Turpentine & Vetiver

3. Trauma -what matters most is how well you walk through the fire-Bukowski

   It was evening, and Thorn was sitting on the floor in his room, the Joy Division record loud and blaring through the small space, drowning out his dark thoughts. His brother asked him why he always listened to such 'depressing' music -but in some way, the tangible pain and emotion in the music, the infinite isolating sadness- allowed him to somewhat feel -something- if even by proxy. His favorite song was 'New Dawn Fades', the lyrics the most real, the pain of mental dissolution something he connected to on a visceral level.
Thorn wrote his dark poetry at ungodly hours of the night, the thoughts spilling out onto the pages- the sepia ink betraying his innermost feelings. His handwriting was neat, precise- practiced- written in all capital letters- unlike the messy scrawl or cutesy font of others he'd observed. The writing was becoming increasingly darker, more terrifying- if anybody ever read it, they would be sure to never speak to him again.
He'd started to hear strange noises in the dark, which sometimes accompanied the visions that hadn't faded- late at night, an odd mechanical breathing, static crackling- the atmosphere always growing colder and smelling of ozone and rusty, metallic decay- the scent of blood and death. This is so strange- perhaps I am truly going insane after all, Thorn thought, staring down at the depravity made reality in the Moleskine notebook in his hands. He laughed humorlessly, reading what he'd written, knowing that he should probably just burn the atrocious thing, destroy it like he'd done in the past- but at the same time- it was keeping him sane in a sick sort of way.

THE COLD STARES
I DO NOT APPRECIATE
HOW THEY TRIED
TO PROJECT
THEIR USELESS FEELINGS
ONTO MY CONSTANT APATHY
PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE
IN MY OWN MIND
MY LIMITS FEEL RESTRICTED
A CONFLICT WITH MY
INTERNAL DIALOGUE
I ENJOY MAKING THEM
FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE

It wasn't the darkest thing he'd ever written, not by any means- perhaps he wouldn't have to destroy it after all. Sometimes- I do wish that I could actually feel something, instead of this constant, consistent apathy and emptiness inside- the only thing besides that is the dark rage, quiet anger, hatred, and general disgust of humanity, Thorn thought. He stared into the broken mirror in his room, the glass fractured into spiderweb cracks from a random, uncontrolled violent outburst. Thorn stared down at his left hand- "the Devil's hand" -at the glass shards that were embedded in his skin from where he'd hit the mirror, not exactly feeling the pain but seeing his blood- bright red, real... It made him feel alive in a strange kind of way. I know that my mind is broken- I just don't have the capacity to end it all, he contemplated in a dark frustration, looking into the shattered mirror once again at his reflection, broken as he was inside.
His black hair hung down over his pale face, dark greyish circles like bruises under his cold, black eyes. I look like shit, he thought, hating what stared back at him with a vacant, dead expression. Thorn spent half an hour meticulously picking the shards of glass out of his hand with his pocketknife and tweezers, droplets of blood accumulating on the wooden floor. Absently he wondered if he'd have to give himself stitches; he'd taken a few basic anatomy and medical classes in school recently, and had utilized this knowledge a few times so far.
Only one more year now until I can escape this hell-hole, he thought, counting down the days until his 18th birthday. High school was uneventful; he had no friends or even casual acquaintances- all who he'd met found him creepy, off-putting, as he was still quiet and antisocial. He'd tried to ask a shy girl in his math class -Melanie- to a school event on the advice of his brother, Colin -but she'd stood him up, not even bothering to call and make an excuse- as if even hearing his voice over the phone somehow scared her. She ignored him in the hallways at school, which was probably just as well. Thorn didn't care- he had no feelings to hurt, and he'd probably end up doing something terrible, as the dark and homicidal thoughts in his mind were only growing worse in intensity and frequency.
At night when he couldn't sleep, he would sometimes fantasize about killing people- it didn't even matter who, as long as he saw their blood spilling out, the control he had over their pathetic, meaningless lives. He smiled darkly at this sadistic thought, though he knew that this was- not happiness, only a depraved but amusing pastime. Only more emptiness to replace the repressed pain. There were rare occasions when he imagined what it would be like to not be so alone, living in isolation and despair. The strange sensation of being constantly watched was still there in the back of his mind, and the odd occurrences and visions he had made him continuously question whether or not he truly was losing his grip on reality.
