Give me a minute. Just because I start writing doesn't mean that I am in your hands, it doesn't mean that you have the power to read my life at your own pace. I set the pace, this is my story. Stop expecting so much from me, stop expecting things you'll never get.
All I'm saying is...relax. Relax like I wish I still could. All you have to do is lay your head down, close your tired eyes, and listen to the sound of my voice. My voice is your lifeline, it's the only thing keeping you awake, the only thing keeping you alive at this very inconsequential moment.
Repeat this message in your head:
You are worthless, you are nothing, you are the useless scum that refuses to let go of the bottom of my shoe. Never think that you're anything more than I am.
Learn your place in the world so I don't have to waste all my time teaching it to you. I want you to find comfort in the fact that against my better judgement, you refuse to be useless. Why is that?
Wouldn't it be easier to just accept the fact that you will never be as special as the people that have already taken up a permanent residence 6 feet under? Wouldn't it be easier to just let go of trying so hard to succeed when you will never have a chance to be in a history book?
Nobody will ever be as special as someone else already has been, you will never do anything quite as special as what someone has already done before, it's a useless cycle, and I will keep repeating the same phrase over and over again until you finally understand.
This is what it's come to, people live and die on this earth for no greater purpose. Future generations will learn virtually nothing from us and generations after that will be the same. Where are we headed as a species-no, as a world....what are we waiting for?
Do you feel it? There's a tension in the air. It strains and cracks as the animals inside our souls try to break free from the rigid conscience that tells us we are more than that, more than them. But the real questions is, are we more than our vicious animals, our demons, or the fear? Are we anything more than the voice inside of our heads that chants the same useless garbage that you try to ignore? Do you hear it now as I talk to you, or have you been trying so hard to block it out that you don't even remember that it was there in the first place? I always hear it, I always hear him talking to me.
Stop writing that useless garbage, no one cares about your measly unimportant life.
Stick that pencil you're holding in your left eye socket until you taste blood as it runs down your mouth.
Bang your head on the table until you don't remember that I'm not you anymore.
Our fears make us who we are, my fear has created the hope that I carry inside of me. My fear has made me believe that I am not him, that I can be good. He has showed me (indirectly of course) that it's reasonable to believe that people can be what there mother's raised them to be, not what their fears tell them to be.
But who am I to know better than my fear? What if he's right? What if he knows better than I do?
No- NO! Stop! Stop it NOW! He's lying to me, he's poisoning my head. I won't let him do it, I won't let him kill me! He doesn't deserve to win the game that is my life. He doesn't deserve to poison my life at all. I am better than him. I am better than what he stands for. We are better than our fears, and we will not bow down to them. He isn't my god, he doesn't get to decide how my life will end, and neither do I. That's the one thing I don't think even he understands, what a gift it is to die. What a gift it is not having to choose when to die, because when its officially your time to go, you just...go. Whether you bite it from cancer, old age, or a bus with faulty breaks, you just die and life goes on for everyone except you.
I'm going to wait for my moment, I will not let him screw that up for me. I won't let him take one more thing from me or anyone else, because I've come to learn something since I've started writing this for you. There's only one thing stronger than my fear, and that's my rage.
My anger's about to light a fire and smoke him and all of his impure thoughts right out of my head, I hope he likes barbecue.
YOU ARE READING
Terror's Agony
Short StoryJack Ridley has fought off his fear by striking it into the heart's of others, but nothing scares him more than the putrid stench of terror that clings to the air like a lifeline whenever he lets his wrath run wild. The steady burn of his cigarette...
