Sociopathic [ On Hold ]

Chapter 4

- Early morning of April 9th, 1994

Reaching his room, Tate slammed the door, making a loud thud sound as the wall slightly shook. Fuck it. His head was spinning as he felt the world around him start to blur.
Going over to the bed, he sat on it, staring straight ahead at the wall before closing his eyes to collect his thoughts. That was when he felt it, the presence of the voices in his head. Or, as he liked to call it, the darkness.
They had been silent for the past three days, but he knew now that it was because of the death of his idol, Kurt Cobain. That was still an impossible thought. How the fuck could he be dead?
He then remembered, it was a self inflicted shot gun wound to the head. It was suicide.
At that moment, Tate somewhat understood the man. While the reasons probably weren't the same as Kurt's, suicide had always tempted him. Cutting and cocaine were the only things that kept him from doing it.
Though, now he was wondering why the hell he never did it. It wasn't like he was contributing anything to the world and he definitely wasn't enjoying his life.
It wasn't just the typical oh, my life sucks because I'm such a loser bullshit. While that was partially true, that wasn't the real reason he wanted to do it.
A huge reason was the voices. They were constantly there, unless he did something they asked, then they would leave him alone for a day to a week, depending on what he did before they returned.
The voices were a huge part of what made him so fucked up. He would constantly be day dreaming about torture and murder more than anything. The sickest part was that he actually enjoyed it.
He didn't want to live like this any longer, but he wasn't going to do some pussy thing and swallow a bottle of pills. No, he was going to go out with a fucking bang.
You know what you have to do. The voices spoke in his head. Feeling adrenaline pumping through his veins, he knew he wasn't going to sleep tonight.
There was simply too much going on in his head. What was he going to do? How would he do it? When would he do it? The voices instantly answered all of his questions, as he felt himself shaking in his bed.
Opening his eyes, he stared down at his hands, thinking the whole plan through over and over again as the voices coaxed him.
Before Tate knew it, his alarm clock was ringing. Quickly reaching over, he shut it off, then standing up. Here we fucking go.
Going over to his closet, he picked out an all black outfit, stripping out of his clothes and putting on the clean ones. As he zipped and adjusted his jacket, it finally sunk in. He was really doing this and there was no turning back now. Though, there was one thing he needed to do first to relieve his nerves.
Going over to the desk, he sat in the chair, reaching under the desk to find a small baggie taped to the bottom of it.
(It was Crystal Meth) Opening it, he tipped the bag to get the last pill out. It was ironic considering that he wouldn't be needing any more after what he was going to do.
He then pulled out a debit card that he never used that his mother had gotten him in one of her shitty attempts to pretend that she cared when she really didn't. Tate also pulled out a twenty bill and set it to the side.
Taking the debit card, he skillfully crushed the pill just like he had done dozens of times before. After he was done, he set the card to the side as he picked up the twenty dollar bill and rolled it up, licking the end of it to keep it shut.
Tate then picked up the card again, making the crushed up cocaine into four even lines. He put the card into a random drawer, picking up the rolled up bill and lowering himself to the lines, snorting them quickly.
After the third line, he pinched his nose for a moment to help it go down before going down to snort the final line. Leaning back, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and feeling the cocaine starting to kick in.
The feelings of joy, relaxation, and adrenaline all came at once. Standing up slowly, he felt a bit shaken as he made his way over to the bed.
Look under the bed, Tate. Bending over, he looked under the bed and sure enough, there were guns. Instead of questioning how the hell they got there, he simply grabbed them and put them on the bed.
After they were all on the bed, he moved them to the desk, and somehow a box of bullets were now there. Once again, he didn't question it, the cocaine and the voices killing off any logic he had.
He felt like he was almost in a dreamlike state as he loaded the guns, sniffling every once in a while out of habit. As he was loading his last gun, he stood up, setting it on the desk once it was loaded.
Going over to the mirror in his room, he looked at his reflection in the mirror, still shaking.
He, Tate Langdon, was going to shoot up Westfield High School. It was still a bit hard for him to believe.
He could easily just put the guns back under his bed and forget this ever happened, but something in him just wouldn't let him do it. He had to do this. There was no other option.
Those bastards deserved to pay for all that they had done to him. That was when another thought came to mind, what if he also shot people he liked? After all, the world was pretty shitty, why not take them down with him?
Grabbing a trench coat from the back of his closet, he put it on and then loaded the guns into it. Going out of his room and down the halls, everything was silent. This was a first.
He wondered why it was, but decided not to focus on it. There were much bigger things to worry about.
Stepping out of the house, he walked over to the garage, opening it manually and grabbing a can of gas along with a pack of matches.
Closing the garage, he glanced towards the house. An odd feeling came over him, but he shook it off. Not wanting to take the bus to seem suspicious, he started walking down the sidewalk. He wasn't going to Westfield High just yet, there was something he needed to do first.