   After he'd removed all the glass particles from his bloodied hand, he carefully bandaged it, then cleaned the blood from off of the bedroom floor. Thorn didn't especially want to hurt himself, but he knew that the other option would be worse, resulting in his imprisonment. I need to study forensics first, plan everything out very, very carefully. Premeditated. He knew what it was that he had to do, he just had to- make it look like an accident, or shift the suspicion onto someone else. Slowly, he transformed his pain and rage into cold, calculating detachment- and at once- everything was so clear.
   It was almost laughably obvious what he must do- the temporary anger had been clouding his judgment- and although slitting their throats and dispatching of them violently would be infinitely more satisfying, he'd be the first to blame. In his mind, as clear as day, Thorn Keir realized how he was going to kill his family- and not get caught. Several days before his 18th birthday, Thorn had finally finished the ending stages of his murderous plan. Carbon monoxide: the house was old, with faulty wiring, and the detector hadn't worked for some time now. It would be easy- wait until they were asleep, wear a gas mask, and then they would slowly asphyxiate, it was a somewhat merciful death- they would all die in their sleep, spared of their well-deserved suffering.
   At any rate, carbon monoxide was also quite flammable, and he would use that as a backup plan- perhaps this time, Colin the pyromaniac would finally take the blame he deserved. That night, Thorn had double-checked that everything in the house was set up properly for his plan to work. He'd have to wait a few days- he'd do this dark deed the night of his birthday, so that he would find time to construct an alibi. Wearing gloves, he meticulously cut some wires in the electrical panel area, using the wire strippers and a pair of bolt cutters, careful not to leave fingerprints or any other incriminating evidence. Once this was done, he made sure that the carbon monoxide would in fact leak, starting in the upstairs area.
   While his parents were at work and his brother in class, Thorn had skipped work, pretending to be ill. Well, he was ill, but only mentally. He packed his personal effects in a black suitcase; taking the Moleskine journal, his art supplies, binoculars, the jar of blood, and his dark wardrobe. As an afterthought, he packed up his books and record collection as well, leaving behind only his furniture. He never really owned too many belongings to begin with, and since he was about to turn 18, his parents were more than willing to kick him out on the street anyhow. In fact, he'd overheard them mentioning it several times- so it wouldn't be a surprise if all of his things were gone.
   Thorn stared at the mostly-empty bedroom- the only things that remained were his desk and chair, the bed, and the black file cabinet- which was too awkward to take with him. The record player belonged to Colin- so he left it in his room, exchanging it for the conspiracy theory notebook he'd never been allowed to read. He double-checked everything to make sure that he wasn't forgetting anything- damn OCD making him constantly feel like he was losing more than just his mind. Of course- everything he needed was there, and once he was absolutely sure- he dragged the full suitcase down to the old lighthouse and stashed it with his artwork and bicycle.
   His good grades in school had paid off well, and he'd gotten an art scholarship- paid for and everything- for the art school in the neighboring town. The professor had even tried to encourage him to speak to a George Cayson- one of the proprietors of the art gallery nearby. However, this Cayson fellow would have to wait, for there were more pressing matters to attend to. For one, where the hell was he going to stay after high school- he had graduated early, with honors- but had no place to go, no driver's license, no friends- and soon enough, would have no family. He had always been completely alone, but this was more- final, with a sense of impending doom.
   Thorn stared out across the beach, trying to figure out a plan. At least he still had a job at the slaughterhouse, and had been able to save a couple thousand dollars in cash- that he always carried with him, rolled up in his jacket pocket. I need to look for somewhere to live, he thought. My birthday is in two days, so I'll legally be able to rent property- ah, the false freedoms of being an adult. Perhaps he could ask this Cayson if there were any rooms to rent near the art school- he didn't need much space for the time being, just somewhere to stay at night. Thorn figured that between school and work, he wouldn't be home much anyway.
   It was the day of Thorn's 18th birthday, and he couldn't wait to carry out his plan. He had spoken with Cayson- an odd, gaunt blonde fellow who seemed a bit pretentious- but had directed him to several properties that were available for living spaces. Thorn thought that the isolated dark building was perfect- it was a bit far away from where he needed to be, and he'd have to ride his bicycle to the bus stop. He detested public transportation, but lacked a driver's license, so he'd have to make do. It was similar to a converted warehouse on the inside, with tile floors, dark charcoal grey walls, and minimal, sparse furniture made from mostly glass and cold steel.
