The Mental Patient

Chapter 14 - A Hand of Blood in Handcuffs

With my twiggy arm, I branch out and unclip the levered-switch on the door; I eavesdrop on possible panic from inside, nothing but the pulse of an overworked boiler and snore chorus of the sleeping choir. My pace is placed in peace; my hand is hardened to harm. My eyes are altered to an African wildcat, seeking out his or hers next breakfast. Their whole road-home judders from the cupboards to the dragon and fairy ornaments on the windowsill. A calm caveat for my loud feet.

Two bedrooms rest at the edge of the caravan. I must rake an exact examination of every target. Two adults, one male, one female; two female teenagers around my age, both blonde booby bodied bombshells; if I were a rapist, I'd be in heaven, right now.

Here's the tricky part. If I were too attack the chicks first, the parents could wake-up due to abnormal noises in close quarters and I will have to fight face-to-face, especially when I haven't come to hook-up but hang the two stunners on hooks; four hands are harder to block than two; so, the grown-ups will have to be put-down first.

I am talking out adults left, right and centre, tonight. I enter the parents' room... hold-up, Deja-vu, all over again.

I hold-up the spade of hate in the air, readily I steady my aim. I whoosh downwards, the frame of the digger sticks into the husband's neck, blood spurts as a sporadic spectator sport, I nick out the shovel with a nip, before the wife's eyes have unwrapped and I wrap my tool around her bedhead. Finito.

Stillness is my standpoint. I hear pillows inflating and covers shuffle, little whispers are passed and big breathes are taken.

With pluck, I put my best foot forward and block the light from the hallway to the girl's room; I am now the monsters ogle, which stares back at you from the sullen corners when you're in bed. I unhitch the magnetic floppy door. Demise in their dumb tear hung eyes, if they only realized in this one night I have untied my wonderful mind in an untimed climb. I sword swing the spade with elastic potency, miraculous accuracy opens throat doors and brainless think boxes. Their red sweet treacle glitters over unicorn dolls and pop-band posters, it's magical.

"Ladies, this is what happens when I don't get invited to the slumber-party. Hash-tag, eat shit. Mic-drop." I don't think they're even listening, bitches be Cray'.

Sudden formal warning bells stitch-up my stomachs plummet and becoming an awful offering to the man downstairs. Where are we going? Hell. When are we going? Now. The police surround the campervan trailer; I peek beyond the netted curtains and observe more than over a dozen armed police officers getting into better positions to blow my brains out. Jess crawls through the opened door.

"Kyle, don't leave me..." Here comes her whitewashing howl.

"We're gonna' be fine, baby-girl. Don't you worry about a thing; I'm going to go out there to finish this." I squat down to her and absorb her in my arms. Before I know it, my arm is reaching for the draining board next to the sink, this world is full of sharp things. I can finish this all, there may be more of them than there are of me, all I need is to make an opening to escape through. No matter the casualties of war, she must be protected.

"No, it's time we stop this, we've done enough, trust me Kai, I want this to be the end; we've destroyed enough." Is she, right?

Recoil my rage and stick my hands up until they have dinged at twelve noon. Tonight, was my raptus; this will be my final chapter, now that I am to be captured. I have given up. I drop the knife from the door and kneel there.

"Alright, I'm ready to go, come get me."

Doors are held open for me. My arms are held tough; here is an escorted failure of a man along with his unsuccessful struggle for something beyond rambunctious reprimand. Led over pathing-stones, all killer eyes on me, cops turn into mob murderer, civilians turn into prying paparazzi; let them do their worst, they won't come close to the Hell I've created for myself, with some help from the special people in my life.

The cop cars door is open, a hand on my crown, my head is ducked for me; I must have forgotten how to bend down and entre a car. The cuffs are tight, I feel them cutting off the circulation, I don't say a word as my brain is racing for moments to kick-back and escape, again. A part of me knows this is it. My criminal-coach takes off, sirens blaring, red lights skipped. I notice the driver's eyes in the rear-view, now and again, eyeing me up. I just sit there and enjoy the peace and quiet for once. No more worries, no more nothings.

Turn after turn, the outside world is sucked in by my windows. Through the streets, we pass through memories, I was raised on these street corners, I wasn't brought up here, I was dragged up. By that tree which shrouds Kelly Simon's house, where I fingered one of Jessica's friends for the first time, I didn't even know there was a hole down there until she mentioned it, I'd been doing it wrong all this time. And, over there beside that wall is where I smoked hand rolled cigarettes after school, wasting time, I didn't want to go home.

The youngish cop-passenger relays every speed bump and pot-hole to his dispatch centre, someone's eager to see me. The big house can't be worse than my house.