Fiery bursts of rage burn the back of my throat as if they are hot coals. I can’t breathe, the weight of it all bearing down on me with vicious intent. My thoughts aflutter, here and there as if I’m in the midst of a murder… I am, a murder of the mind. Bloody knives pushed in and pulled out of my thoughts. Malicious plots to thwart my actions. Every single muscle tensed, expecting the pain. The pain of indoctrination, of losing self and emotional anguish. I cannot see as the blood is covering my sight. All I can view is the crimson red of my life leaving. Streaks of blue between emphasizing each and every loss… I am looking over the edge reason, a perilous drop if I am to leave, but oh how it beckons. It’s solid silky voice rubs against my head provoking action… I elude but I have taken too much already. I dangle my toes off the grassy outlook, the breeze tempting my jump. I lift up one foot, and then the other. I am falling, I cannot stop but that is fine. My rise has been allotted and I accept that; I embrace it.
The fact that she believes she has the right of judgment is absolutely horrid. Her loose lips flap about as if they have been given the right of speaker. She plays off my betrayals and sentiments as simple illusion.
“It will all be over soon, Noah, it really isn’t all that bad” she says
This fucking bat believes she knows? She hasn’t seen my bloodied wrists, or my broken knuckles… And that’s just the start. She has never been inside my twisted mind, she’s never had to resist the sweet allure of death like I have. Her reality has never been questioned as mine has but this gaudy woman insists that her speech has merit. She doesn’t know of the voices I hear and bloody corpses I see.
She may have been with me at my low, as a soggy injured rat, but she doesn’t understand. Her taut rhythm is nothing against the violent recession of my heart’s reason…I just wish that I could make her feel how I do daily, her weak and petty mind would collapse within hours. She would know dread and longing of which she had never felt. I want to make her yearn for a bloody death as I do and see how she fares after enduring the grotesque nature of my thought.
But how do I know all this? How do I know she’s never wanted a trite and simple escape. I don’t… I cannot see her thoughts or experience her happiness and sadness. I cannot quietly listen to the buzzing of her intellect, who am I to say these things? The emotions she feels are a cloudy mystery to me. Her simple apathy taken by myself as a violent action of contempt, but it wasn’t anything of the sort. I am acting exactly as she was and now I see her motive. For all I can say with certainty is that I do not know of her struggle, and she cannot know of mine.