   Perfect- it didn't need much decorating, but Thorn purchased a white orchid with dark red patterns on it that reminded him of splattered blood. He'd always liked botany, being around the plants tended to have a calming effect on his constant internal rage. He set the orchid down on the round glass coffee table, next to some National Geographic magazines and his art and philosophy books. The face of Friedrich Nietzsche stared back at him, serious in black and white. Thorn slowly unpacked his things- the binoculars, records, and art supplies going into a closet with his mostly-black clothes. He locked the bicycle up outside, and hung up his keys on a hook near the door.
   My own place- now I have all the privacy I want, he thought, taking out the Moleskine journal. He'd actually been able to purchase the property instead of renting it, as it was out in the middle of nowhere, on the top of a hill, the cliff overlooking the sea. The dusty town was slightly strange, uneventful- like somewhere that had been lost in time. In the back of the property he now owned, he'd discovered a forest- at the back was an ancient stone archway, forgotten by time itself.
   Distantly, he thought that this was the only birthday that he had enjoyed- he was free, had his own space to call home, away from society. Soon he'd be starting art school, and might possibly have a future career at the Gallery. Things were finally starting to improve- past trauma or not, he would no longer be subjected to the torments imposed by his family. Staring down at the blank page of the Moleskine, he started to write a poem.
   Thorn waited until evening to return to his family's house, taking the bus back into the town. He carried a black backpack that contained gloves, his knife- just in case, and a gas mask- so that he wouldn't be effected by the carbon monoxide. It wouldn't do to die on his birthday, the day of his actual rebirth. The cold November skies overhead threatened a storm, and he felt a strange feeling within his mind as well- a storm of rage, hatred, and pain- combined with an odd, unfamiliar sense of complete freedom and calm, calculated control. November 12th- the day I am truly free again, he thought, smiling deviously as he slowly crept down the street, waiting for total nightfall before enacting his dark plan.
   He already had an alibi- he'd left his parents a note that said he'd moved out, and he knew that they had probably been celebrating his silent disappearance. Oh well- they wouldn't be alive for much longer. Thorn used his binoculars to spy on the house, his mother and father standing by the crucifix near their bed, praying to God for one last time. "Now I lay me down to sleep," Thorn recited sarcastically in his mind. He turned the binoculars to Colin's room- luckily the 15 year old was playing a computer game, and hadn't noticed that Thorn had stolen his notebook.
   Several hours later, the pitch-black sky overhead was finally dark enough to conceal his movement as Thorn silently slipped back into the house, wearing the black leather gloves and the gas mask, a black hooded sweatshirt disguising his appearance. He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror, moving stealthily through the dark house, an ominous, dangerous figure. A stranger stared back from behind the obtuse mask, no longer the pathetic victim he once was. The image in the mirror didn't disgust him anymore- he saw himself- wearing all black, a silent assassin, taller than his father now, and capable of terrible things.
   Thorn smiled underneath the mask, quietly moving in sinister accuracy through the dark. He had excellent night vision, even through the goggle-like lenses of the gas mask- his visual acuity sharpened from years spent in the darkness. I can see in the dark, it'll all be over soon for you, I'm afraid... Thorn laughed quietly, the sound muffled yet disturbing under the dark mask. He went down into the basement, avoiding one of the stairs that always creaked loudly underfoot. A few short minutes was all it took for the carbon monoxide levels to become dangerously high, seeping out with no detectable color or odor. He walked back out of the basement, and up the stairs to where his parents were sleeping, unaware that they'd never wake up again.
   Thorn paused in the hallway outside of their room- a framed photo of Amelia staring back innocently on the wall. He discreetly took the photo out of its frame and put it in the pocket of the hooded sweatshirt. I'll avenge your death, and my own miserable life, too, he thought, quietly opening the door to the bedroom where his mother and father were sound asleep. He stood in silence at the end of the bed, somberly awaiting for the carbon monoxide to take its full effect. They truly deserved to die worse than this, and Thorn regretted not being able to see the sheer terror on their faces as he slit their throats- but that was too obvious, and he'd go to prison for certain.
