When There’s No More Room… Part 8…

A Pattern of Abuse

“Try again. Sound out the words,” his mother says holding back her frustration. “I know it can be difficult to read, but you have to learn.” She rubs the top of his head. The little boy looks over the page studying the images first and then the words. “The boy ex, escaped through the fa, fa,” he stops as a hand smacks him hard against his head. “Fire you dumb shit. It says fire,” his father barks. “Damn it James he was only trying to sound out the word,” his mother pleads. “Stupid doesn’t know how to read fire?” His father asks before taking another drink. “I ain’t raising no dumb illiterate asshole in this house. He ain’t going to add up to shit any way, but if he can’t read? Be even more worthless than he already is. Can’t be slow, fat, and stupid,” his father argues. “You are one to speak. You can barely,” his mother doesn’t finish the sentence as his father raises his hand. Tears begin to form in the boy’s eyes. “That’s right woman. Know your place,” his father says before finishing off his drink. The boy fights the urge to cry. He knows better than to show weakness. Fights even harder to not let his father see. “Are you crying?” His father asks. The boy tries even harder to make the emotions stop by looking down away from his father. His father grabs him by the back of the neck, “Those look like tears to me. I asked you a question. Are you crying?” Tears fall from the boy’s eyes. “No,” the boy yells. His father’s eyes light up. The spark that he needed. “James don’t. He didn’t mean it,” his mother pleads. “Bitch unless you want to be taught a lesson yourself I suggest you shut the fuck up and get me another drink.” His mother walks out of the room as the hand around his neck squeezes to the point he can barely breathe. “You don’t talk to me like that you little shit. Even got your mother acting stupid. Must be some kind of sickness going around here. Best to stomp this sickness right out before it spreads any further.”

James drags his son by the neck out of the room and down the basement stairs, “First you can’t even read. Now all of a sudden you the big man with the balls to talk to your father like that. You want to cry like a baby? We don’t cry in this family. You want to be a man? Act like one.” James throws his son against the cage across from the basement stairs. The boy’s body lands against the cage with a loud crash. Grabbing his side the boy cries harder as he lay against the dirt floor. “Get in the cage,” his father orders. Kicking the child in the back, “I said get in the cage. What are you deaf and dumb now? Don’t act like you don’t know what is happening.” The boy shakes in fear as he enters the cage. The cage door slams hard behind him as he falls to the dirty floor of the cage. Torn up bits of clothing and old rotten food surround him as he fights the pain in his side. Fights to breathe. Fight the urge to scream. He can no longer take it as he hears the familiar sound of his father picking up the old iron rod. He wails in pain and frustration as he knows what comes next.

“Strip,” his father orders. “I don’t want to,” the boy expels in broken words and snot. “Sorry what was that?” His father mocks. Striking the side of the cage with the iron rod, “Don’t you make me ask twice? No use in fucking up your clothes over your stupidity, but don’t think I won’t.” His father walks over to the furnace and opens the door. The boy does as he was told. The fire burning inside lights up the room. His father places the end of the rod in the fire before asking, “Are you sorry?” Too afraid to move, too afraid to see the boy lays there. “Are you or are you not sorry?” His father asks. “Yes,” the boy shouts. “I want to hear you say it,” his father demands. The iron rod heats up. The boy sits up and grabbing the side of the cage, “I’m sorry father.” His father stands there with his back facing him. Doesn’t even bother to look him. Only stares at the end of the iron bar in the fire,” I don’t believe you.”

“So this pattern of abuse went on for years?” The doctor asks. The young man nods to the question. “Why not report it to anyone?” The doctor asks. “To who?” He asks right back. Writing some notes down the doctor studies the young man’s body language. “Tell me Steven did it feel good doing what you did? Getting your revenge? Was it worth it?” The Doctor asks. “No, not really. It wasn’t worth it. I didn’t enjoy it the way that he did,” Steven says. “Odd because I don’t believe you,” the doctor smiles. Steven smiles back. “It did feel good shoving that hot iron rod right up his ass. Should have heard the way he screamed. The way he cried like a little baby until his last breathe. I didn’t enjoy the beginning but the end? It was too bad that it couldn’t have happened sooner. But we all learn a lesson in the end I suppose,” Steven rubs the scars on his side over his hospital gown.

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

When There Is No More Room… Part 5…

It happened again today. One of the patients tried to escape. “Couldn’t take the devil for one more day,” she screamed over and over as she tried to squeeze herself between the broken shards of glass and the bars of her window. The hospital board will want to know what I’d call it. A suicide attempt? A condition of her psychosis? What can we file this under? “How doctor do you explain what is going on?” I can hear them asking me. Even as the staff rush to help her with her many wounds. Even as she is bleeding out all over the floor. How do I explain this?

How does one explain to someone who is not here to witness this behavior day in and day out? How does one justify this as a normal everyday occurrence? One doesn’t. That one who is me must lie. Make an excuse to how such a patient ended up with gashes all over her body. Because the truth in this matter is irrelevant. A broken brain, the devil made me, and feelings of sadness are not answers to the questions they will ask. The bleeding slows and the staff lift her up onto the gurney. She will have to spend sometime in the medical warded. Heavily sedated of course. Which is the only reason I have to even bother with any of these incestuous questions. Money is all the board cares about. Had she hit her head? Well who would have noticed the difference? I know I wouldn’t have.

Why is it always the low risk patients that cause the most problems? More restraints maybe? I have my own questions that need to be answered. When she heals up I will have to find time to ask them. Until then it is on to the next one and the next one after that. I’m locked in here with them. I know it seems as if I can leave the confines of this place but illusions often seem real. Every day is a repeat, a trap in which I can not break free. Each case, each patient, each dark secret of the mind only makes the nightmare that much worse.

A man of science is no more trapped than a man of faith.One in the same forced to go on two separate paths that no matter which is taken come to the same conclusion, death. They don’t teach you that in school. No life teaches you that over time. Holds your head down under the water and demands answers to questions you could not possibly understand. I envy the others here. The staff and the patients as they do not seem to notice the path they have chosen, or perhaps they have without ever really knowing? Too many questions. The mind is a locked box in which I am expected to pry open, expected to break, fix, and replace. Maybe in the end all I have broken is myself?

Still haven’t done a cool image for the story… working on it… I’m not though… I just believe that I will… and I am…

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

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…