Burn

What's in the Mind.

Different people believe insanity to be a variety of different things. As you most likely already knew, insanity comes in many different forms, many shapes and sizes. It can start small, very small. Most times the warning signs go unnoticed, tossed aside like most of the issues in the present time of this world. At only seventeen years, I like to believe that I have an exceptional understanding of the mind and all it's demons. Everyone has their monsters and creatures lurking in the depths of their thoughts like a shadow creeping along the wall at night.

Some have worse demons than others.

Some people are dubbed insane by partaking in events not seen as normal by the rest of society. A man who doesn't do ill to others, but who locks himself away with candles and books of strange symbols and writings worshipping a being that the rest of the world thinks no one should be loyal to. He scrawls out words on his walls, floors, ceilings, furniture, even himself. When he runs out of paint he resorts to pencils. As his pencils break and wear away he resorts to his own nails, scratching and clawing as he tries to prove himself to a being who could either make him or ruin him. Perhaps he was "given a promise". Maybe he believes that after his work is complete, he will be taken to the heavens to live in everlasting glory with the ones he loved. Perhaps he was lead to think that by obeying his overlord, he would be seated at his left hand, watching the scums and lows of the world burn in anguish in the pits of hell forever. The people unlucky enough to get a glimpse inside this man's home feared for his sanity. A man worshipping Satan must have been out of his mind, especially so, considering that when he ran out of space on his walls, he began to carve out Lucifer's words into his skin. Clawing and scratching and tearing and burning, anything that could bring him closer and closer to his goal.

Many are labelled psychotic based on certain problems they have. Drugs, alcohol, any substance that can be abused. A woman who finishes bottle after bottle of putrid liquid, intoxicating herself beyond belief in a miserable attempt to drown out the hellish sorrows in her life. Or how about a young boy, rejected by a pretty little girl he deemed the love of his life, resorting to skulking around cities buying any types of drug he had get his hands on. His life spirals down and down until he can barely function, all because he was unlucky in the field of dating. Taken away are the people that cannot think straight anymore, those who think that life is over. Those who could've had families, jobs, cozy up-state apartments if they had only taken a different path in life. 

Or what if they are actually crazy? Voices, shadows, desire to do harm... There are people like this, as much as you do not want to believe it. Killing animals just to watch them screech in agony as their fur is ripped off, limbs removed, organs extracted and left splayed out on the ground, staining the land with their suffering. Setting fires, watching the flames come to life, singing and breathing and eating, consuming anything they come in contact with. Watching the light dance among the house of that boy you hit you last week, listening to his screams as he realizing that the only way out of his room is to jump from his window. Watching the gas station explode, the bodies inside completely obliterated, barely anything remaining to prove that they even once existed. Dropping a lighter into the grass atop a large hill, watching the twigs and brush crackle as they are heated and blistered, spreading anguish throughout the forest and wiping out any trace of life that couldn't escape.

Perhaps they hurt themselves? Sharp blades and concealed scars, burns and bruises, battered nails and tainted skin. Hating the world and despising themselves, not able to realize that it isn't them that was wrong. It was the people who hurt them. Unable to see the good in themselves, they take out the sadness and anger upon their bodies, leaving a journal of wounds and brutal memories. Blood and tears merge, creating a river of sorrow that drowns out even the faintest bit of light.

I do believe that my understanding of the mind is far beyond those of others. The way the brain works is very peculiar. When some people see a dress on a chair in the darkness, another may see a crooked woman rocking back and forth, waiting for eyes to close and guards to be let down, providing even the slimmest chance to strike. A person may see blood, while another sees a beautiful cascading flow of life, the very giver of what makes a person alive. Crimson rivers coursing through valleys of flesh, bringing pain and suffering, as well as comfort and guidance to those of the ill mind. 

But not all of these people are insane.

I am not crazy. I am aware of my actions, aware of my surroundings. The sound of the blade as it delved into the flesh of the body beneath me. The look of utter shock and horror as the store clerk realized that his life would end here and now as I knocked the shelf down on top of him. I was aware of everything, from the temperature of the jars on the roof, from the time it took for the mice in those jars to fry to death in the sun. I knew the exact amount of time it took for the fire to reach my father's bedroom, engulfing his unconscious body in flames and scarring the room with the permanent evidence of his death. I knew exactly how to play it off as an accident, as the kerosene lamp in the hallway had been acting up for a while now. My mother was stricken with grief, and spiralled completely downhill into a whirlpool of substance abuse and wine. Unable to take care of the estate, it was passed down to my eldest sister, Amale. 

With some careful coaxing, which consisted of a few missing cats, and one poor servant boy whom happened to have captured Amale's heart's bloody pocket-watch on my dear sister's pillow. She passed down ownership to myself, stating so that she "Could not bear the weight, but, Clara could carry forth the duty with ease."

I love my dear sisters. They understand that I am not as they say I am. Sane and sharp as a tack, no, a knife more so. The girls know that my level of intelligence is far higher than that of their own. They wouldn't dare challenge against me, because they are smart girls. Obviously, they would not stand a chance, and it would be very futile on their behalf... 

Poor little girls.