So, as you can see I have clearly lost my mind. Oh, wait please forgive me. I forgot that I took your eyes. You can’t see anything so, allow me to describe the horrors you are about to feel and most certainly taste. Hey, have you tasted blood before? Nothing? No Answer? How rude of me you have no tongue which to speak. How silly of me to keep forgetting the things I have already done to prepare for this evening. If by now you don’t think I’m crazy you really should start. That warm iron taste, the one that reminds you of childhood, picking off old scabs, and licking away the blood is from the parts of your tongue that just won’t heal. It should taste sick at first, but by the end of all of this it will become comforting as you hold on to what memories you have left. My apologies regardless, but you have been more than difficult during all of this. I envy you none the less, you know? No one has ever treated me this way despite my demands. I’d pay good money for an experience such as this. It’s always too sick or too wrong. That’s how this all started. Worthless sex workers. I didn’t want it to go this far. Do you believe me? What difference does it matter? They set me free from all my pain. Hopefully I can do for you what others were too afraid to do for me. Excuse my laughter I was remembering the screams and inevitable reminders of past mistakes. The memories like to bounce back in place while I work. Well enough of this talking let’s begin the fun. Never. Never shake your head no at me you sniveling cunt. I’ll cut your dick off and ram it down your throat. Is that clear? Sorry, that was unfair. You didn’t deserve that outburst. It’s just. It is hard being on this side of the veil you know? We’re good right? Your hair is so soft it calms the nerves. Good take a deep breath, first things first we must maintain the sharpness of the blades.
God, isn’t that a sexy sound? I use to do this beforehand Out of sight. Out of mind kind of thing. Always be prepared, but where’s the fun in that? That’s good keep up the moaning. I like that you still try to make words. It’s a little hard to understand you without a tongue in your mouth. If only you could see how hard I am you might appreciate what’s going on. It interests me to see how the muscles get removed from bone. Have you ever watched a butcher work? It’s like magic. The skill, the craft, the determination. It’s almost as if the knife is his hand or part of him. My father use to be a butcher and I’m embarrassed to say that the papers call me the same. I am not my father. I don’t have the skill my father had. It is almost insulting you know? Being compared to a skilled profession such as that. This is more trial and error than anything else. He used to come home smelling of blood and death. Some days he would let me skip school and let me go to the shop with him. He used to say, “One day my boy you will be a butcher.” That is about all he ever said to me. That or this is for your own good before he would beat me. That’s it that simple. Life at times is only that simple. Right or wrong simple minded thought. We know different don’t we? We’ve seen more than just the butcher block. For all his skill and all his talent he was nothing more than a dumb piece of shit is what I mean. He didn’t like my reading, jealous of my education. A transition of the times from craft to thought.
Long story short he disappeared shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Mother closed the shop and I inherited the very knifes you can feel today so, in a way the papers and my father were right and believe me that makes me very unhappy. I thought about becoming a doctor once. Hey, hey you still with me? Good, but now I am only sure that I will be studied by one. Don’t know how that is going to work though as I’m fairly aware that I am what one might call crazy, but then again it’s not me they have to convince it is the twelve other people. Now for the fun part at least for me anyways. I never liked going to the dentist myself, but if I don’t at least pull out most of your teeth fucking your mouth gets a little rough after your dead. There I go laughing again. I had you going didn’t I? I mean I am going to rip out your teeth, but what kind of sick freak do you think I am? Do you honestly believe me too be that far gone? Sit still now this is going to hurt unfortunately. A byproduct of all of this but if I snap the tooth rather than pull it. Well you’ll only have to feel it happening again, but don’t worry I have needle nose pliers as well. Your choice though honestly I can go either way. Shh… Stop your shaking or you are only going to make it that much worse. I know that some of it is involuntary, but you really must try to calm yourself. Think of something peaceful. A happy moment from the past. Your childhood maybe? The laughter is involuntary as well I must say. Man the fuck up already. We’ve made it this far. What’s a little more pleasure? Wait… Did you hear that? Fuck, mother is home. I guess we will just have to finish this later. She hates it when I work in my room. Try not to die now. You promise? Promise you won’t die on me. We still have much to discover about each other.
Not too sure when I wrote this… another take on one of my favorite subjects… torture… this story is more about the little details… for me at least… I like to take similar scenes from the past… and expand on them in some way… that makes it sound like I have someone tied up in my garage… haha… I don’t… not yet at least… but it’s the other twelve people I have to convince…not you…
This as been another installment of Fun With Words or Is He Crazy?… Truth be told what’s the difference any more?… Enjoy talking to myself in the dark none the less… Until tomorrow… I hope all is well…
What do you say with a million lives to say it? What do you do with a million days to do it? An endless array of endlessness that accumulates into a pool of endless ocean. A fully powered and operational confusion ray shown across a thousand skies would still not explain all the confusion I feel inside. The isolation of all the knowledge that needs to be said greatly increases the feelings closing in on me. The pages have become displayed on the walls. Three layers thick and making no sense at all. The words bleed together like poetry at first. But after long consideration the words mean nothing at all. Turn the page. Start again. See what comes out and in the end find no solace at all. What is the meaning of this madness? What is a lifetime spelled out in words?
