Feel Nothing, Lincoln

33

That's him, alright. That's the guy who ruined my life. I walked three days to get here, and I'm glad it didn't go to waste. Sure, even before I met the bastard, I couldn't feel emotion. Him giving me that pill, though, has made everything worse. I could handle my girlfriend breaking up with me; I could handle the incessant, unrelenting boredom; I could handle living in an apartment with no television, drinking myself to death at Clyde's Bar. All of that was something I could occupy myself with. Now, however—ever since taking that pill—I've made friends, lost friends, and was persuaded into murdering innocent people. That salesman is no saint. He's the devil, containing the pharmaceutical equivalent of the Antichrist in a brown briefcase. The ruining of my world; offered to me, and I willingly consumed it. I signed an intangible waiver, which forfeit the last of my innocence and morality. I may feel nothing, but that doesn't make me a heartless criminal. Except... now it does. I can't refute that. God help me.

He's out in the rain... smoking. He really could not care less about himself or anybody else, could he, the bastard? What is this i feel? Walking towards him, he starts backing away; taking staggering steps backwards, nearly falling with each impetuous step. That's just it; what I'm feeling... it's RAGE; It's ANGER; and it some perverse way, it's DISGUST. I don't want to punch that repugnant pissant; I want to EXECUTE HIM. I lunge forward through the air like a panther pouncing onto a deer; catching its prey in its jaws, and using its horrid nails, that cut more when they pierce inside. I throw a punch across his cheek, and I feel my knuckle hit the bone as it sweeps through. We're on the floor at this point, him underneath me, fighting back with desultory defenses. Then i experience something new. I start plunging my elbow into his stomach; harder each time. After a few light strikes, the harder ones started creating a visceral effect. One hit was particularly deep, and hit a soft piece of organ, surely giving it a sore dent. That hit made the salesman spit involuntarily. Another hit allowed some blood to arise off his tongue. I start pulling on his hair, trying to rip the bloody root from its fleshy base. "GIVE UP! DIE, GODAMMIT!" I shouted. Screaming yells over this mouse's shrieks makes another emotion arise. This one felt like the start of summer and a perfect Thanksgiving with people you genuinely adore: It was happiness. Tingles in the brain. Almost orgasmic; but trust me, it was not that type of pleasure I was receiving. Simply joy. The salesman struggled to move, but when he could get his arm free of my grasp, he reached for his pocket and unveiled a small odd-looking device. He pulled the pin off of its top, and it revealed something unexpected: It was a smoke bomb.