   Instead, he was content to watch them die quietly in the dark, and when he was absolutely sure that neither of them were breathing, he checked to see if they had a pulse, a faint heartbeat. Nothing. His job here was done, and he felt a strange sense of relief that it had been this simple, this easy to eliminate his tormentor and the willing accomplice to his trauma. I should have done this- years ago, thought Thorn, cursing himself for not thinking of this sooner. Unfortunately, his relief was short-lived, because he heard a sharp cough coming from the adjoining room. Dammit- I almost forgot about Colin, he reminded himself. He left his parents, dead in their bedroom, and quietly closed the door.
   In the hallway, his brother stared at his disguised figure, eyes growing wide in fear. "What the- who the fuck are you?" Colin asked in shock, slowly backing away. Thorn remained silent, taking a step towards him. His brother coughed again, holding part of his shirt over his face. "What's wrong with the air? I -can't breathe- what the hell did you do?" he asked Thorn, looking around in confusion. Again he was ignored, and Thorn sensed that Colin was about to run down the stairs- that wouldn't do. He had to be sure that they were all dead- especially since this was premeditated murder.
   Thorn walked swiftly down the hallway, grabbing his brother by the arm. Damn- this wasn't supposed to happen, you were supposed to die in your sleep like the rest of them, he thought. It agitated Thorn to no end that he had to remain unknown, because now he wanted his brother to know why he had to die. The little pyro bastard had gotten him in trouble far too many times, laughing spitefully when Thorn had been locked away in the dark closet, calling him names and degrading him after their father had beaten him once for accidentally swearing in church after he'd spilled the communion wine.
   A fresh wave of anger surfaced in Thorn's mind, and he pushed Colin through the door of the laundry area. His brother panicked, eyes searching the room for a weapon. Colin grabbed an old broom, trying to fend off his unknown assailant. He held it out in front of him, swinging it wildly and without proper aim, and Thorn grabbed the handle of the broom, wrenching it away from him and throwing it down the laundry chute. It hit the floor of the lower story underneath, clattering against the hard tile.
   Suddenly, you're not so tough, he thought. You're going down there next... Colin threw a misguided punch in Thorn's general direction, but Thorn caught him by the wrist, and was satisfied to hear the splintering crunch of bones beneath his gloved hand. "Fuck! I'm- I'm going to get my psycho brother- to kill you," Colin stuttered, trying in vain not to cry. I am your psycho brother, Thorn thought darkly, and I'm going to kill -you.
   Holding his brother by his broken wrist, Thorn pushed him towards the opening of the laundry chute. Colin looked up at him in sheer terror, eyes silently pleading for his life. Thorn ignored this, and abruptly shoved him down the dark pit of the laundry chute. There was a loud, sickening crack as he hit the ground below. Thorn peered down through the hole in the floor, even in the dark, he could see that his brother was no longer conscious. He didn't think that he'd fallen hard enough to die, but the carbon monoxide would certainly finish the job. Thorn slowly walked down the stairs to inspect the damage- thankfully, his brother had no idea that it was him, so even if he'd survived the fall, he hadn't seen Thorn's face hidden behind the mask.
   He walked into the room where the laundry was sorted, and Colin lay on the tile floor, motionless and crumpled awkwardly, broken wrist at a painful-looking angle. Thorn noticed that his pyromaniac brother had been carrying a matchbook, which had fallen out of his pocket. Well- everything is falling into place, everything is going according to my plan, he thought. His mission was almost complete, and what a better way to end the night with a blaze of glory- a conflagration, incinerating any evidence that he had ever had a family in the first place. Thorn picked up the book of matches, stepping over the soon-to-be-dead body lying on the floor.
   Silently, he exited the house; then turned back to the door, lighting a match, throwing it into the dark hallway, then running as fast as he could to avoid being caught in the inevitable explosion. The loud sound boomed like thunder, and the house began to disintegrate, consumed by purifying fire. Overhead, the thunder rolled through the sky, as if in response. He left the vicinity of the burning building, taking off the gas mask, gloves, and black sweatshirt, replacing them in the backpack. Tomorrow he'd destroy the evidence -minus his sister's picture- but tonight- there was finally a reason to celebrate.
   Happy Birthday to me, I've finally escaped these fuckers, Thorn thought to himself. He stared up into the dark, cloudy sky- feeling oddly at peace. Those responsible for his suffering were destroyed, bodies burning into embers under the dark November sky. He had just murdered several people in cold blood -or lack of blood- and he didn't feel a thing besides relief.