The Mental Patient

Chapter 9 - The Evil Deed

I leer over my tyrant for a father with evil feathered intentions, not that I know these intentions, I haven't made up my minds mind; all I know is the outcome will be dribbled in his drivelling blood, hush now, don't let Jess know, become emotional with it. With my index finger, I flick his mangy big toe, which sticks out the end of the bed sheet.

I've trapped an animal. This creature has been injured for years after the loss of his female, as in most animal species he disregards his young. In this order of animal, the young are rather naïve and do not leave the nest when threatened by their Bull of a father. As the years pass on, something miraculous happens, the offspring hatch from their juvenile skins and transform into one of the most awe-inspiring beasties this land will ever witness. "Wakey, Wakey, your eggs and bacon are in the making... Remember when our Mam used to say that? D'ya remember, eh, Dad? Yeah, the prodigal son has returned with a vengeance in mind. Well you can't spell Slaughter without at least one laugh, can you Daddy? I guess you were right; my apple fall's light-years from our family tree; what you don't know is on each of the branches, perched as statues, are a murder of crows, looking down with their deadly gaze at you and this world." It's final; I can clear my throat, no more lumps to swallow.

Standing above my God at the end of his bed, I am the one who is now in control of fate, I've tampered with my temper to cause a tempest, now I am the one who will write the history as a victor. I walk over to his cluttered nightstand of chocolate wrappers and loose change; I grab his packet of cigarettes and stroll back to the end of the bed. His dampened words deaden over his gag. All he is now is a struggle of a human being with an austere stare. He jilts and rags at his wrists, which suspend over his head, a fly to my percussion web. Jessica crouches in the corner, her hands sanctify her eyes, her sight wants no part of what will happen next; she must know what I am about to do. My lenient fingers stroke out one of his precious cigarettes and dangles it in front of him, in a taunt.

"I'll tell you a little story before I get shooting for my new life. We're all cigarettes, in this form we are well-behaved, conformed within our nice cubicles because this is the norm, if you dare step foot from your bounds, you are deemed a threat towards society." I spark up the cig. "'O Dad, just because I stand over you doesn't mean you don't understand what I'm saying. I'll continue with my train of thought." Scratching the back of my head. "Now if a certain person ignites your soul, you become smoke. You can't catch smoke; you can't really transform it into any shape with your hands; it does its own thing. Ninety-nine per cent of the people on this planet are cigarettes, I'm missing out terrorists and the one-off daily killings; they destroy straight out of fear, religion or power. However, people like me alter in such a fashion, it drives a curious nightmare into the hearts of all men. Am I being clear enough? And, all I needed was an idea; one so powerful and bulletproof that no one could knock it off course with their meddling. If I knew all I had to do was create a diabolical ideal of life, I would have done this sooner, Dad. Remember always, I am doing this because I love you, I'm just showing you the same courtesy you showed me and Jess... I said hello to everyone and everything, and you said my goodbyes for me, good parenting, buddy. I just want you to know your death will meet your cries with a smile and a hand clap. Enjoy Hell!"

I scope over to my mams beside unit of coffee ring stains and empty foil wrappers with burnt crack residue; I scoop up the half-bottle of Chansies Scottish Whiskey and begin trudging the excellent alcoholic intoxicating accelerant over him. Broken in pieces I am now at peace.

I take one last drag and swig the bottom of the whiskey, I shoot one last glance at my creator; remember his eyes, they've never been so open. I cast the cigarette at him.

"KYLE NOOOOO!" I know Jessica means yes. Jess, you can look away all you want; I know deep down you're imagining this crispy crisis too. I drag my index finger under my right-eye where a tear has clung onto; I look at it sitting on my finger. This is the last of me! I flick the water in his direction. This is what you were after, it's yours now.

Instantly the bed unfurls a violently fiery fury on top of my father. From each corner of his bedroom the smoke has stretched throughout, the aura of molten rotten pork resonates deep within the nostrils. His screams howl perpetually through the demeaning red flames, the duct tape melted fast. The chemicals within the mattress snap and crackle my pops. As the flesh ash sway to their suicide, they are resurrected into mimics of the bigger picture I created, I am an artist who smears with blood and tears on the pallet of death.

Rushing over to Jessica's happy place, I grab her wrist and wrench her to her feet.

"We've gotta' get out of here before this house goes up in flames and the cops get here."

"Kyle, I can't... I just can't. You've just killed Dad." She blows blubbering bubbles; her mental stability must be at her lowest of peaks.

"Jessie, baby, we have too. When they come, and see us here, they will make sure we never take a glimpse of each other ever again. We did this, fifty-fifty. We are all we have, but if you think putting what is morally right before family, I will wait here with you."

She twitches a nod.

I rush over and I grapple the foggy door handle with Jessica's wrist bonded to my palm, whisking her out the room from the swelter, which emits from our shelter. We jolt through the smog, we have let char all we have ever helped half-heartlessly styled or built. Lay to waste a life of bitter taste. Jessica hawks up a heart and wheezes in an atrocious affair.

The ruby's blush luminescence looms behind our feeble flee; it seeks to pilfer us back. My eyes sob solely for a sober sight line to the security of the outside.