I pace the room once again. Careful to not knock over the stacks. The pages that could not fit on the wall without nails. Hammer and blood. Zig zagging through future trash. The trash that riddles my mind. Have I said all that I mean or mean what I’ve said at all? The words trickle out like a stream that will one day be a waterfall. A tiny hole in my head that won’t stop leaking. The thought becomes dizzying. Dazed and consumed by all the words. I bump one of the stacks. It cascades threw out the room like a great wave of the coast of some mystical land. It blends and bends its will to all the other stacks piled up across the land. I stand in a sea of words, an ocean of thought. Even as I stare at each one. Remembering each pen stroke for what it was once worth. I can think of no meaning. No cause to add to this madness I have chosen to live.
Stare at each word. Each letter spelling out syllables and sounds. Meaning escapes me along the thoughts. Every passing moment descends further into nothing at all. The depths from under my skin. Flesh and blood. Meat without a taste. I can hear words as they echo out of the screams. Words played against a black screen. Images played to the silence of it all. A hollow sound that repeats. Blood drops, drops from somewhere though I am unsure where. A stream of red. A clue left behind? A whooshing sound blocks out the silence of thought. The blood pumps harder and faster within my head. Drip, drip. I can’t hear the noise. I can only feel it as I follow the trail. In circles I spin. Brushing up against the scattered pages of my mind. My bare legs chewed up amongst the pages. My blood bring new life to the words. Washing away letter for letter. Ideas for idea. Lost to the soul and pouring out of my head. A war fought bloody and hard. I continue to circle around the words like a vulture circles a dead carcass. I will find an answer to all this madness.
I haven’t showered in days. The new words keep pouring out all around me. The body riddled with sharp pains. I fear that I have become sick amongst the stacks. To quit now would mean that I should have never started at all. I’ve long since run out of paper. Resorting on writing scraps and bits of blood soaked left overs. I have lost track of where this is all going, but did I ever know? Follow the words. Follow the thoughts. Ideas set us free. Ideas separate the man from the beast. It is all here. Word for word. On display for any one with the time.
“A lost generation hoping for something to happen with the littlest effort at all. We all want to be millionaires, but no one has the heart to tell us that it won’t happen. No one has the heart to tell us shit.” Words cut out of my very chest. A pound of flesh I once called a heart. “They are all too scared, too afraid we’ll go shooting up the place. Our fragile minds can’t take the simplest of heart breaks. They fear that our trigger happy, unsympathetic, systematic minds with snap, and they are right for all the wrong reasons.” Man before the beast. Beast before the man. The call for blood of the innocent. The lives of a thousand sons and daughters. Is this not the calling of man? “Fear is nothing more than power. Fear is a manipulative tool used to take over the mind. They us the fear of it all to keep control. Governments, kingdoms, religion, and lies use the same tactics. Fear of the fear to keep control. Place in time. Fear equals control and control is fear. An impasse of conflicted ideas that have worked all too well.” Fitting in as the skin covers my mouth. Embraced by the society that birthed me. “A stabbed out swollen eye of infected corneas lathered so thick with bullshit that all we see is darkness. What about what is next? What happens in the end if no one stands up to the fleeting masses? The controls left in the hands of children. Evolution dictates that a change will cause adaptation to the original species. A rift will develop, slowly filling up with the lost illusion we once held.” Truth written in blood and disguised by lies of the mind. How could they ever lose control? More like them hidden amongst us like weeds that grow from the shit stuck in our eyes. “A river of deceit with a sediment so rich lies will grow like wild flowers amongst what is left of the masses. One could only hope. Giant man powered robots will reign supreme amongst the rubble of civilization. One great civilization shall rise from the ashes of our mistakes and in the end all the right will be wronged and all wrongs shall be righted.” A prophecy fore told in the shadows of the moon light on scrapped bits of paper. Cover the light with words and turn it off.
This is actually two ideas mashed together… a bit of a long post so I will keep it short… Nothing like a bit of madness to get your day started… Originally this was supposed to be used for a much bigger project about a writer losing his mind to the words… I got four pages deep when I realized no one wants to read about exactly what they are going through… So I chose all the best lines from that failed project… and tried my best to make sense out of it… or no sense at all… I just breathe the words… I don’t have to live them… and yet in some ways I do…
Time for three or four random questions to be answers… no one asked but here we go… Questions provided by the fabulous Ungame… never heard of it?… there might be a reason…
Question 1: What Is Your Best Friend Like?
