow as people?”
“I’m not too sure. That is why I am working on this piece. I want to find out what real Americans think about racism.”
“How many real Americans have you interviewed so far?”
“Quite a few. All walks of life, but I want to hear your side of the issue.”

“Click,” I insert another tape.

“I have been doing this a number of years.”
“Seems like it can be difficult talking to people. I’m not sure I could do such a thing.”
“It can be at times. The hardest part is staying objective to the subject at hand. Often find that there is way too much excessive talking. It becomes a distraction.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, this? This is nothing.”

“Click,” I insert another tape.

“Are you even a real reporter?”
“Of course I am.”
The sound of weeping. “Why are you doing this?”

“Click,” I insert another tape.

“You shot her in the fucking face. You sick fuck.”
The sound of rustling. “Just wait and see what I do to you.”
The sound of choking, sounds of a struggle. A faint whisper,” Please… help…”

“Click,” I eject the tape. “How many are there?” I ask. “How many what? Tapes or victims?” My partner asks. “Either,” I say as I put my cigarette out. I leave it resting in the ashes. Burying it with the others. “Hundreds of tapes, but we are still unsure of the number of victims. Been doing this for years. Some of the tapes are legitimate interviews as you heard. Others are as close to being there as you can get. I mean let your imagination run wild.” He stares at me as I light another one. I offer him one from the pack and he declines. “It makes you wonder why? Even after all these years on the force. Still left with the same question,” I reach for another tape. “The answer isn’t there or in any of these tapes,” my partner assures me. “No, but there are facts and facts leads to answers.”

“Do you think that this will make me famous?”
“It has been my experience that anything can bring you attention. But not all attention is good attention. To answer your question though. In this case, it might.” The sound of a power drill coming to life and screams washes over the recording.

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Wanted to try something new… A story that could only be done on the website… and about as close to a script that I want to get… It is hard to not write every action each voice or character is doing… My hat goes off to those of you who write scripts… I have no idea how you do it… drives me crazy… lack of control?… what does that say about me?… haha… 

Still selling bits of my soul over at Threadless and Amazon… Don’t worry… I’m as cheap as I can get… 

Breaks Over, Welcome to Hell

Why did I even come here? It surely wasn’t for the great fucking scenery that’s for sure. I really can’t answer the question I am faced with every morning I look out the window of my house. This town is a dying community of people still trying to hold on to a time that was better than this. And I am here to say that there is no such thing. I think it is easier for this town to not believe in reality. Too just spread the lies as each generation keeps dropping out. The town is broke, hell the whole region is, we carry a city on our backs, and float in shit waiting to hear how the state government will fuck us over again. This town is caught between fucked and truly fucked. What’s left of the jobs not sent to China are actually being run by people who aren’t even from this area. The people with all the money, the rich, are all from other parts of America, and they don’t stay long after realizing just how decrepit this town has become. The rest of America is under the impression that when you live in New York you live in the city with all the bright lights and all of the future at your feet. When in truth the city is only five hours away, but it feels more like it is on the other side of the world. Jamestown is worlds apart from what other people think of New York and some days it feels light years away from where I am anymore. Why am I here? Why is anyone here?

I pick at a scab on my hand and it starts to bleed. It starts to bleed a little bit and then it begins to bleed a little bit more and then a little bit more. The blood dripping, flowing down my finger and finding its way into the palm of my hand. The scab was once a blister that I tore. The blister is from the last time I played drums. It had been a while since I played drums and the calluses that once proved I was good at something have long disappeared. Why did I move here? Better yet why did she move us here? That’s right she wanted to come here it was all her choice after I told her what my mom said. It was her suggestion that we come and then she was gone. She threw me aside like a piece of rotten meat. Why did I move here? Why did I move anywhere? The cigarette I have been smoking is slowly making its way to my fingers and I know I should put it out, but I just stare at it. I can feel the warmth of the fire burning within the cigarette, proof that I can at least feel something. The drug store bandage that once covered the scab I just can’t stop picking lies on the dirty floor next to last night’s attempt to forget just what is wrong with me. My floor is littered with dirty clothes and trash, I realize yet again I have let myself go.

Tomorrow classes start back up at the local community college and I must return to further prove nothing is really wrong. If there is one thing I hate it is that fucking school. Why did I move back here? So I could complete college after dropping out of the last one due to a lack of interest. Now the only way I can make it through a single class is to numb myself into a coma. At least the drugs are good for something. The blood is nearly dry in the palm of my hand and I begin to pick at the trail of dried blood. The blood falls off my skin like little red snowflakes. It’s four a.m. and I have my first class in less than six hours. I move from the chair in the dining room to my bed that I moved into the living room. My pillow smells like months of sweat and there are white mucus trails all over it. I flip my pillow over to the other side and realize I’ve already done that before. The breaks over and now I must return to hell. Tomorrow will be the same as the last.

