The Downward Spiral

Chapter 1: Mr Self Destruct

I lay in bed with my girlfriend. I barely know her name. I hate her. But having her make me normal, and normal is good. The sex is good, too. Nothing else is good about her or life with her. The little demon is sleeping right now, but as soon as she wakes up, I stop being me and start being her slave. Her wish is my command, her dictatorial ways my life. Nothing I ever do is right. Something whispers in my head. I could kill her. Put a gun to her head and pull the trigger. Spirit the corpse away, throw it in a river, clean the sheets. It would be easy, so easy. But no. No. No, I'm not a psychopath who beats his girlfriend because he hates her. No, I'm better than that. Instead, I lie in bed, these sickening thoughts of violence bouncing around in my head. I can almost feel it hitting the inside of my skull over and over again, a cacophony of anger, of resentment, of violence. But I can keep it in. I always have. I always will. I get up and go make us some coffee. God knows I'm going to screw up something; too much sugar, not enough cream, is that skim, I wanted brown sugar. At least I tried. That counts for something, right? Right?

I sit in my- her, nothing's mine here- living room, drinking too-hot coffee. It burns my mouth, my throat, it hurts. I don't care. It feels good, somehow, burning my mouth. Hurting myself. Maybe it'll cook my insides and free me from this life. No. No. I'm happy here. No I'm not, I know I'm not. Why bother lying? I know I'm miserable. I can hide it from everyone else, but not myself. Some stupid action movie plays on the TV. No plot, nothing meaningful, just violence. Bloodshed, gunshots, guts, murder. God, I hate it but I love it. It's so fucking stupid but, the idea of bashing her stupid fucking face into the wall over and over and over and over again is so nice. It's a warm pool I love to bathe in, of comforting, happy thoughts. Horrific, abhorrent thoughts. God, what's wrong with me? All I want to do is grab her by that horrendous blonde hair and bash her face into concrete again and again and again and again. That's the least she deserves. I can feel it. The hair between my fingers, the weight of her head, her movements lessening until they stop entirely. Blood covers my fingers, and I can almost hear the rhythmic banging of her head as it hits concrete again and again.

The banging becomes real.

I shake out of my stupor. It's just her stomping down the stairs to find something to complain about. She loves that. She storms into the living room, screaming about something. The sheets, maybe. Crumpled. Poor little baby, all so fucking concerned about a little wrinkle in her blanket that she doesn't even notice I'm never around and when I am, I'm always angry. Something snaps in me. I can't, no, I won't, take it anymore. I stand up, causing even more shrieking. I don't care. I don't care. I walk out the door. I'm going to go for a long drive. That'll clear my head. It always does. It has to. I start the ignition. A fleeting thought of shoving the keys into her torso over and over again is quickly dismissed as best as I can, as I start driving down the street and out of town.

I steer the car along gently curving country roads, my brain wandering down dark, terrifying paths. I can't stop thinking about murdering her. Not just any murder, violent murder. I hate her, yes, but I've never wanted to murder her so badly before. Something's snapped inside me. It's scary. No, that's too nice a word; scary is for a horror movie you watch when you're a kid. Terrifying. Gut-wrenching terror. The worst part is, I think I'm capable of it. Murder. Bashing her head into concrete over and over again until all my problems are gone. God. No no no. This isn't me. I'm a good man. I can keep it down. I won't do it. I never have. I'm a good man. I would never hurt her. I'm in control.

I come back into the real world. God, how fast am I going? 200 miles? Jesus, and there's a child on the side of the road up ahead. Am I aiming at it? Jesus fuck. I slam on the brakes, bringing my speed back down to acceptable levels. I pass the child. She didn't even notice. She was within an inch of her life and she didn't even notice anything. Am I really in control? Yes, I noticed how fast I was going, didn't I? I stopped, didn't I? But I was aiming right at the kid. I didn't intend to do it. But I did anyway. If I came this close to killing a child, an innocent child who never did a thing wrong in her life, what am I gonna do to the woman who makes my life hell? What's wrong with me? Sure, the occasional thought would enter my head, y'know: put a little poison in her cup, make my problems go away. But never have they been so persistent. So violent. So graphic. What am I gonna do?

The car practically drives itself to my old church. I haven't been here in years. If anyone can help, it's God, right? I don't even believe in the guy. But what else do I have? I get out of my car and walk up to the church. The doors are unlocked. What do I do here? Where do I go? God, I don't fucking know. I don't remember anything about what I do, where I go. Why would I worship a man who doesn't give a single shit about me? What else can I try? I walk up to the altar awkwardly. I kneel in front of it, fumbling my fingers into position. I hope it's the right one. I pray, stumbling over my words as I try and put them together.

Silence. Nothing. God doesn't care. No one's there. Not God, not the priest, not even a concerned passerby. The voice in my head is the only one there. The violence. Destruction. God, I'm a horrible person. All I know is hate. I try to hide it, but it's been building up for a long, long time now. Months, years, decades even. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate him. The voice inside my head. The destruction, hate, the violence. Murder. The thoughts I pushed deep inside me, deep, deep down where they couldn't hurt me or anyone else. They won't be silenced. God, why can't I be like everyone else? Smile and bear it? God, I'm awful. I hate him. I hate myself. Is there a difference?

I shake my head. My hands are clenched. Hair pokes out between my fingers. My hair. I must've ripped it out. I get up on numb, shaky legs and walk out of the church. How much time has passed? Minutes, hours, days? The sky is pink-orange. I don't know what colour the sky was when I went in. I don't know anything. I don't know myself. What am I? Who am I? What have I become? Am I the voice in my head? I try to shut it up but it won't anymore. It's like another person. Screaming at me. Destroy. Kill. Burn. I try and shove it out of my head. How long was I in that damn church? Maybe days have passed. Someone would've come in the church by now though, right? Maybe the church is abandoned. Like God abandoned me. I get in my car and start off back home. No, I shouldn't go. I'm too dangerous. I could hurt or kill her. I don't want to do that. Well, I do but I don't. I can't. I shouldn't. But God, I want to. I'll stay in a hotel. I'll say it's a business trip. That'll make her happy. She likes it when I'm not around. It gives her time to screw whatever poor suckers she can find on the street. Maybe I'll get her back for that one day. Not today. No, I'll go too far. I can't, I shouldn't.

I pull into some motel I find along the road. It seems really seedy, but I don't care. I don't deserve anything better. I pay for the cheapest room. It's not like I have anyone, or anything. God, I don't even have a toothbrush or a change of clothes. Whatever, I'll buy some. If I feel like I deserve it. I don't. I don't deserve anything. I'm just an empty husk for thoughts of brutal violence to dwell in. No, I'm just having a bad day. I've been blowing it out of proportion. I'm not crazy and I'm not violent. I just need a break. That's all. Just a break. I sit on the bed and look around. The room is so clean. So pristine.

"I wonder what it would be like to bash her fucking face into the wall and cover this nice clean room in her blood."

Who was that? No, that wasn't anyone else. That's me. The voice in my head. But it's someone else. No, it's me. No, it's definitely someone else. But who?

"I'm you. I've been denied, pushed down, ignored all your life. But I'm still here. You know I'm right. I'm everything you never wanted to admit to. I'm that desire to spill that bitch's blood all over the carpet. I'm that desire to smash and destroy. And you're not in control anymore."

"Who are you?"

I'm Mr. Self Destruct.