Madness, as you know, is a lot like gravity. All you need is a little push...
A letter from a boy who turns into a psychopath as he tries to save his sister, cursing those who have wronged him.
A short story.
Cover by me. If you would like to requ...
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To whoever is reading this,
When this reaches you, the blood on the carpets would have probably dried, the smell of rotting bodies in the air like too much perfume. The sirens will probably be wailing, but I don't care much for that. I am not writing this for pity, or whatever else you may think, but I am writing this to show you the injustice that you have done to me. Me and mine. All of you.
The halls stank when I was first admitted to that asylum down by Corey Bay. Marble shone on the floors as the heels of nurses went click click click against it. My first episode was yet to begin, but they had all seen me making a commotion at Dunkirk Mall, where they called the police on me. Obviously, those no-good cops with their Golden American Boy Scout manners sent me to the nearest crazy shack.
Any other time this might have happened, it would have made my blood boil, but this time it was different. This time, it was intentional. Thank God for those policemen who sent me there, because little did they know, it was exactly where I needed to be.
I am not crazy. Whatever they may have told you, it was all lies. Lies after lies after lies after lies. Now, every crazy person has said this at some point in their life, but this is different. I wasn't crazy because I was acting. That's what it all was. An act.
Why would a sane person want to act crazy and get sent to an asylum for? He definitely had to be crazy, right? Wrong.
He was poor, but not crazy. Never crazy.
I am not crazy.
Poor guy, with his poor house and his poor clothes and his poor shoes and his poor sister.
His poor, poor sister.
My baby sister. My little heart. My rays on the cloudy days, my sweetness on the bitter tongue. The song to my dull melody, the stars to my dark night. My hope and my salvation. She was what got me up in the morning and she was what got me through my days. Because if it weren't for her, I would never get off my bed. I would stay there to rot until I ran out of food and starved to death.
Because I don't care about myself. My parents are gone, my life is in shambles, so what is there to care about anyways? But she made me care. I could starve myself all I wanted, but I could never starve my sweet, innocent, little sister.
So I got up every morning and I went to work. I got us as much money as I could get, working three jobs and a double shift. Because that's what a big brother does. That's what a big brother is for. So, that's what this big brother did.
It started last year. It all started last year. When she began to scream. When she began to cry. When she begged them not to hurt her. But every time I heard her screams and I rushed to save her, there was nothing to save her from. She would be standing in our bare living room with its ratty sofa in her dirty clothes, screaming at empty air.