Orginally from A Lie… 

Turn Out the Light

I begin my day by waking up like most of humanity, but in a hint of irony, I don’t think that I ever truly wake up. My first thoughts are to find some drugs, but I failed to get more last night or save any for this morning. So now I am beyond hopeless. I light up a cigarette and take a couple of drags before stumbling my way to the bathroom to piss. There is a huge bruise on my left inner thigh and I can’t recall how in the world I got it, but now that I know I have it my leg begins to hurt. I move to the kitchen and open the frig door more out of habit than anything else considering I already know that there isn’t anything inside it anyways. More thoughts creep into my head and this is why I should have saved at least one more hit. My second real thought of the day is that I have to work later. I already know hours in advance that I will be thirty minutes late, but I also know that they won’t say anything. In some sick sad way, they feel sorry for me or they act like they know something I don’t. Either way, this pisses me off beyond belief. I don’t say anything because I need the money now more than ever. I close the frig door and start to get ready for work. It’s not a long process so, I’m out the door before I even realize it. I send her a text that I know she will never respond to. I send her a text that says, “I love you and I miss you”, but it was a waste of twenty seconds. I start my car up and pull out of the parking space. I stop by the dealer’s house before heading to work. I barely had enough money to get what I will need for the next few days of my miserable life. I need to conserve as much as I can before I get paid again or things just might get worse. I laugh at the thought but it is more real than I can even comprehend right now. The drug dealer sends his best and this pisses me off. I could barely stop from doing a hit right on his front porch but I make it to the car. I head to work and today is already a waste.

Sixteen and fucking stupid. Sixteen year old girls pretending to be so stupid and dizzy about the dumbest things. As if a five-year old doesn’t understand how much something costs. How hard does one person have to be dropped on their head to not understand the concept of money in America? Yet this woman standing in front of me isn’t sixteen, though she acts like it, hell I don’t think she is even in her twenties anymore and if she is she looks fucking rough. Her and her rather large but not for this area boyfriend, who decided today wasn’t a good day to wear sleeves, stand in front of my register. There is a horrible smell coming from somewhere, but I’m not sure where. They have decided to purchase some beer, her pleasure condoms, and this week’s special two regular sized candy bars at the value price of a dollar. The slightly overweight woman who really doesn’t need one more candy bar asks me, “If the tag says two for a dollar does that mean I have to get two candy bars to get the sale price?” My mind flashes to the many possible answers I want to say to her stupid question like do you really need two or are you fucking retarded? Because if you are retarded that is fine, but if you’re just pretending, that’s fucking sad. I calmly tell the woman you can still get the sale price if you purchase just one as I hide my twitching hand from her view. And just so there is no confusion I tell her that they are fifty cents apiece. She gives me a look that makes me wonder maybe this isn’t an act. She really is slow in the head. She decides the best way to go is to get two. “They’re only a dollar,” she says with a giggle. Her next words will haunt me for as long as I live. “You got this don’t you Big Daddy?” I want to vomit all over her, and for the first time tonight it isn’t from the drugs. The man, known only as “Big Daddy,” steps up to the counter and reveals just exactly where the horrible smell in the air has been coming from. He is wearing a sleeveless shirt that says, “Taken Care of Businesses,” on it. His sleeveless arms are quite hairy and sweaty despite the fact that it can’t be more than forty degrees outside. His hairy arms release an odor so wretched that the smell is burning my raw nostrils. I have resorted to breathing through my mouth, as little as I possibly can. The sooner they leave the sooner I can breathe. I can feel my face getting redder as my blood starts to accumulate in my face making it feel even hotter in the room than it already is. I feel as though I am trapped under water. The couple begins to speak. I think they are telling a joke, but all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my head, not the words coming out of their mouths. I don’t understand why they keep talking when I’m not saying anything back. I don’t understand what is going on. They are laughing and smiling, and the smell is somehow getting worse. It hurts, but I pretend to laugh anyways with them. I must pretend to be normal and that everything is okay. I must appear normal I chant to myself as my hand is still twitching and my leg has joined in. My mantra of normal is really starting to fuck me up. What is normal at a time like this? I hand the change to “Big Daddy” and the woman steps even closer to the counter, close to my face, closer than anyone should ever be, and she looks me right in the eyes. She says, “The secret is to have lots of sex.” I swallow the vomit that has found its way into my mouth and force a smile. I have no idea why she is telling me this, but I am grateful that they at least bought condoms. Now if they understand how to use them is a whole other question. My guess is that reading is difficult at their level of intelligence so probably not. It is another sad day on planet earth.

Orginally posted in A Lie…