She is the type of person… that you’d want to hang on a wall… put on display… someone you always want to be there… and when she is not… you can really feel it… deep down in your soul… luckily I have a wall for such things…
Question 2: Finish The Sentence “The Best Thing About Today Is…”
That I’m not the only one using ellipses… too lame… That I didn’t strangle anyone at work… too obvious… That I didn’t have to tell my daughter to pick up her dead things… too illogical… because I checked out as a parent today… That I got to do something I wanted to do today… Just right…
Question 3: If You Could Live Anyplace In The World – Where Would It Be?
Wow… this is a hard one… because I want to live every where… but I will try to limit to… Japan… South Africa… Australia… Antarctica… Sweden… Norway… Finland… South Korea… Madagascar… if I am limited to the United States… then Alaska… Maine… North Dakota… Montana… everywhere I am not basically… haha… someplace cold… isolated… and has a lot of Asian food… I need trees too… In my head I guess…
Question 4: What Do You Like To Do In Your Spare Time?
What the fuck is spare time?… I enjoy a lot of things… I spend most of it writing though… I love doing that… I always enjoy collecting dead things… bird skulls… I need more… Legos… destroying piece of wood or as I like to call them projects… I’d say listening to music… but I do that with everything… reading… whatever my daughter wants me to do… hide and seek… floor is lava… Minecraft… trying to find time to spend with my wife… watching true crime documentaries… I’m pretty boring…
Got out of that one pretty easy… more random questions to come… next month… looking for words?… check the links below…
In some ways, it feels as if a part of me is missing and in other ways, I feel exactly the same. I hate being apart from her for whatever the reason. The long nights traveling for my job is when I feel it the most. Being on the road is like going through hell and then some. The restless nights lying in a bed of someone else’s filth. They say the beds are clean or at least the card on the pillow states, but are they ever really clean? How does one actually clean up the semen and the sweat that soaks up into the mattress? Sure your nicer establishments have some sort of protection. A mattress condom if you will but the cheaper places? The places I have to stay because my boss cares more about the bottom line than the comfort of the poor bastard who makes that line exist, those places are brimming with semen, sweat, and who knows what else. I find myself sleeping on the floor most nights on the road. Not that the floors in these skank motels are any cleaner, but I’m less likely to sleep in somebody’s fluids.
As I lie on this particular floor I wonder what she is thinking about in our nice comfortable bed. I wonder if she thinks of me or quite simply nothing at all. Another conference in the morning. Another meet and greet with unknown clients. Does well for business though I can’t say the same for my soul. I could say it would be good for me if I was the owner. If I reaped anything from any and all this stress. Anything more than a paycheck. Life seems to be only ever about such worthless things. I wonder if I leave tomorrow night or the following morning. Something I should check, but I’m too lazy to get up off the floor. Either way, it is just one more shitty flight to an even shitter place. When you are young you want to travel, to see the world, but as you get older and then a little bit more that sense of adventure seems to slip right out of your mind. Now all I want is a chance to make up for all those lost years of traveling, of being apart. Those long night without me by her side.
It pains me to think about it. It pains me every time that I see her she has changed a little bit more. Her skin and her hair seem to change each and every time I return. I wonder when the changes will stop. Will they ever? I thought I could stop them, but it turns out no one can. Nothing stays perfect forever. The longer I am gone the farther we grow apart from each other. Disconnected I miss her and I miss her more whenever we are together. Where did those years before go? Did I not live them? Or have I been living in this traveling coma for so long that I simply don’t remember the past at all? One thing I do know, will always know is that she is still waiting for me. I made sure of that at least didn’t I? Back home she waits for my arrival and I’m sure my departure. To her, I’m sure she sees this time as never going or never there. To her, I’m sure that when this trip is over it will all be too late. That is what she said to me last. The words that haunt us. The words that changed everything. She doesn’t say much anymore. Lays in silence mostly. Silently waiting for my return.
