I, psycho.

CHAPTER SIX.

Dearest Readers;
I'm back with a bang! 🎉🎉🎉🎉
I'm officially back to business and ready to start up our favorite book.
As a special treat and because I loooove my readers, I'll be dropping two chapters today.
Enjoy!!
                                        Your Author,
                                             Victoria.

 

  "Seven years ago, a man I loved too much to describe, my husband, told me to kill every being that had ever known of his existence.

  It had taken me three years, two weeks and five days to do it but I did it, I killed every being aware of his existence, every child, every man, every woman that had ever seen him or simply heard of him.

I don't remember their faces, neither do I remember their names, but I remember the blood, I remember the smell of their skin, their tears on my skin... I remember the sound of their last breaths and I remember the silence after their last breaths.

       Yes, I remember the silence.

Everyday. Every night...every pore in my skin remembers, every breath I take reminds me of theirs and every step I take only pulls towards them" I paused for a while, staring at the white ceiling that stared back at me, "sometimes I wake up in a swamp, only it's blood in the place of water and twitching limbs are all over, dragging me, calling my name in whispers, over and over and over again..."

  "Your nightmares are a majorly caused by your Disassociative Identity Disorder and Stress Disorder there may, perhaps, be a form of guilty conscience in play too but that is merely a guess on my part" my doctor said, standing over me with my hands tucked into her armpits, trying her damnedest to look less freaked out than she really was.

  I gave her a wey smile and turned my gaze backed to the ceiling, "guilty conscience, huh? Disorders, I can deal with, a conscience, a guilty one at that..., now that's new?"

  Lost, and perhaps a little to naive for my brand of crazy, Doc pushed her glasses up her nose and gave me a smile that said she thought I was being ridiculous- I was not, "everybody has a conscience, Miss Maine" she leaned in and said in a stage whisper, "even faes"

  I played along and gasped, "you don't say"

She nodded and smiled widely, "it's perfectly normal, I assure you"

  I gave her a genuine smile, my first in days. She may not be good for my mental health considering that she was simply too fleeceable to truly understand all that I'd told her -I had a feeling that was the true reason my mother had hired her as a replacement for my previous doctor who's needed to go the go that was not the loo-, but she made me smile. I had learnt, in my not-too-long life, to take the little joys where I may.

  "I'll let you keep your fantasies, Doc" I told her as I sat up from the sitting down-lying down-thingy.

  She gave me an indulgent smile, "remember to take your medicine every three hours, should you feel like seeing me again you only have to ask, I'm available twenty-four seven"

  I nodded and slipped my scarred feet into my boot, "don't forget to take your antidepressants, can't have you losing it before I do now, can we?" I say wryly.

She laughed the laugh -the high pitched, partially hysteric one that assured me that she was scared shitless and definitely not amused.

   Considering that I had just casually mentioned something that I  considered my most irking secret, I figured she was entitled to a little crazy.

  My hand had just touched the door when she asked hesitantly, "this...husband of yours, what happened to him"

  I turned to her with a slightly crazed smile dancing across my face, "he died"

  I could see the question burning in her eyes and I gave her a slight nod, the only go-ahead she needed apparatus as she asked, "did you-" she cleared her throat uncomfortably, "did you kill him?"

  My face went blank, my tone flat as the ground I stood on, I said in a pained whisper, "I wish I had"

  The memories came flooding then as I remembered when the first person I cherished so greatly or perhaps violently was the word, it was like looking at the sun for the first time every damned day I saw his glorious face...died;

                    He lay there.

The small pool of blood, a halo around his head, his legs, only slightly bent by the fall and his face, Cristo,  his face... It was calm as it had never been. Smooth, without that cruel sneer marring his handsome face.

His hands, deceivingly slim, gracefully nailed like a pianist's were slightly bruised yet beautiful in that mind-reeling way.

Even then, laying on the cold marbled floor of his penthouse, my husband was the most handsome man I'd ever beholden.

          My husband was dead.

And like the psalmist would say, 'hallelujah, hallelujah.'