Turpentine & Vetiver

1. Thorn -the pure soul is a pure lie- Nietzsche

WHOEVER FIGHTS MONSTERS
SHOULD SEE TO IT
THAT IN THE PROCESS
HE DOES NOT
BECOME A MONSTER

AND IF YOU GAZE
LONG ENOUGH
INTO AN ABYSS
THE ABYSS
WILL GAZE
BACK INTO YOU

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Even before the acknowledgement of the Red Void, Thorn Keir knew that something was deeply, terribly wrong with his mind. It was something that defied description, just that he was- somehow- wrong. The strange thing was, it didn't bother him because he generally felt nothing. Most of the time, when he did feel anything- it was a cold, dark rage, an infinite anger, and most of all, a blatant disregard for life itself. He wanted to destroy everything that caused him to feel- or not to feel. This in itself created a problem, so he learned to hide, repress and suppress the darkness inside of himself, ignore the thoughts of death, blood, and control. He had learned to control his own mind first, before anybody would take notice- because little did he realize at first- he was a psychopath.

. . .

Thorn tried to pretend that nothing was wrong with him at first, but it was hard to ignore the facts when despite his best efforts, people were generally unnerved by his presence, creeped out. He was quiet, but not at all shy- if he was able to, he would speak what was on his mind to the point of making people intensely uncomfortable. His parents were devoutly religious, Catholic in a way that could only be described as extremism. They noticed that their son seemed- off, strange- not like his brother and sister, who were younger than him.
He once overheard his father saying that since Thorn was the oldest, it was likely that it was a test from God that the firstborn would be "screwed up. He has the Devil in his mind, I swear it." In fact, his father hated that Thorn was left-handed, and would tie his hand to a wooden chair leg, forcing him to write awkwardly right-handed. It made Thorn -feel- almost embarrassed, and only seemed to fuel his quiet internal rage. One day I will end your miserable existence, Thorn thought, staring down darkly at the paper in front of him, his handwriting all in precise, methodical capital letters. He held the pencil tightly, not caring when the hated writing utensil snapped, not feeling the shards of splintered wood and broken lead in his hand.
I cannot stop myself from thinking these dark thoughts- I know that it isn't the right thing, I know the difference between right and wrong, I just don't care. One day it's all going to come spilling out, and that's when everyone will regret it. Thorn stared out the small window, not caring that he might get in trouble later. He'd gotten a pair of binoculars for his birthday under the pretense of 'birdwatching'. Instead, he used them to spy on the neighbors. It wasn't for any perverse intention, he was naturally curious about real human interaction, because he didn't experience these emotions- so it was easier to observe them in others. He stared out the crack in the dark curtains, hoping that his parents wouldn't catch him- last time he had gotten a lecture on why it was wrong to spy on people- before they decided to lock him in a dark closet in the back of the house.
It's all his fault, Thorn thought, blaming his younger brother for telling their father what he was up to. He remembered staring into the darkness of the small closet, left alone to contemplate his supposed wrongdoings- however he felt as though the crime did not fit the punishment. Somehow, it wasn't the worst thing that he'd been subjected to- not by any means. The darkness no longer bothered him- by now he was used to it, because the constant isolation allowed him to block out the dark thoughts plaguing his mind. In fact, the contemplative state brought out by the silence of the pitch-black room allowed him to reflect on his growing murderous intentions, erasing the pain and trauma, and day by day- he formulated his plan on how he would finally escape from this solitary hell.
The constant obsessive thoughts would not abate, as he had been also diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, sleep paralysis, and a myriad of antisocial personality tendencies- which his parents were unreasonably angry about. He had eavesdropped on an argument between his mother and father- how they wanted to send him away to a mental health facility. Thorn was only 10 years old at the time, and his mental health was already corrupted, collapsing, falling endlessly- beyond all repair now. He was angry at his parents- thinking that sending him away or subjecting him to their religious fanaticism would somehow fix his broken mind. What a laughable concept. Thorn set down his binoculars on his desk, moving away from the window. He wasn't in the mood to deal with any possible consequences of his voyeuristic actions, though the damage had already been done.
He sat down in the desk chair, and with a stolen set of paints, scrawled an endless spiral of red and black on an old canvas portrait he'd found of his family. I hate all of you, he thought. Except for his youngest sister, Amelia- she was an innocent bystander, only a baby- though he didn't really care either way if she existed or not. The wild vortex of red and black paint mirrored the dark images he'd been starting to see at night, in fitful episodes of sleep paralysis- he saw terrible creatures of all kinds; with sharp teeth, eyeless faces, bloody limbs and gaping mouths full of black ink... The nightmarish images haunted him, and he was frozen in a state of fear, unable to wake up, feeling trapped inside his own unconscious mind. He absently wondered if this was the pathway to complete insanity, maybe his parents were right in wanting to send him away- they would be better off- but then again, he never asked to be born, in fact, he often wished he was dead, or just never existed- but his strong sense of self-preservation prevented him from any suicidal actions.
I just want to be a normal child sometimes, he thought, scribbling on the painting of the void with an old, greasy grey crayon. Later that evening, after the family had eaten dinner, Thorn picked some chicken bones out of the trash, cleaned them, and glued them to his dark artwork. He wished that he could just be thrown away with the poultry carcasses, and he closed his black eyes, trying to shut out the world around him- but only saw the evil entities in his mind instead, replacing his empty soul with a paralyzing fear of the unknown.
That night, once everyone else had gone to bed, Thorn quietly crept out of the house and wandered down the narrow lane to the beach. The skies overhead were punctuated by a canopy of stars, and the full moon above was like a beacon to a better realm. He always found that the nighttime was the most comforting- after all, Thorn wasn't scared of the dark, because he always imagined that he was the worst thing in it. He sat down on a mossy rock by the water, the endless tides pulling at the sand in a repetitive, never-ending cycle.
Taking his small red pocketknife out, he carved his initials into the sandy beach, then silently watched as the dark ocean washed them away. How he wished that it could just wash him away as well, erasing him from this wretched existence. I'm glad that I don't feel anything, or I might just cry, he thought, feeling- hypocritically pathetic, weak. He stared up at the cloudless, godless sky, praying that his escape would be soon, daring anyone to challenge the darkness in his mind. The moon glowed back, and he silently stared back in acknowledgement, counting the stars, identifying the constellations. A part of him sometimes felt that he was not completely alone, because in his dark visions, Thorn had seen somebody else that shared the fear of the void, at first only appearing as an indistinct shape, then slowly transforming into someone real. At least he hoped that this person was real, because maybe then, he wouldn't have to keep all the pain to himself. It was far too much for one person to keep bottled up inside, and he knew that someday they would meet.
He saw in his mind a girl, younger than him by about 5 years- awkwardly quiet like he was, with messy black hair that was always tangled like a rat's nest, dark grey eyes, pale as a ghost with ink stains on her hands and face. She appeared to him in visions of the void- and he saw her in his mind, sitting in a quiet attic, making strange artwork from rusted machinery, reading books, writing in her sloppy cursive script- scribbling out the mistakes. Thorn knew that her mind was different, too- but not in the same dark way his was. She was creative, her artwork unlike anything that he'd ever seen- but he sensed that she was haunted by the void as well.