Welcome back… this story seemed fitting for the occasion… this story is actually really old… I’m talking over ten years old… I’m not sure of the year I wrote it… but I remember the time period… and even though it is super sinister it was written from a place of love… odd I know until you remember it is me we are dealing with… then it makes sense…
It has been awhile since I have returned myself… hopefully all is well… the world has been changing for a while now… I wonder how much of it is really different by now?… stay healthy… stay safe… because there is always someone waiting for your return…
The things we do to each other The things we do to ourselves Vile, how do we overcome our past Failure, every sense of the word The worlds on fire, we are to blame For what we did to ourselves in our name
The things we do to each other The things we do to ourselves Disgusting, inherently evil Incompetent… Every sense of the word The worlds crumbling beneath our feet Shaken, left for dead For what we did to ourselves in our name
The things we do to each other The things we do to ourselves The things we do for freedom Enslaved, in the end it’s all the same Depraved, in every sense of the word The worlds on its last leg Whom to blame when we are all at fault? Let this all go on for far too long Knew turning a blind eye was wrong Did it anyway, no excuses resting on them Say you care, well now is the time to prove Everything you believe
Beg for change, yet more destruction Beg for a difference, yet more destruction Shut up and do as we say, yet more destruction So damned if we do and so damned if we don’t Running pattern of hopelessness at every turn
Born to condemn, no Born to kill, no Born to Born to make a difference through destruction? Left without any options Isolation, suppression Won’t work this time When the enemy is what we are Human Facing our demons head on Is more than enough reason why Laying down is not a reason to die
I wrote this years ago… never posted or did anything with it because it was too bleak… even for me… Things have changed a lot in the last week… sitting on the sidelines with a knee firmly planted isn’t enough anymore… should have been for people to have taken notice… for people to address that something needs to change… but sadly our world doesn’t work like that… no matter how much we try to improve… history shows… teaches us that lesson… pick a turning point in human history… violence… destruction follows… I don’t want to see it happen… But when the options run out… I understand…
I believe in words… words carry power… words should be enough… I don’t want to see anyone hurt… property destroyed… but even more I don’t want to see this blind eye to racism in America… in the world to continue… I’m tired of a great man’s words… only being a Dream… when they should be reality… We have so much more to offer each other than hate…
Please march… please express how you feel… as long as you remember that those left in the wake of destruction could be ourselves… Be safe… be heard with your words and your presence… don’t lose faith… don’t fall victim to the tactics of hate that surround us… We can change this all for the better… together… Black Lives Matter… but it shouldn’t have to matter when it comes to life and death… freedom and justice… we all deserve to live without fear… now is the time to prove… enough is enough…
For those of you who don’t know… now you do… DEVO…
Cannot get enough of this song… amazing video to go with it… perfect…
Haunting… Reznor… Lynch… Enough said…
That opening riff… is all anyone needs… but wait there’s more… #blessed…
So if you ever wondered… that is what I listen too when I write… just those four songs over and over again… haha… actually I listen to a lot of music… maybe I’ll bring this feature back… but for now… it felt right for the time…
Taking eight more hours of my life Lifeless spider crawls across my skin Been dead inside for so long Forgot what it meant to live at all Taking each moment as it comes Losing track of each day Is it Tuesday or Sunday? Does it even matter anymore? Building a nest of dead things in my heart Thoughts and memories I want to forget Burned in my mind, across my skin Feel everything and nothing all the same Strapping myself to the stake Living a life without complaint In death maybe I could be free Maybe more of the same Too much doubt in everything Moving on, where it leads all the same Outcomes and differences are for those Who have nothing to lose
If you concern yourself with other people’s problems… They are no longer their problems…
Counting the minutes until the end Running numbers inside my head Roaming clock of gunshots in the distance Loud noises to prove I’m still here Endless ideas to hold me under Went in early the day that I died Only to know I’ve been here before Thoughts written out in tiny sentences Short little ideas I live out Living was an ideas I couldn’t comprehend Dying seemed too easy to be the plan Stuck somewhere in between complaining Counting the minutes until this is all over Don’t rush me I’ve already skipped ahead Pushing myself beyond limits Burning the candle at both ends? Try doused in gasoline
Smashing myself against the glass…
Desperately trying to hang on Fingers clenched to the side of it all If a dream doesn’t last Is it a nightmare or the end? Some days are better Today is not one of them Running in the night Chasing darkness Desperately trying to hang on To this dream I created in my head Never had another choice They say we have a purpose, do we? They say we make our own future, do we? They say so much shit Infecting and rotting my brain I miss the days when nothing I said meant anything Step after step, can’t turn back All for nothing, all that I have become What was the point of this? If for nothing at all Tired of waiting, tired of even caring Drain my own blood and it wasn’t enough Running from the demon, chasing the dark Running from myself all along Where did I really think I was going With myself tagging along There never was no dream, no army, no wall Only me, only my own demons to conquer Been so blind, so misguided for too long Known the answer for too long A dream isn’t an idea A nightmare or a choice Something we are born with Something we must do, see to the end A battle between good and evil Right and wrong Heaven and Hell A battle that never mattered at all The dream is me The darkness is me The demon is me Need to shut up and enjoy the ride Need to quit waiting Quit complaining and enjoy the life I was given The one I created The one I’ve always wanted Limits are for the ones too scared to look past them The ones I have placed upon myself New dawn rises, where I stand Is where I chose to be Suffer or survive It is all on me
