The Mental Patient

Chapter 28 - Should I Kill Myself?

THESE Breaking bad thoughts shimmer to the surface, living in a fantasy world where I shiver in the darkness within a false high. Doped up to the eyeballs, this is where I fall from the sky; this is where I've lost my mind, right-on. Black rainbows of love whilst living in the dark, I'm not supposed to grow in the umbra of a drug. I can't sleep at night; I love you too much to close my eyes, to close this chapter of our lives we share together. They tell me "One day at a time" but days are no longer my problem, it's the seconds I circle around when I think of your last kiss. One more hit and I'm done with this. I say I am done with you, but I know deep down I live under you, amazed by the clouds you show me. I loved you and I believed in you so much, if I knew your plans, I would have never taken your hand and runaway. You feel so good it should be illegal. All of this forced buttock tranquillizer because I killed a few saners, I'm really getting used to this feeling.

These love drugs, they are teasing me; they do not love me the way I love them, keep it all inside. You leave me speechless and breathless; this is our dirty little secret, which keeps me restless, I will never speak of this. Reality, she means nothing to me now, I'm in love with the voice and the feel of you. You're the real eye-candy, I want to show you off but at the same time keep you to myself, you make me nail-bitingly selfish. It's always the last time, but with every kiss feels like our first. I'm cheating on my basic motor-functions with you. This is my love letter to you, after this, we will be done.

I can no longer tell what is real and what is not, this was you're doing. Broken heart and endless turns within these covers will be my punishment for leading you down my path. Crying with a glass of water held by a shaking hand, you bring me no joy in doing this. Time to love what is good for me, not love what I want. A fresh breeze runs over my pale skin. I will no longer listen to the voices or even knock on that door, I want my life back! I want pain, I want my talent back, I want my family and most of all I want a real life; you stole this from me.

Tonight, I'm going to do it, take myself out of the equation. Suicide is the only way out, I can't be here anymore. I've been saving my meds they give me at the end of day. It's ingenious really. I've filed down my wisdom teeth at the upper back of my mouth, with my pen, dedication and an idea to fall asleep in a cloudy wave of wasted.

When they come to send me into nap-time with a polystyrene cup and a couple of capsules, I throw in my medicine and sip my water, with my lips around the beakers rim, my tongue pops the pills in the holes I have carved. When it comes to opening my obscenity gateway, I make sure I situate my head at an angle they believe I have swallowed their controlling buttons, with the shadows, the worker's reassurance of trust is misty. What they see is what they believe.

Once my door hatched is locked for the night, I spit out my own control and hide them in all my pens trunks. Tonight, is the night. I need to write a note, a sorry to Jessica and a final fuck-you to the world, see you all in Hell. Yeah, that'll be a good line, write that somewhere in there.

I have come to an end. My only sorrow is, I will not be able to see my sister walk down the aisle with a man of good standing; tell her to forgive me.

I have no regrets and have no apologies to hand out; society still expects these things from me. I was pushed into a corner by methodical torture and abuse; all I did was push back with the same amount of force. Life, Love and death, most certain to happen at one point or another to everyone, you have no choice in these matters, neither do the Gods nor the devils, you may have a slight influence on when they may occur, but you can never cause these forces to react by your own magnanimous will.

They say life is hard, so death must be easy, let's find out the hard way. Is this a cry for help or a war cry against myself? I guess the pathologist will be the only one who will know the ins and outs of me.

I stop what I am writing, my hands find my forehead, massage out the message, massage out the message. This isn't me, this is because I haven't taken drugs in a while, thus the saving them up. I won't get sucked back up into that idea. Is my hurt my only hope? It's a lovely concept to ponder over, I can't go through with it.

I'm not weak, no, suicide is not the weak man's way out. To be there in the cut moments of time, aware your heart will slug beats and your brains engine will blow. You stay there and fight all the voices telling you to turn back, but you plod on and abort your own eyes. How can that be weak? You'd need some massive balls to do something like that.

This isn't me, don't dupe, don't do what I am doing, I'm doomed.

All I have is an idea of suicide I cannot follow and my words. My words, my words.

I am a scab on the face of the world; why do you think everyone picks on me until I bleed? Scoop out my eyes so I am blinded to the facts. I am a marvel with a superhero standing pose, rip open my shirt and tear free my gaunt chest and become the movie director of misdirection. An eye for a tooth and a couple of flying teeth for your eyes, retract your retina, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, evil must be in the dilated iris of the rememberer. I am dirty to the point of people pointing, blood on blood; the pumps current currents are coursed upon curses on the cursed, cleanse me in shabby waters of bladder-bags labelled disgrace and balderdash.

Fury has consumed me inwards, worse than when the feeling felt when hunger had swallowed me in bed, can you hear my rumble? But, it has become my coat of armour which I must wear to deflect lives poisonous arrows. Too long, I have been a forever walker, living in the chased away shade of light. I have been death-gripped to kill. This night onwards shall be mine. I bare my true meaning to the world when an unusual feeling road's over me, something... something I have never ridden upon before.

I am cursed and blessed on the same hand of my maker. This world thinks I'm a joke, tell us another. A plethora of clown tears to honk a laugh at this point within my life. The only time I feel sane is with a pen, I wield it as if it were my sword in battle; you will see what I shall swing and curve your way. And, once you have read one piece of my work your eyes will protrude beams of light, I will be on your mind.

Standing in the flames of these words, all I can do with them is set my world on fire. I'm enjoying this pain; let us dance on the ashes of this painful reminder, life. I am more human than human. I cape over this page as if I were a spectacle, bitten by a radioactive firefly; guess what my power is? My self-destruct button has been detonated, a magic mushroom cloud you can read as a nightmare. Do you have smoke in your eyes or are you rubbing your peepers in amazement? I'm drowning on this page; I jumped straight in this deep end, my pen is my life-guard; but don't save me yet, I'm on fire!

Stop reading this! My words concocted with my pain can burn out your eyes. You don't use them anyways; you only read half the stories or read into half-truths. My flair never spontaneously combusted, I had to find the strike for the right match for my mind to go up in flames. I'm enflamed with empathy, I'm a flame-retardant retard; my crazy is never empty. I'm bringing an archaic firing to this paper; this is my form of an S.O.S! I'm holding up my lighter towards the sky. Too intense for the eyes to warrant a tear, my skin will burn and bubble and eventually seep off from my bones. I'm reheating my deserted memories for my fire-demon to slurp up for dessert. Revenge is ice-cream!? A dish best served cold; I run on scolding sultry exhaust fumes; how can I bestow a forest-fire on all those who are cold? In my life, I'm that low, I am waistline, an asshole.

I'm living in the past with these third-degree burns, scars have funny ways of reminding you of past mistakes you have made. I scribble with sizzle, fizzle and scrape. I'm breathing an inferno while it's raining torrential, steaming up your computer screen and singeing this very page. This world broke and buried me, now this bad seed is a black flower, which blooms blushing blood.

I'm a jack of all trades, I've gotten the rapid response late, When I blow my top, along with volcano rocks, my magma words roll this way! Am I destined for greatness with my stories or am I flying to close to the sun? That's right, melt my wings, boot me out of heaven; I'm already living in Hell. I'm rain-dancing naked, let it reign fire; come see what's inside.

At the bottom of the page, I give my monogram; my autograph, under it, my emblem, a round face, two dots for eyes and a cocky smile along with some devil horns on top.

They'll know who I am, once again.