Madman. (#wattys2015)

Prolouge

I think that was the first madman I had seen. He sat in front of me in a cold metal chair that thousands of others had slouched in, being weighed down by the unforgivable secrets they tried to hold close to them.I was asked to pry those secrets from this creature. When I walked into the room I could just feel that he was crazy. It was a familiar feeling that I couldn't place.
International spy agencies don't seem to think that crayons are a conventional way to obtain those lies closest to us. He did confess however.In trade for the red crayon. He wanted it to draw the red lips of the young girls he dry drowned. Of course they were impressed at first ,I was resourceful and clever, and for a while they appreciated me and used me, But all of them gave me this look. And I recognised that look. It was the look they all gave the madman I met. Eventually they kicked me out. So I became a detective and a private security contractor but everyone gave me that look. And then they all just stopped listening to me. So I started to listen to me. All of me. I think What finally did it was when I saw the madman at the asylum. He gave me the look. He laughed. He laughed because he knew it was the look that I never gave him. Because I was like him.That was when I knew they were real. To not ignore them.
But I was scared. Not of the blood. Not of the death. Not of the ear piercing screams. I was afraid of me. Of when I could stop. Whether I could pause and think. And then I knew they could never shut up. If they couldn't shut up then I couldn't stop. I wanted to stop. Well one of me did. But I don't really know who that was. Maybe you will see her some time? If you do- kill her.