Well that got intense… for me at least… talked out a lot of thoughts out of my head… talked myself off a ledge… need to stop feeling sorry for myself… stop feeling like I’m not good enough to do this… all of this… spent too much of my life doubting myself… hurting myself… pretending I wasn’t… no one cares and maybe they shouldn’t… no where is it written that they should… reading between the lines only get you stuck between two ideas…
Been stuck there for a very long time… stuck in my head… now that I’ve stepped out… where do I go?… what is the path?… what is the goal?.. spent so much time thinking this would get better… this would all heal itself… missing all the better around me… the hope I thought I lost… has been standing next to me all along… locked away by my own selfishness… by my own insecurities… some of you have seen into the window of my heart… between the bars… but I haven’t until today… all I ever saw was the cage… the limits…
The path is clear… the goal is simple… failing is not an option… nothing is over until it is done… I’m not going anywhere… so strap in…going to come back swinging… as I have always said I would… and you should…
I don’t have anything to say, but of course this is not my fault. It is probably in some ways yours as I take no blame for anything that are faults of my own. No, I am from a generation that is like every generation before it. Masked and paraded in a way that makes us seem different, but each generation is the same. My generation’s mask seems so obvious. Ripe for the picking. My generation expects to be rewarded for showing up. We deserve the world because we were promised the world. I choose my hours and I expect to reserve the same amount of hours each week dispute quality of work. I’m here am I not? Bow before me and kiss my feet. You can’t replace me with a robot. Not yet at least but until you do. Know that I am in charge. Glad I could be the one to inform you. Don’t make me get my mother on the phone. She will only say what I’ve been told all this time. Don’t worry I won’t call her unless I have to. A weapon I keep in my back pocket. A weapon that has no repercussions but I know I can use. This is only the start of what I deserve, what I expect from this life. Outside of work I expect much greater things. I know I deserve a mansion full of food and a car that does zero to sixty in less than ten seconds and a phone blazing fast phone and a TV bigger than a wall and I deserve these things because I exist in this world. I need unlimited connection to this world I have no real knowledge about. If these small demands. No if these basic necessities of life aren’t met so help me I’ll have no choice other than to milk a system I had no hand in creating. You may see me as a fat pig begging for more, but no I am nothing more than a small, starving, and dying child. Nothing is not guaranteed as long as it has been on TV. I’m not sure this is right. I’m not sure this is true, but I’m sure at one time or another I’ve done at least one of these to you. Justified in my actions. Justified in my thoughts all I know is it couldn’t have been my fault.
Something very different… I found this buried deep within my files… maybe I should have left it there… but where is the fun in that?… I’m not sure what triggered me to write this in the first place… but upon reading it I was triggered again… I tried to leave it as is… not add anything to it… I’m sure I did though… write something over and over again… it will change…overall though… I think a lot of “us” are treated like this… as a child… sometimes justified… most of the time not… we get grouped up in this group… I believe that is where this stems from…
Hard to say when it was written almost a decade ago… I have a lot of notes and files… saved up of course… in case I don’t have anything real to say… : )
Oddly enough… I do find myself having this stupid debate about generations… more than anyone should… the best argument of course is that we are lazy… don’t know anything about hard work… expect so much… blah… blah… blah… truth is yes… with each passing generation we have become all of those things because we are advancing… each generation rewrites the term “hard work”… as it should… each previous generation defines “laziness”…
Because… “Do you know what I had to do for insert something“… “Do you know what it took to get insert something“… “Yes, grandpa… You had to walk eight miles up hill because apparently you grew up on a mountain… We have electric scooters for that now… no one has time to be walking”…
That was a weird paragraph… but you get the point… hopefully… I’m to lazy to reread it again… I never said none of it was true… losing the point… wandering off… it shouldn’t be news… but it is… we are no lazier than the last generation… unless you are talking about this new generation because…. it is sad really… my daughter is too lazy to even finish the YouTube video… she expects everything to run off an app… and apparently if we don’t have something/ she breaks something… it’s okay… “You can buy another one”… Hands me my phone… fucking Amazon…
Speaking of… Books now available in paperback and digital on Amazon… In case my daughter broke yours… I promises that the sentence structure… makes way more sense than this…
“I tried to quit smoking recently and it didn’t go well. Go
well is a bit of an understatement really. In the aftermath though I realized a
few things about myself. Turns out I wasn’t addicted to smoking or some oral
fixation, which sounds like I will suck on anything pointed at my face by the
way. No, the reason I can’t stop inhaling dried leaves laced with additives and
chemicals is because I am addicted to a much darker thought. I am addicted to
the thought of death. Even if it is a slow drawn out death. One filled with
hacking and an overall weathering of my body as I watch myself slowly extinguish
like the very thing I love. I am fixated on the thought of death to just stop
myself from killing myself. Does that make sense? In some ways we are self-destructive.
That isn’t a new idea in this world.
Some of us shoot shit into our veins. Others barrel down the road in hopes that
a child doesn’t pop up in a school zone. I put something to my lips and take a
deep breath. We as humans are addicted to destroying ourselves. On purpose or
by circumstance we can’t give it up. I can’t think of one thing that I do that
isn’t killing me in some way. Which may be a good reason to give up one that I
know will, but why? What’s really in it for me? Life always ends in the same
whether we want it to or not. Right or wrong all we have in life is faith that
we are doing what is best for ourselves even if it is not. Our judgements and
our thoughts are ours, but sometimes there is no need to express every last
one. The mind is a terrible thing to waste and sometimes hearing a piece of it
can be too much to handle. Opinions maybe like assholes and everyone’s got one,
but it doesn’t mean we want to hear them,” I spill out. “Yes, these are all valuable
points Layne, but what were you thinking about at the time?” The lady with the
clip board asks me. “I prefer Ambrose,” I inform her. “My apologies Ambrose,
but please answer the question,” she says in a way that lets me know that she
doesn’t care. This is another job. Another moron she has to deal with. “Those
were my exact thoughts give or take a few on the spot additions. I tend to
fixate on an idea and kind of “black out” or chew on that idea for a while.
Well until something else pisses me off or annoys me. Then I switch to that
one,” I ramble on. She give me a look that I have seen before. Everyone gives
me that look whenever I try to explain myself. Same look just before they roll their eyes.
“Those were your exact thoughts when you were,” she pauses
to flip through some papers on her clipboard. “Ah yes, here we are,” she
finally says before turning the clipboard towards me. She shows me a picture of
the aftermath of my actions. I try to not look at the picture, but when it is
basically shoved in your face it is hard to look away. “Those were your
thoughts when you did this?” She asks again. I fidget against the restraints
they have me in, “I mean give or take. Yeah that is what I was thinking about.”
She turn the clipboard back to herself and flips back to where she left off. “How does it make you feel doing what you did
to that innocent lady?” she asks me. “Well it doesn’t make me feel good, but let’s
not throw around the word innocent so loosely. I mean if you would have heard
what she had to say and the way she was saying it. My actions might almost seem
justified. I mean in the right circle,” I try to joke. “Justified? This isn’t a
joke Mr. Ambrose. I’d hardly call decapitating a defenseless woman in front of
her children justified because she was simply informing you about the harm you
were doing to yourself,” she says all butt hurt. “Words, words, words it is all
about how you say them. That’s the thing about perception. I’ll tell you one
thing. Those children learned a valuable lesson that day,” I say in a less
playful tone. “What possible lesson could those poor children have learned from
you that day?” She asks with fire burning in her eyes. “Besides the obvious? Those
kids learned that sticks and stone will hurt them, but words will surely kill
me,” I let off a dark sinister laugh.
Horrified the doctor gets up from her chair. “You are sick Layne Ambrose,” the doctor tries to say over all of my laughing. “You haven’t been paying attention,” I say in a low tone between all the laughing. She stares at me. Puzzled as I leap at her from across the coffee table. Dislocating my thumb before I leaped at her I knock her to the floor. I sit on top of her as she tries to fight me off. She isn’t strong enough to get me off of her. I pop my arm thumb back into socket and grab the pen the lays next to us. “Help,” she screams. “Help me,” she struggles to say as I put my hand on her throat. “Someone,” she fights to say as I stab the pen into her neck over and over again. She slowly stops fighting me, but I can see the life still left in her eyes. I release my hand from her throat as more blood rushes from her wound. A large hole in the side of her neck. “You think I am sick?” I ask her. “You think? Maybe the next one will be smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves,” I get up off of her and head back towards my chair. “I think we are going to need some help in here,” I shout as loud as I can. “This one seems to be leaking.”
So if you remember
last year I tried to do this whole insane asylum story arc?… When There Is No More Room…. This story was actually an out take of that
story… well it was supposed to be the catalyst to the doctor character getting
the big job… very early on idea… because eventually I decided to make that
whole story pretty much take place in the past… so me being a live in the 50’s
is a bit of stretch… so why am I in the story?… that seems weird… and it is…
but it also isn’t… even before No More
So.. so.. long ago… in
another galaxy… I had this other idea
for a novel… I still might do it… but even after all these years I still haven’t
come up with a way to not make me seem like a self-centered asshole… which I am
but it doesn’t have to be so obvious… the idea any way was to create a vast
network of short stories that all involved me in some way… so this one… another
that takes place in outer space… where one of the characters drops a line like…
“Have you heard about what’s going on down there? Have you heard about Layne Ambrose?”… all
different genres… all different stories… all involving me…
Yeah… let that soak in… it is a dumb ass idea… but early on… it seemed like the coolest idea ever… whenever you start something new… ideas seem easy to come by… not good ideas… or even great ones… those take years… and that is what I learned in all the years that I have been writing… this was a one off story I wanted to share… give you a taste of what could have been… and will most likely never be… you didn’t ask for it… but you are more than welcome….
There is a line we do not cross Hop over it once and it’s all your fault Step over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between hearts and breaks Thin lines grow between us Keeping us apart yet very much the same There are lines we do not cross Reach over them once and it’s all your fault Fall over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between souls and life Thin lines grow within us Keeping us together yet very much the same
“What do you got there Sylvia?” An orderly asks. Her young frame hunched over an open notebook. She pretends to not hear the question. “Hey Sylvia,” he calls out once again. As the youngest patient in the asylum he isn’t used to her teenage attitude in this dark dingy place overcrowded with pain, neglect, and isolation. “Nothing, just something I have been working on to pass the time,” she answers. “Did you not hear me the first time?” He ask. “I heard you,” she says into her notebook. “Okay, well maybe sometime you could show me what you have been working on,” he smiles. She looks up at him, “Yeah maybe.” She buries her head back into her notebook. The orderly shakes his head and walks over to the other side of the room to talk to the other patients in the recreation room. “So what are you working on Harold?” She hears him ask the only other patient not drugged out of their mind. She picks up her pen.
I’m so depressed here. I wish I never “volunteered” to be admitted. Should have just run away again or finished what I started. I’ve been rubbing the scars again. No one would listen to me outside of this walls or inside them. I should have known he would have sent me to a place that wouldn’t listen. This place is like school. “Sylvia stop your lying.” Maybe I’m not lying. Maybe you aren’t listening. The deep jagged cuts down my arm don’t help me to forget. The pain is long gone from the last time, but somehow still linger in my mind. Thought maybe if I wasn’t pretty anymore. Wasn’t perfect then maybe. It doesn’t matter what I thought. How many times am I going to tell myself the same thing? How many times am I going to justify trying to kill myself? No one cares why it happened as long as it isn’t happening. I’m safer here than at home. That’s what is important. As long as I keep my volunteer status he can’t hurt me. As long as I am here I am safe. The reason doesn’t matter anymore. No one is going to stop him, but at least I did.
The orderly makes his way back over to her. His footsteps echo within the room. She closes up her notebook, “Yes Charles?” He checks his watch, “I’ve been reminded to remind you that your next appointment is in a five minutes.” She rolls her eyes, “Funny how that seems to be the case every week.” He smiles and pretends that her attitude isn’t bothering him. A talent he learned from his two girls at home. “It is quite odd. Might have to do something about that,” he jokes. “Them doing anything here would be a first,” she says as she gets up from her chair and walks away.
The door to the doctor’s office is open slightly as she knocks on the door. “Come in. How are we doing today Sylvia?” The doctor asks as he looks at a chart that isn’t even hers. “Fine, I guess. Same as always,” she mocks. “You know you can leave whenever you want? Maybe go back home and spend some time with your family. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He asks without looking at her once. “I’m sure they miss me immensely. At least that is what they would want you to believe, but I’m certain I am just fine right here,” she looks down at her scars once again. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll make a call to your parents and tell them you are ready to go home,” he says. “I didn’t say that at all,” she says. “I just want to tell you Sarah we made some real progress in the time that you have been here,” the doctor rattles off. “My name is Sylvia,” she says in anger. “Yes, I am aware and I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to write you a script for some mood suppressors. You don’t have to take them, but if you feel all the anxiety coming back on I want you to feel safe,” the doctor says. “I feel safe here. I want to stay here,” She tries to reason. “Change is good for you. You have been here too long. It’s time for you to go home. I know your father misses you every much. I have been keeping him updated and he seems as optimistic as I am about your recovery,” he looks up from his chart. “So go ahead and get your things ready for tomorrow. That seems like a perfect place to end today,” he gives off a weak smile. Sylvia begins to cry. The tears falling from her eyes to her arms and running along her scars, “I don’t want to go.” The nurse comes in and places a hand on her shoulder. “Nurse remind me that I need to call her parents in a bit and if you could have Charles bring in the next patient that would be wonderful,” the doctor asks. “Yes, sir. Come on Sylvia let’s get you back to your room,” the nurse says to her. “But I don’t want to go,” she begins to sob. “I know dear. I know,” the nurse says as she rubs her shoulder. The doctor goes back to his file as the nurse escorts Sylvia from the room.
“There she is,” Charles calls out as he walks by her open door. “Glad to see you writing again,” he says to her. She doesn’t respond to him as she sits still at her desk. Memories flooding her mind. “Wanted to check in on you. Heard you were pretty upset earlier,” he says to more silence. “Also heard you were going home tomorrow too. That is good news,” he tries to sound excited. “Mind If I take a look at what you are writing? I understand if you don’t feel like talking,” Charles suggest. “Very much so. It is private,” she snaps at him. “I see you are excited about leaving tomorrow,” he snaps back. “Maybe even sooner,” she says under her breath. “What?” Charles asks concerned. “I said I want you to leave. Did you not hear me the first time,” Sylvia screams at him with tears in her eyes. “I just want you to know that I am here if you need to talk,” Charles says in a caring voice before walking out of the room. Sylvia quickly gets up from her chair and slams the door behind him. Only doors don’t slam here. She pushes all her weight against the door to try and get it to close faster. Tears streaming down her face as she struggles. Despite living in the same room for the past six months her room is nearly bare. A bed, a dresser, and a desk. “Her desk,” she thinks to herself. Her father’s money was at least good for something in this place. A private room and her own desk, but they wouldn’t let her have her pens. Not after what happened. They gave her special hospital pens, but only after she had developed trust. She couldn’t do much of anything with those useless things any way. She calms down enough to return to her desk and flips open the note book to where she left off.
There is a silence It is a constant There is a sadness It is a constant There are so many things And they are all constant I can taste the blood on the page I can feel the sweat on the page I can see the tears on the page As each drop becomes the page Why doesn’t anyone understand
Sylvia tosses the note book as hard as she can. It bursts open as it smashes against the wall. Papers, words, time falls to the floor. She begins to sob at the thought of the words, “I know your father misses you very much.” Visions of the past fill her mind. Remembering the pain. Remembering the fear of it all. Remembering that no one would listen. No one cared. “How could you ever say a thing like that about your father,” her mother’s words echo in her mind. Only to be replaced by the memory of his touch and his words. “You are so beautiful. My perfect little angel,” his words like poison slipping into her mind. You are confused at first. Why now? Why this? So you fight it the best you can, but the fight becomes useless. The whole thing becomes normal. A daily routine that you can’t wash away from your mind. The thought becomes clear. If I’m no longer perfect then it will stop. The memory of the pain from before washes over her once again. Make myself imperfect. Make it go away. The blood drips on the floor. It stains the carpet, but they clean it and they move on. It never stops the abuse. The monster doesn’t care if you are perfect. The monster doesn’t care at all. Deeper you dig. Deeper you find yourself in pain. Deeper until you think that it is over. Until you find yourself here and know that it is. Sylvia reaches under her desk to grab the item hidden beneath. When she got here she was hopeful that it would never have to be used again, but deep down she knew someday she would need a way out. She holds the jagged piece of mental in her hands. “We don’t even know what she cut herself on,” he mother told the hospital. Squeezing all her anger and the pain into it. “Here we go again,” she thinks. “A conclusion I can no longer hide away from.” She holds the broken piece of metal in her hand. She gently places it on her desk and opens her last remaining note book.
“When we bleed it is only to cleanse our souls. It’s like letting the air out of the tires every now and then. Sometimes it hurts more than others, but the hurt never compares to the pain. The hurt feels good in a way. The pain doesn’t. I wish someone would have listened to me. Anyone at this point. I wish I could explain the pain that I am in, but for some reason, I can’t. It could be the lack of blood still left within me or my ever lack of words associated with the pain. Pain is nothing like the hurt. The hurt comes and goes, but the pain. The pain is always there. Every once in a while I found myself here in this place. This dark hole surround by all the pain I don’t understand. This place of self-loathing and hate. I control my own destiny, right? Or have I just misheard some well-placed advice? Maybe I don’t control anything since no matter my choices I always end up here. I always end up with this pain. No one cares, but everyone’s still listening. I know it is not my fault and maybe it still is. Should have never. Should have done things differently. This has to be for the best. Nothing else left to do. Except release myself from this burden. Release me from this hole. I tried. I really did. Maybe not enough or in the way I should have….”
This is a work of fiction, but sadly the concept behind it is not. This story is lived day in and day out by an unknown amount of children. Many of whom do not reach out. It is not normal and it is not okay. If you or someone you know is being abused. Please reach out for help and never stop reaching out for help. Help is always there even when it feels like the whole world won’t listen to you. Click the links below to find help or to find out how you can help those in need.You are not powerless and you are loved.
I debated on how graphic I wanted to get with this story… from the suicide to the abuse… I debated for a long time… this story kind of took a life of it’s own… I started the story with the idea to write a back story to a previous character… Sylvia from Purgatory… seemed pretty simple… I liked the character a lot from that story… I liked her attitude… I liked who she could have been… seeing how everyone in that story is dead already when we meet them… I wanted to do a sequel…
The original idea for Sylvia was to write out a “love story” where she explains what her scars are from to the main character of Purgatory… (Fun fact… I only kept writing that story because of her… Sylvia to me was the thread that held that early story together for me…) but I don’t do love stories very well… and I wasn’t sure how she had gotten her scars… In the original story she never says… she hides them when ever she can… spark… “why?”… and the more I thought about it… the more it became the story above… Of course when I came up for air I found myself someplace very far from a “love story”…
The first couple of drafts had way more detail… way more things that didn’t need to be said… and I’m not afraid to say certain things… I’ve got stories toprove it… but this one seemed different… though this didn’t happen to me personally… it felt personal… which made this one that much harder to write… as an observer it is always easier to write something when you are not attached to the subject… I of course didn’t want anything to ever happen to Sylvia… I don’t want anything to happen to anyone… and sadly these things do… So I didn’t want to just file it away and pretend like these things don’t happen… That these things could never happen…
Sometimes the hardest things to say are the ones that need to be said the most…